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.

Scotch Girl Abroad: Northern Ireland, Part Two

It’s been said that tourists avoid the three B’s: Baghdad, Beirut and Belfast. Yet here Sandrine and I were driving to potentially volatile Belfast in pursuit of whiskey and flirtation. Even with “The Troubles” long passed, Belfast’s divisions are still very real – there’d actually been rioting the night before – but as it turned out, the city was calm on our arrival.

Visiting working-class west Belfast first, Sandrine and I saw the famous murals on both sides of the barricades that still separate the Irish Catholic Republican and Anglo-Protestant Loyalist neighborhoods. After signing the Peace Wall, appropriately enough on July 4th, we happened to cross paths with Sinn Fein President Gerry Adams outside their headquarters on Falls Road. With his salt-and-pepper beard, easygoing demeanor and captivating smile, Adams is, frankly, a sexy guy. Sandrine was especially smitten even though, as she put it, “he’s maybe kind of a terrorist.”

In the stridently middle-to-upper class, religiously and politically integrated Belfast city center, Sandrine and I hit all the sights from the artsy Cathedral Quarter to the leafy University Quarter and got some afternoon drinking in too, though Guinness played a bigger role than whiskey during our stops at White’s Tavern (first licensed in 1630, it’s purported to be the oldest pub in the city) and the Crown Bar (a beautifully preserved Victorian-era pub with private wooden snugs perfect for a snog). I’d fancied at drink in the bar at the Europa Hotel, which claims to be the most bombed hotel in Europe, but Sandrine convinced me that it wasn’t the best idea given the recent rioting.

Staying in the city center at Benedict’s, a hotel known for its bar/nightclub and chosen by us for that reason, Sandrine and I became famous during our stay as “The American Girls.” That’s what happens when you befriend the house band, The Untouchables, by requesting Stacey Q’s “Two of Hearts” on a lark (they didn’t play it). After the band serenaded us with “New York, New York,” a swarm of patrons descended upon us, eager to converse with the girls from New York City, the first Americans most had ever met. There was Seamus, who’s been saving up for a trip to NYC for years; Sean, who was interestingly enough drinking Budweiser; and Bernadette, a teenage girl who promised to be our BFF if we danced with her to the band’s rendition of Katy Perry’s “California Gurls.” And then there were Paddy and Donny.

While others are getting false names, Paddy is keeping his real one because he embodied all the very best stereotypes associated with Irishmen. Cute as hell, charismatic and retaining his gift of gab though completely hammered, Paddy had stumbled up to us on behalf of his pal Donny with the opening line, “I agreh!” Sensing the boy behind those smiling Irish eyes could handle it, I responded with, “Oh so you agree that Hugh Grant is sexy.” Paddy didn’t disappoint. “Oh yah, Hugh Grahnt is sehxeh. Was just tellin’ Donneh. You know who’s sehxeh? That Hugh Grahnt.”

If Paddy was amusing, his friend Donny was sweet. Lanky, doe-eyed and probably not a day over 20, Donny had been working up the courage to talk to Sandrine all night. Touched by his earnestness, and relieved that he wasn’t of the Fat Fucker variety of the night before, Sandrine was happy to spend the rest of the evening talking with him.



As Donny explained to Sandrine the patriotic significance of his shamrock tattoo, I sipped my Old Bushmills and enjoyed Paddy’s opinions on topics as diverse as our U.S. Presidents (JFK was the only good one), the Anglo-Protestants of Belfast (not at all surprising) and his work ethic (“If I showed up in the mornin’ on time an’ sober the boss would sack meh!”). 



Listening to Paddy prattle on with his charming accent, I couldn’t help feeling lots of love for this bar. We’d received such a warm welcome here. I’m sure our high-profile status thanks to the band, and the fact that we were attractive and talkative girls played a role (would anyone have been at all interested in us if we’d been two dowdy things with fanny packs, attitudes and saggy asses in khaki shorts?), but as I scanned the bar I noticed that the warmth wasn’t just directed at us. Everywhere locals who had been complete strangers up until this moment were acting like old friends. Unlike any given bar in NYC, where individuals keep to themselves and groups are closed to outsiders, Benedict’s was a massive party to which everyone was invited and everyone was a part. In spite of, or maybe because of, the long history of division and strife in their city, the people of Belfast clearly valued coming together for a pint, a dance, a laugh.

Interestingly enough, as much as the bar crowd had been mingling, flirting and dancing, people didn’t seem to be going home together. A moral choice brought on by the strict Catholic upbringing? I’d gone to Catholic school, and, well, we see how that turned out. It was probably economics. Donny and Paddy lived at home with their parents and younger siblings, without privacy enough for a pub-to-shag. We’d certainly said goodnight to the boys at the bar.

Returning to our room, Sandrine and I began to pack while discussing the men and dating rituals of Northern Ireland. Appealing as our Donny and Paddy were, they were much too young for us. Why in the course of our travels in Northern Ireland had we only encountered barely legals, an odd drunk divorcee and a Fat Fucker bachelor? It hit us like a shot of Black Bush at last call: the overwhelming majority of men our age were probably already married, home with their wives and several children, not at the pub.

With the dating scene more forgiving in NYC, I determined, tossing my strappy heels into my suitcase, that I’d take the spirit of Northern Ireland back home with me. While I’d still very much be looking for “The One,” I’d always remember the lessons of Benedict’s and Belfast: that the best times can be the ones left at the bar door, that dating needn’t always be so focused on the end goal, and that I can have fun even with an expiration date.

Scotch Girl Abroad: Northern Ireland, Part One

While I've been known to hike glaciers during my travels, I’ve always preferred to spend the better part of my time in atmospheric pubs sipping the local brew. Being from New York, a city notorious for churning out questionable male characters, I’m also always interested in taking dips in other dating pools. With both of these pursuits in mind, I traded Scotch for Irish Whiskey and tested the waters in Northern Ireland on my summer vacation.

Joining me on this mission was my friend Sandrine, with whom I have a long history of meeting intriguing men in drinking establishments in foreign cities. In the past year, Sandrine and I had enjoyed the company of an Argentine expatriate and an Icelandic fisherman in Reykjavik, and a Norwegian former model and a charming boat-building Englishman in Tromso, with my love interests following the nautical theme.

Starting out in Northern Ireland with a quick visit to Derry, Sandrine and I drove along the coast, stopping to marvel at the rugged beauty of the Giant’s Causeway before reaching our next destination: the village of Bushmills and its famous distillery. While the Old Bushmills Distillery has officially been in operation since 1608, making it the oldest licensed whiskey distillery in Ireland, the history of distilling whiskey in Bushmills dates back to 1490, and there are even historical references to “Water of Life” being produced in the area as far back as the 13th century. Because I’ve always had a taste for history, I finished our afternoon at the distillery’s bar with several drams of Bushmills’ various blends and single malts before strolling delightfully buzzed back to our home for the night, the Bushmills Inn.

With nightlife options in town rather limited, Sandrine and I hit the bar at the Inn. In the oldest part of the Inn, originally built as a coach house and stable in the early 1600’s, the Gas Bar, with its low ceilings, many fireplaces and cozy nooks, was packed with Inn guests and locals alike. As we listened to a growing band of local musicians playing traditional tunes, Sandrine and I sipped Black Bush on ice and lamented the lack of fit chaps.

Of course, technically, there were plenty of men in the room. One such man, let’s call him Woody Harrelson for his striking resemblance to the actor, staggered over to our table toward the end of the night. Hailing from Derry, Woody was 45, divorced, the father of three and the grandfather of one, all of whom lived with him. Between the live music in close quarters, the Guinness-induced slurring on top of a thick accent, and the fact that I had to keep leaning away from the personal space invasion, I couldn’t tell you much more about Woody than that.

As Woody was quite inebriated and didn’t live in town, I asked him how he was getting home. He replied, “You see that fat fucker over there?” I turned to look, and I did. The Fat Fucker saw this eye contact as an opportunity to join his friend at our table, where he quickly set about inquiring after Sandrine’s relationship status. When a very honest Sandrine said that she was indeed single, the Fat Fucker, age 50, jobless and quite disheveled, said, “Well, I’m a bachelor you know?” Needless to say, Sandrine managed to resist his charms.

When we got back to our room, Sandrine and I couldn’t help but ask the question we often ask ourselves after a night out: why? In an area famous for its distillery and golf courses, I’d expected to find at least a few suitable men present for a weekend of whiskey drinking and golfing. I consoled myself with Sandrine’s observation that “at least Woody was cute.”

Our time in Bushmills hadn’t disappointed in terms of whiskey, though it did leave much to be desired with regards to men. Leaving the countryside behind, Sandrine and I made our way to Belfast sure that we’d fare better in the big city.

What happened in Belfast? Find out in a fortnight in Part Two of Scotch Girl Abroad: Northern Ireland.

Single Men vs. Single Malts

What better way to enjoy a beautiful summer evening than with a cruise on the Hudson River? That’s exactly how I spent last Thursday night.

Following the sound of bagpipes to Pier 59 at Chelsea Piers, my friend Cassidy and I boarded a yacht for Whisky on the Hudson, an event sponsored by the Whisky Guild. Boasting more than 200 whiskies and single malt Scotches for the tasting, I was certain the event would draw a male-to-female ratio in our favor. I wasn’t entirely wrong.

While we were the only attractive women unaccompanied by men, our possible love interests left much to be desired. Three sets of potential suitors presented themselves: the ancient thrice-divorced businessmen, the Jersey Shore casting rejects, and, the best prospects, a jovial but rather vanilla pair of urologists. Which leads me to a common problem facing a woman in search of a Scotch Man: naturally unassuming, Scotch Man’s not usually the type of guy who approaches women across a crowded room. Leaving that to DJ Pauly D and the Situation, Scotch Man is much more likely to get into lengthy discussions about the distilling process with the representative from Laphroaig.

So Cass and I took solace from the unfortunate man scene in drink. Starting with the partitioned off Ardbeg booth, Cass and I sampled all six of Ardbeg’s offerings. It wasn’t my first time. I’d lost my Ardbeg virginity (he’d actually used that phrase) to Dr. Bill Lumsden, Head of Distilling and Whisky Creation for Glenmorangie, during a tasting at the Brandy Library last summer. He’d warned in his thick Scottish accent that Ardbeg drinkers were a scary lot, but I’d always relished a good scare. Given that Cass is a bit of a thrill-seeker (she’s been known to hang off cliffs with nothing between her and the Atlantic but unstable earth to get a good photo), I knew she’d fancy Ardbeg. And she did. Rollercoaster was her favorite. Uigeadail continues to be mine.

Moving on to the non-Scotch whisky offerings, Cass and I flirted with the adorable, and way too young, representative from Connemara Peated Irish Single Malt, before coming upon a very good small batch whiskey from Colorado of all places. With a toffee scent and a smooth finish, Stranahan’s is the first (legal) Colorado-born whiskey. If Ardbeg is wide-shouldered, hairy-chested and walks with a stride, then Stranahan’s, with his boyish trot, is humble and uses the good manners his mama taught him. That the distillery’s cowboy hat-wearing founder was on hand only added to my enjoyment.

Toward the end of the evening, Cass and I took a stroll out on the deck. As we drifted past Lady Liberty, the ultimate single girl, still holding her own in the harbor, I couldn’t help but relate. With my open-door policy on men, I’ve often felt like the Lady Liberty of dating. Looking at her standing there, all defiant, strong and loaded with moxie, I felt inspired. Though the realm of dating may have given me its tired, poor and huddled masses of refuse, I wasn’t ready to go isolationist.

In the great Scotch vs. Man debate, Scotch had again taken the day. Once more, I was left to wonder if I would ever meet a man who could truly beat a single malt.