Last week saw the arrival of an early Christmas of sorts for me, in the form of the Whisky Live festival in Sandton. This is a three day festival of Scotch, Bourbon and grain whisky producers, with dozens of boozy offerings to try. The US incarnation of the event is only held in NYC, usually mid-week, so this was to be my virgin voyage to whisky paradise.
My wingman for the first evening was fellow Yank Mark Murphy. Having ordered a Johnny Black and water at dinner previously, I knew was not allergic to the brown stuff. We were greeted by the peal of bagpipes and the typical South African lack of organization at the entrance. After being herded through the doors and collecting our tasting glasses, we stood temporarily stupefied by the bounty of softly backlit bottles on display in dozens of stands. We pushed on into the fray.
Our first stop turned out to be the best. Near the entrance stood the modest Penderyn Welsh whisky stand, in high contrast to the sleek modern display across the aisle at Macallan. The woman there poured us a couple of drams and casually mentioned that she also made the stuff. After a double take, I realized I’d read her profile in Whisky Magazine. Gillian is one of the only female distillers in the world. I bounced some questions off her about future plans to expand and she produced some new make spirit for us to try, the stuff that comes straight off the still before wood aging—sweet nectar for whisky geeks like myself.
And so we proceeded on, me with the delusion that I would be able to talk shop with master distillers at every stop along the way. Not to be so, unfortunately. We arrived shortly after the doors opened at six, but by seven the after work crowd had arrived in full force, turning the convention center into one huge pub. Luckily, most of the mob descended on the big brands (Johnny Walker, Chivas Regal, Macallan), but they were still lined up four deep at even the smallest distillery stands.
Not all drinks reps are created equal. In fairness, I didn’t talk to them, but the mini-skirted girls in front of the Jameson’s tent probably couldn’t tell me a whole lot about the production process. Likewise the guy who said that Buffalo Trace was Tennessee whisky, which is odd since Marnie and I drive past the distillery every time we drive through Kentucky. Luckily, no amount of misinformation could take away from the great drinks on offer, including the chocolaty Glenmorangie Signet, the Compass Box’s Peat Monster paired with sushi, and Ben Riach’s Cape of Storms tapped directly from a barrel with a whisky thief.
The next two nights were to be a welcome respite from the crowds, having purchased two tickets for master classes with my favorite whisky writer, Dave Broom. The first class was a tasting of six very different malts from Speyside in northeast Scotland, Dave’s point being that there are really no such things as “whisky regions”, only individual distillery character. Though the first to arrive, I allowed several large groups to bully their way to the front and dominate the conversation. I did manage to get Dave to sign my copy of his new book and spoke to him briefly.
The
next night I quite stubbornly parked myself right in front of the entrance, sitting in front row. The class demonstrated how to pair various styles of whisky with the seasons, the same way you might drink white wine in the hotter months and reds when its cooler. This included a very tasty An Cnoc served chilled in a champagne glass and a smoky Lagavulin served with biltong. I got an incisive question in, and was able to get a pic with Dave and asked him about his experience at the Cape Town version of the event.
You have to understand that I don’t get a chance to talk whisky much, apart from boring Marnie or the person at a party unfortunate enough to ask about the subject. Yes, I see the life draining from their faces as I ramble on about worm tubs versus shell and tube condensers and the merits of various wood finishes. I just choose to ignore it.
It was like a little kid getting to meet Santa Claus. Or maybe not Santa Claus, but his publicist. Or the editor of The North Pole Gazette. You get my point. Merry Christmas to me.
My wingman for the first evening was fellow Yank Mark Murphy. Having ordered a Johnny Black and water at dinner previously, I knew was not allergic to the brown stuff. We were greeted by the peal of bagpipes and the typical South African lack of organization at the entrance. After being herded through the doors and collecting our tasting glasses, we stood temporarily stupefied by the bounty of softly backlit bottles on display in dozens of stands. We pushed on into the fray.
Our first stop turned out to be the best. Near the entrance stood the modest Penderyn Welsh whisky stand, in high contrast to the sleek modern display across the aisle at Macallan. The woman there poured us a couple of drams and casually mentioned that she also made the stuff. After a double take, I realized I’d read her profile in Whisky Magazine. Gillian is one of the only female distillers in the world. I bounced some questions off her about future plans to expand and she produced some new make spirit for us to try, the stuff that comes straight off the still before wood aging—sweet nectar for whisky geeks like myself.
And so we proceeded on, me with the delusion that I would be able to talk shop with master distillers at every stop along the way. Not to be so, unfortunately. We arrived shortly after the doors opened at six, but by seven the after work crowd had arrived in full force, turning the convention center into one huge pub. Luckily, most of the mob descended on the big brands (Johnny Walker, Chivas Regal, Macallan), but they were still lined up four deep at even the smallest distillery stands.
Not all drinks reps are created equal. In fairness, I didn’t talk to them, but the mini-skirted girls in front of the Jameson’s tent probably couldn’t tell me a whole lot about the production process. Likewise the guy who said that Buffalo Trace was Tennessee whisky, which is odd since Marnie and I drive past the distillery every time we drive through Kentucky. Luckily, no amount of misinformation could take away from the great drinks on offer, including the chocolaty Glenmorangie Signet, the Compass Box’s Peat Monster paired with sushi, and Ben Riach’s Cape of Storms tapped directly from a barrel with a whisky thief.
The next two nights were to be a welcome respite from the crowds, having purchased two tickets for master classes with my favorite whisky writer, Dave Broom. The first class was a tasting of six very different malts from Speyside in northeast Scotland, Dave’s point being that there are really no such things as “whisky regions”, only individual distillery character. Though the first to arrive, I allowed several large groups to bully their way to the front and dominate the conversation. I did manage to get Dave to sign my copy of his new book and spoke to him briefly.
The
next night I quite stubbornly parked myself right in front of the entrance, sitting in front row. The class demonstrated how to pair various styles of whisky with the seasons, the same way you might drink white wine in the hotter months and reds when its cooler. This included a very tasty An Cnoc served chilled in a champagne glass and a smoky Lagavulin served with biltong. I got an incisive question in, and was able to get a pic with Dave and asked him about his experience at the Cape Town version of the event.You have to understand that I don’t get a chance to talk whisky much, apart from boring Marnie or the person at a party unfortunate enough to ask about the subject. Yes, I see the life draining from their faces as I ramble on about worm tubs versus shell and tube condensers and the merits of various wood finishes. I just choose to ignore it.
It was like a little kid getting to meet Santa Claus. Or maybe not Santa Claus, but his publicist. Or the editor of The North Pole Gazette. You get my point. Merry Christmas to me.
You do look happy and content in your photo--or is that the afterglow? Merry Christmas!
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