For Auld Lang Syne, Part Two

Back home in New York City, the winter had not been so magical, featuring dates with the likes of the Freelance Artist, who at 41 still shared a 2-bedroom in the East Village with 3 roommates because he “doesn’t like to live alone” (translation: “I’m an unemployed codependent”), and the Lumberjack. While quite sexy with his plaid flannel shirt and facial hair (I came of age during the era of grunge, what can I say?), the Lumberjack’s dating skills hadn’t evolved since the death of Kurt Cobain.

Over the winter, I’d also experienced a bizarre emotional hit and run by an ancient history boyfriend. I’ve known Tad ever since we dated for a few months in college. On the night in question, I’d dragged good sport Sandrine to a party he was having at his apartment on the Upper West Side. It started out innocently enough, with Tad and I waxing nostalgic about our past with various party guests. As the night went on, however, the nostalgia express jumped the track. I’d been chatting with Sandrine and random others when Tad suddenly joined our group, and, severely intoxicated, began ranting about the “hot Italian boyfriend” I’d started dating after our break up. As the other guests we’d been speaking with awkwardly dispersed, I confirmed with Sandrine, “You just heard that right?” Sandrine replied, always the psychologist, “Looks like someone’s been harboring some feelings for a very long time.” I should note that Tad had broken up with me and I hadn’t started dating Mario until almost a year after the Tad split. Mario had been super hot though. Tad did get that bit right.

After a short-lived early spring fling, I’d found myself nursing a bit of a broken heart by midsummer. My heart wasn’t broken because I’d been so desperately in love; it was more in the way Michael Corleone’s heart was broken by Fredo’s betrayal in The Godfather II. It had come at the hands of one of my dearest guy friends. Josh and I had been super close since meeting through work five years ago. We spoke the same language and shared a love of Eddie Izzard, pub grub and Scotch. Through the years, Josh had always lobbied for more, but I’d always been concerned about our age difference (he was five years younger than I) and potentially upsetting one of my closest friendships.

Then one night in May, Josh passionately declared his feelings on a rainy and foggy 59^th Street and sent me reeling with an amazing kiss. I could no longer deny our connection, and given the chemistry of that kiss, I didn’t want to. I’d realized that I’d been keeping this great guy at bay out of fear. Weeks of dates and drams had followed. I’d even opened and shared the Crested Ten I’d carried back from Dublin the previous summer (you know that you rate if I actually share my stash). And then at that crucial six-week mark, just as it started to get serious, Josh flipped out. I knew it was because he was afraid, but I also knew that I couldn’t continue to date someone who scares so easily. I needed that man who’d so boldly told me how he’d felt and kissed me that night on the street. I had no choice but to cut and run, ending our relationship and our friendship.

In the aftermath, I kept wondering why it happened. Why did something so seemingly great come crashing down into a million awful pieces? Had this just been a practice drill for when the real thing comes along? “This is a test of the emergency relationship system. This is only a test.” Followed by a beeping tone the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. Had this been proof for myself that I could take a chance on love, that I could go out on a limb, that I could fall, and that I could get back up again? But I already knew the answers to these questions was yes.

Post pushing my broken heart aside and filling my fall with dating, my year now ends with this: kissing my drunken friend Ned in the back of a taxi. While it felt very nice and comfortable, I felt fairly certain that this wasn’t fate or true love, and that the next day we’d recant this backseat interlude. Dropping Ned off at his Midtown hotel, I thought about the specter of boyfriends past, present and future. Maybe the lesson of Ned and Josh was that I didn’t have to go 3,000 miles to Arctic Norway for a perfect kiss. A perfect kiss could be found with my most familiar friends and in my well-traveled paths.

As the taxi dashed toward the Upper East Side, I couldn’t help feeling that regardless of the ups and downs that the New Year would surely bring, I was racing toward another year filled with magic, surprise and possibility.

For Auld Lang Syne, Part One

It all started this weekend with a kiss in a taxi on the way home from a holiday party.

Under the influence of eggnog, Christmas lights and carols, I was sharing the cab ride home with my long-time friend Ned who was visiting from California. We’d just crossed 14th Street when Ned turned to me and started stroking my hair and whispering romantic sentiments in my ear. It could’ve been all the eggnog he’d consumed or the inevitable moment in a ten-year friendship in which there’d always been a “will they/won’t they?” factor. But it was Ned’s wistful tone and words that made me think this could very well be the result of Yuletide sentimentality.

Looking out the taxi window, which was now fogging up as Ned nuzzled my neck, I had to admit that I’m often sentimental around the holidays. I choke up at that first drawn out “I…m” of White Christmas sung by Bing Crosby. By the time his voice warbles at “sleigh,” I’m usually sobbing. I’m not so sentimental when it comes to relationships though. Like Clara of Nutcracker fame, I generally banish with the throw of my slipper the hideous and insidious Mouse King ex to the past. But this night, with the year drawing to a close and Ned’s hands closing in on my drawers, I couldn’t help but think back on this year’s romantic travails, and how the ghosts of boyfriends past had come into my present, and the boy friends in my present were apparitions of boyfriends yet to come.

The past boy specter is not an unfamiliar sight to me. Periodically it makes its presence known, appearing at odd times, often when I’m really happy with another guy. It’s like it just knows. Last year had actually ended on this theme: with a flirtation with an old crush, initiated by said crush just as I’d finally met a guy I rather liked. Both had become ghosts by Christmas.

This year, however, had started on a promising new note: with the kiss of a handsome Englishman at midnight on New Year’s Eve in Tromso, Norway as fireworks lit the night all around us.

It had been unexpected. Just the night before, while freezing out in the countryside looking for the Northern Lights, I’d mused to Cassidy and Sandrine, my best friends and travel companions, that gob-smacking attraction felt about as elusive as the Lights (which did elude us that night). Then the next day, there I am waiting at a bus stop in Tromso and I turn around to find inviting hazel eyes looking back at me. In this magical place, with long, bitter winter nights and barely breaking days that easily inspire fireside snogs, this sometimes cynical city girl met a charming, soft-spoken and independent man who was good with his hands and goes on holidays alone. I guess you never know when or where romantic things will happen. It’s just a question of how far you’re willing to go. Sometimes it’s 200 miles above the Arctic Circle far.

Tromso and the Englishman had set the bar high for the New Year. I’d wondered what the year would hold back home in New York City.

Scotch Snapshot

Today. 6pm. Lillie’s, Union Square, NYC. Ducking into this Victorian-inspired establishment, which was decked out in bows, bells and bulbs for the holidays, I found reprieve from the biting cold outside in the sweet, smoky taste and warming sensation of Bowmore 12 year old single malt.

What's in a Number?

It's often said that age is just a number.

While most of us don't wear ours printed on our lapels, single malts do. Bottles of Scotch proudly proclaim their 12-, 16- and upwards of 20-year ages on their labels.

But what does that number on the label really mean? The number reflects the age of the youngest malt used to produce that particular whisky. So the 18 on that bottle of Aberlour you’re drinking guarantees that the youngest whisky used to produce that bottle matured for 18 years.

When it comes to dating, however, age doesn’t always reflect maturity. If only the maturity level of a man could be guaranteed by a number on a label neatly affixed to his chest. I don’t think it would take away from the fun of sampling at all.

Whisky vs. Whiskey

So what makes your dram a whisky or a whiskey?

Whisky is generally used for whiskies distilled in Scotland, Wales, Canada and Japan, while whiskey is commonly used for whiskeys distilled in Ireland and America.

As with the rules of grammar (sometimes vowel “y”) and The Rules (sometimes “on the first three dates we don’t have sex with a man or let him stay at our place overnight” why?) there are always exceptions. A few American spirits – that bourbon babe Maker’s Mark for one – use the whisky spelling.

Tasting Notes: The Balvenie DoubleWood

The scene: On Monday night, I sat down with my friend Cassidy for a taste of The Balvenie DoubleWood, a 12 year old Speyside single malt. As it was downright warm for an October eve, Cass opened the porch door to the balmy dusk in which bright yellow leaves swirled before wafting to the ground, landing with a crinkle.

The background: The Balvenie Distillery is an old school operation (it’s actually the only Scotch distillery still growing its own barley) that takes its name from the nearby Balvenie Castle. Now in ruins, the castle is historically linked to the likes of Mary Queen of Scots, the ultimate romantic heroine, and Robert the Bruce, the sexiest King of Scots, especially sexy because in my fantasies, as in Braveheart, he’s played by Angus Macfadyen.

The “DoubleWood” after The Balvenie name describes the single malt’s maturation process in two separate wood casks: first a whisky oak cask then a sherry oak cask, with each lending various characteristics. The whisky cask mellows the brew, providing gentle, warming layers of spice, while the sherry cask adds complexity, along with a fruity depth.

The experience: With its classic cream label and rich amber hue, the bottle opened with a promising pop of its cork stopper and the pour offered a reassuring glug glug glug. Raising our glasses to our lips, we were first hit with the scent of honey and vanilla followed quickly by sweet fruit and Sherry notes as we brought our glasses in for a sip. At first taste, The Balvenie DoubleWood is smooth and nutty with a hint of Sherry. An instant later, the flavor swells and surges over the tongue and across the mouth like a rogue wave, intensifying into a luxurious cinnamon spiciness. With a finish that is long, lingering and warming, The Balvenie is much more staying, satisfying and inviting than the embrace, kiss, et cetera of most men Cass and I have encountered.

The conclusions: The Balvenie is a soothing, gentle indulgence from packaging to finish. Even inspiring some philosophizing and waxing poetic, The Balvenie is best shared with close friends on mild fall evenings. Cass and I both went to bed that night with visions of kilted men dancing in our heads.

Fall is in the Arran

There’s nothing like the bright blue skies, turning leaves and crisp breezes of autumn in New York. With conditions outside ideal for Scotch-drinking, I find myself eagerly tucking into single malts in cozy, warm and welcoming watering holes all over the city.

One favored venue is St. Andrew’s Restaurant & Bar, a little pocket of all-things-Scottish in the Theater District. Occupying two-stories, St. Andrew’s still maintains an intimate feel that seems worlds away from the brightly lit, Disneyland-like, camera-toting tourist Mecca that is Times Square, which is just at the end of the block. With its dim lighting, heavy-on-the-wood decor and plaid banquettes, St. Andrew’s takes a relaxed, unassuming approach to Scotch. Its kilted bartenders serve an impressive selection of single malts, along with an extensive list of beers and ales, to a convivial bar crowd. Then there are the tasty eats, from the St. Andrew’s burger to the homemade haggis with neeps and tatties (it’s the only place in Manhattan that serves the traditional Scottish dish).

The ample drams, savory bites and informal yet spirited atmosphere makes St. Andrew’s an excellent spot for a first meeting with a potential suitor. And, girls, just in case your date ends up being a drag, the male-heavy clientele serves up enough business-casual eye candy to go with your Scotch of choice.

While I hadn’t discovered it because of a date or my Scotch passion – I’d first gone for a happy hour Belhaven with coworkers long before I became a whisky hound – St. Andrew’s had become my go-to digs for first date drinks. Over the years, it had seen some of the less than stellar first (and last, in many cases) meetings. There’d been Boring Queens Guy, who it turned out still lived at home with his parents and who wouldn’t even taste my Aberlour; Cute Sports Writer, who won points by ordering a Belhaven and then swiftly lost them with his just-sucked-a-lemon-wedge face after taking the tiniest sip of my Benriach; and Gay Back-Up Dancer, who kept up with me on my Arran intake, who’d met Madonna at Danceteria before she became famous, and who’s been so named because, as Alexei, my gay boyfriend, astutely noted, “There were no straight men at Danceteria in 1982 queen!”

There had indeed been many a bad one. But the Award for Best First Date at St. Andrew’s goes, hands down, to Williamsburg Photographer, with whom I spent a long, lazy Sunday afternoon sipping our way through Islay Malts, comparing, discussing and going back for more. Sadly, a few non-Scotch-drinking dates confirmed that we had little in common beyond Bruichladdich, disagreeing on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the Beatles-Rolling Stones debate (I fall on the Israeli and Beatles side). Not to mention he was a bit too much of a hipster for me. What can I say? I wanted to wear the skinny jeans in the relationship.

As I continue to date my way through NYC, St. Andrew’s will always be my first choice for fall first dates. I’ll continue to wonder what the waiter who bears an uncanny resemblance to James McAvoy thinks as he serves my single malts while I sit at the bar with a different dude each visit. Someday I may even ask him for his opinion on the guys – or ask him out.

St. Andrew’s Restaurant & Bar is located at 140 West 46th Street, New York, NY.