The bourbon section at my local BevMo is pretty good. They have higher end bourbons that sit locked in a case from which you can ogle to your heart’s content, but they also have mid-range bourbons sitting on the open shelves that have short reviews tacked on to the shelf edge.  Sometimes the reviews are fairly spot on; other times, it’s like I’m drinking something that has nothing to do with the blurb.  I guess it’s like going to your local Barnes and Noble or Borders and seeing those handwritten staff reviews that are supposed to add a personal touch to get you to buy the book.  To be fair, the bourbon reviews are usually from critics who are judging the product that are usually entered into competitions at bourbon festivals.  I like to think that because I have one foot in the advertising world in my professional life (and it’s radio advertising that I’m talking about), I’m fairly immune to the hype surrounding a particular product.  However, I was totally and completely suckered by this:

“The ultimate sipping whiskey?”  Only for those who “appreciate the finer things?”  Jesus, I’m pathetic ’cause I bought the bottle without a second thought — and didn’t have an ounce of buyer’s remorse. Now, I have to admit that the packaging of the Ezra B. is quite stunning. There a kind of regal quality that says: “This bourbon is a winner.”  I think it has to do with the maroon, gold and blue ribbon that festoons the bottle, and the faux handwritten barrel number and bottling date that’s etched into the label.  So, for sheer packaging, Ezra B. looks like a grand old bourbon.  But that’s the packaging, what about the contents inside? First off, the coloring isn’t as rich as the bottle suggests. Rather, there’s an amber tone to it that hints it’s going to be rather light on the palate.  Well, as Gomer Pyle would say, “Surprise, surprise, surprise!” That 99 proof whiskey packs a wollop – as you’ll see in this photo series that tries to put a fine point on the matter.

Rather excited to try the Ezra B. Single Barrel.

Yes, one should stick their huge proboscis into the bottle to fully enjoy the aroma of a fine bourbon.

Oooh, I can really see the quality in this bourbon – and smell caramel and vanilla as I pour this into my tumbler.

Yes, I smell and taste vanilla — a hint of caramel, too. Also, it has a very velvety feel in the mouth.

That's a damn fine bourbon!

For a middle-range bourbon, the Ezra B. does sort of live up to the hype. It’s not quite the ultimate sipping whiskey, but it’s certainly up there in terms of quality.  The price is reasonable, too.  I paid about $37 (and some change) for this and think they could fetch about 10 dollars more a bottle without anyone crying foul.  Also, one of the more pleasant surprises is that the dominant tastes linger after sipping on this. And if you’re a fan of vanilla and caramel you’re going to love this bourbon that’s not overly sweet, but gives you the best of those dominant flavors without succumbing to a sugary aftertaste.

Four out of five tumblers!

Blanton’s: I was the beneficiary of an act of trickle down economics a few months ago.  Work was a tremendous pressure cooker that month, and I think my boss was very aware of my elevated stress level.  Knowing that I’m very fond of bourbon, he asked me to lunch one day, and on the way back, said:  “Let’s stop by BevMo and I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

Well, I won’t say no to good alcohol, so off we went.  When we got to the store, he corralled the store manager and said, “What’s a really good bourbon?”  I figured he was going to point me to one of my favorites (Woodford Reserve), but instead the manager said, “Oh, you have to try Blanton’s.”  It’s about $50 a bottle, and not wanting to be too greedy and grab a $300 bottle on the top shelf, I humbly said,  “Sounds intriguing, let’s do this!”  When I got home, and unboxed my gift, I immediately noticed the unique bottle that held what I hoped would be liquid gold.  It looked pretty spectacular.  The color was a deep, rich brown and when I opened it, it had some nice aromas but the real test was the taste.

Now, I’m a Woodford man, but I’m not so conservative that I’ll only drink Woodford, so when I first tasted Blanton’s, I was struck by how mellow it was in my mouth. There were hints of maple and vanilla, but not in an overpowering way. The finish, however, was somewhat disappointing. It’s not that it was entirely flat, but that smoothness that was part of the initial experience didn’t linger — nor did the dominant flavors.  Blanton’s is on the pricey side, but if you’re in the market for a “special occasion” bourbon, this is a good find.

Jefferson’s Reserve: I’ve had this bourbon a few times, and like Blanton’s Reserve, it’s an expensive bourbon, but one that hasn’t impressed me.  Like Blanton’s, Jefferson’s Reserve has a deep, rich color, and a rather smooth finish, but the flavors are lacking.  Indeed, this bourbon is almost overpowering because the strongest note it struck with me was one of pure alcohol.  Usually, when tasting a bourbon for the first time, I let it sit in my mouth for awhile so I can discern the flavors, but the Jefferson’s Reserve didn’t have any discernible flavors.  And while I didn’t find drinking it unpleasant, I was mostly surprised that a bourbon of such high quality could have so little character.  Sometimes food can really bring out hidden flavors, but I’ve never tried Jefferson’s Reserve with any, so I can’t completely write it off until I do.  So for now, the jury is out.

I used to frequent a seedy bar on Market Street called The Top Hat. I don’t think it’s there anymore, but I would get $2 bourbon and Cokes while I waited for my then-girlfriend to get off work. A plastic tumbler full of Old Crow topped off with a splash of flat, syrupy Coke reminds me of that summer, which I suppose was pretty seedy on its own.

Old Crow and Coke is great at a sweaty rockabilly show or on a late summer afternoon in a seedy bar, but I’ve since come to know and appreciate the finer points of “the hard stuff.”

Corner Creek Reserve is about as tasty a bourbon as I’ve had the pleasure of drinking. It’s made in Bardstown, Kentucky. A blend of wheat, corn and rye, it’s aged for eight years. One of the first things people notice about Corner Creek is that it’s bottled in a low-shoulder wine bottle. It’s actually quite striking. While so many producers and distributors spend more on their lavish packaging than the actual stuff within the bottle, Corner Creek’s simple bottle, with its unassuming pen and ink drawing on the label, just looks cool and honest — homemade, even.

But on to the important stuff – what’s inside. Corner Creek is extremely aromatic and has a great depth of flavor. It has a woodsy sweetness up front that’s not cloying or overpowering and a warming core of maple, smoke, and spice. There’s even a whiff of bacon in there somewhere. At 88 proof, it’s surprisingly smooth and delicate. A drop of spring water can brighten things up, but it plays nice on its own. It’s a nice sip for the uninitiated.

It’s after supper on the porch kind of bourbon. Rocking chair. Maybe a cigar. Blues or bluegrass playing somewhere. The wife taking a berry pie off the windowsill and the dog chasing a bird through the tall grass.

A fifth of Corner Creek Reserve costs a little more than a handle of Old Crow. It’s not available everywhere yet, but it’s definitely worth seeking out.

As we get older and our tastes change – in music, in women, in wine and whiskey — we can be thankful that we still have the time to sip and savor and enjoy. Cheers.

“This is the most popular bourbon we sell,” said the clerk at my local BevMo. I guess I had “sucker” written on my face since I bought the bottle without reading the notes on the Eagle Rare. However, the review notes don’t always tell an accurate story of a particular bourbon — as I found out last time — so, in a roundabout way, I reasoned that I would just go with the clerk’s recommendation and see what’s what.

I must say, the Eagle Rare bottle was different for a bourbon. Some bourbon bottles, like my beloved Woodford, or Jeff Giles’ longtime steady, Knob Creek, look like containers cartoon hillbillies keep their “tonic” in. Eagle Rare, however, is bottled in a container that could easily house wine. It’s also wrapped in thin, grayish tissue paper that’s sealed with a silver sticker that makes it so very … yuppie. But I didn’t care. It’s not the bottle that makes the bourbon, it’s what’s inside.

Eagle Rare has a fine amber color that evokes a sense of quality. I couldn’t discern any characteristic aromas like bananas, vanilla, or even a hint of cinnamon. Rather, it was surprisingly devoid of distinguishing smells. Maybe, I thought, the taste would reveal layers of flavor that were lacking when I attempted to breathed in the nonexistent scents.

The start was pleasant. There were hints of bananas and a rather smooth, velvety feel in my mouth (or should I say palate). It was the finish that was the most surprising … and not in a good way. What was the most pronounced taste? Wet socks. That’s right — that dank, somewhat moldy taste that screams: “I stepped in a fucking puddle!” Initially I thought that my palate was somehow tainted from eating food that didn’t pair well with the Eagle Rare. So, drank a glass of water, waited a bit, and had another drink. Guess what? Yeah, wet socks. Great — and in full disclosure to the FTC, I BOUGHT THIS BOTTLE WITH MY HARD EARNED PAY — now I was stuck with a bottle of wet sock and I was out about $38.00. But all was not lost. I was able to mask the foul taste by, yes, making cocktails with the Eagle Rare. Now, my bourbon cocktail of choice is a Manhattan, but even making Manhattans (well, good Manhattans) is not a cake walk. You have to have good sweet vermouth for starters. Second, you don’t want to do what a lot of flashy bartenders do: shake the hell out of the drinks for far too long. The shards of ice bury the flavors of the liquors, and if you add Angostura bitters (which you should), you might end up putting too many dashes that will throw the whole concoction out of whack. So, if you really want the flavors of the bourbon, sweet vermouth, bitters and cherry to stand out, I submit that you don’t shake, but rather stir the combo over ice for a good 30-40 seconds and serve in a chilled glass. Eagle Rare, I’m happy to report, makes for a good Manhattan. Not great, mind you — but good. There was no wet sock taste, the good flavors of the bourbon stood out and, overall, I was quite pleased with it. I’m pretty adamant about drinking bourbon straight. However, there are times when you have to bend those rules, and for me, drinking Eagle Rare was one of those times. If you’re a fan of astringent tastes (and there are people who do like it), this is a bourbon for you. Me? Well, I think I tipped my hand long ago with Woodford Reserve. However, I gotta say (and this will be a tease for the next column), I think I’ve found me a beautiful mistress.

Two and a half tumblers.

I’m also something of a liquor loyalist — partly because I love the stuff, and partly because I “earned” a free bottle cradle during one of the brand’s anniversaries, I’m a Knob Creek man. I buy a big-ass bottle when fall sets in, drop it in the cradle on my kitchen counter, and refill as necessary. For this reason — and because I live in the land of state-run liquor stores, where BevMo is a distant, shining beacon of boozy choice — I wasn’t sure I’d be up for joining Ted on Bourbon Street this year. In the end, though, temptation won out, and even though I still have a couple inches of Knob Creek left in fall’s first bottle, I headed out to my local liquor outlet last week and took a gamble on a container of (rÄ«)¹, a newish brand of rye whiskey.

You might be saying — as the niggling Ted did — that rye isn’t bourbon, and shouldn’t be allowed in a series called Bourbon Street, but as the sheriff of this little burg, I make the laws. And anyway, rye and bourbon are linked, both as close liquor cousins and by history — many of the classic bourbon drinks were made with rye before Prohibition, and though it’s not as popular as it used to be, rye is a distinctly Northeastern drink; since I live in a distinctly Northeastern area, I figured (rÄ«)¹ would be just about perfect for my first trip down Bourbon(ish) Street.

The first thing that stands out about (rÄ«)¹ is its packaging. This isn’t really true for smaller labels, but most of the larger bourbons tend to ship in somewhat boxy bottles, which is supposed to reflect, I guess, the manly, no-nonsense character of the liquor. (rÄ«)¹, while still displaying a hint of the hard angles common to brands like Knob Creek, comes in a tall, slender, striking bottle — it looks more like flavored after-dinner liqueur than something you should be drinking on a screen porch while you puff a corn cob pipe. It also comes with a little collection of (rÄ«)¹ flash cards proclaiming the “ultrapremium” virtues of the brand and saying things like “If you have a taste for the finer things, there’s finally a spirit worthy of your glass,” all of which is how Jim Beam intends to trick people into spending $48 on a bottle of rye.

I didn’t find out (rÄ«)¹ was a Jim Beam liquor until I got home, which I admit pissed me off a little; it’s one thing for an independent bottler to cynically use slick packaging to try and evoke the suavely rugged manliness of a classic drink, but another for Jim Beam to get together with one of its focus groups and decide it’s time to make rye hip again. Still, it wasn’t like I was about to return the stuff, so I waited until 5 o’clock, uncorked the bottle, and dove in.

If you’ve never had rye, it bears mentioning going in that, as a general rule, it doesn’t have the slight sweetness or complex flavor that bourbon boasts; like the Northeast itself, it’s kind of grumpy, with a flavor that suggests it doesn’t really care whether or not you like it — and if you don’t, that’s your problem. True to form, (rÄ«)¹ is a pretty forceful whiskey — 92 proof — with a flavor whose overwhelming taste component is pepper. Other writers have suggested hints of cinnamon, which I guess I can go along with, but don’t go thinking (rÄ«)¹ tastes like a stick of Big Red; it’s a spicy drink, but without much of the sweetness you’d expect from reading the word “cinnamon.” This isn’t a bad thing, mind you; befitting the clean, minimalist design of its packaging, (rÄ«)¹ has a bright, clean taste, and if you can bring yourself to use a $48 bottle of anything for a mixed drink, you’ll find that it does a fine job of blending with everything — you can use it to mix anything from a Manhattan to a hot toddy without worrying about the other components of the drink.

Is it worth almost fifty bones? Assuredly not. I’ve been enjoying a straight shot of (rÄ«)¹ every night for almost a week, and it makes for a good, strong sipping drink, but I do miss the layered flavor of my favorite bourbon — and seeing as how I can get nearly two liters of Knob Creek for the same price of a 750 mL bottle of (rÄ«)¹, I can’t see myself buying it again. Pick it up on sale, maybe, if you’re looking for a switch from your Russell’s Reserve, or you’ve got a trend-conscious liquor connoisseur in your life who’s earned a gift. Otherwise, there’s no real reason not to stick with the cheaper stuff.

Go into any bar, and what do you think the most popular drink is? If you said beer, you’d be right. But among variety of micro and macro-brews at local watering holes, you’re also going to find people order quite a few rum and Cokes, Mojitos, and Cosmopolitans being ordered on any given Friday night. I have nothing against those drinks, but you won’t find me ordering them. Nope. My drink of choice is bourbon. Yeah, that’s right, bourbon: straight with no chaser. But not just any bourbon, mind you. It has to be something that’s worth savoring; something to slowly enjoy over a long conversation or while watching an engaging movie. In other words, (and to use a more high-minded way of expressing myself): I loves me some sipping bourbon.

I know there are people out there who love to shoot bourbon, get really shitfaced, stumble around the dance floor and later puke their guts out on the sidewalk. That, my friends, is recreational bourbon. It’s the kind of bourbon you drink to forget your troubles, to work up enough courage to talk to someone you find attractive, or to show your friends that you can hold your liquor. That kind of booze has its time and place, but now that I’m older (or to some: old), I’ve grown weary of those kind of reindeer games played in bars, and have settled into a quiet snobbery where fetishizing certain kinds of alcohol has become a hobby akin to stamp collecting.

My current favorite bourbon is Woodford Reserve, but I’ll leave the glories of Woodford for another time. What I’d like to feature this month is a bourbon from Evan Williams. Now, most distilleries have their “good stuff,” and Evan Williams certainly has plenty of that. Last week, I went to my local BevMo and there in the locked cases was a bottle of Evan Williams Single Barrel Vintage from 1998. Now, I’m a pretty liberal guy when it comes to bourbon, in that I’ll try anything that looks boutique. And the Evan Williams had all the marking of a boutique bourbon: it came highly recommended with part of the following review affixed to the price tag:

1998 Vintage
2008 San Francisco World Spirits Competition – Silver Medal “The latest issue from the series of annual releases, still is one of the best whiskey bargains around. Aromas of brown bananas, clove, vanilla and glove leather pour from the tasting class. In the mouth it’s smooth and mellow, well-balance and assertive, with a lingering, clean and slightly lemony finish. It’s mouth-watering as a sipping whiskey, and it invites cocktail experimentation. This is a stylish and charming whiskey, another success from the father and son distilling team of Parker and Craig Beam.”

Well, I was sold. I don’t think I’ve ever had a bourbon that had a lemony finish and smelled like brown bananas, clove, vanilla and glove leather, but I was willing to try it. So, I plunked down my $40 and brought home my prize. The verdict? It was a very nice bourbon with pleasant flavors, but it was missing that certain something that is often referred to as “complexity.”

Some bourbons have a smooth finish, others are a little harsh, and some, as the review above stated, linger. But the flavors didn’t linger in the Evan Williams I bought. Instead, the harshness of the alcohol did – with none of lemony finished promised. I was sad, but not to the point of demanding my money back. No, I decided to let my pallet get used to it, and had a drink every night to see if my opinion of this bourbon would change. Alas, it didn’t. I tried to change it up by making Manhattans with the Evan Williams, but it didn’t rise above “pleasant.” Now perhaps my tastes are skewed away from the subtle notes in a bourbon like the Evan Williams Single Barrel Vintage, and while I would recommend this bourbon for those who don’t like powerful flavors, I don’t think Evan Williams will be making an appearance in my liquor cabinet in the near future.

Final Rating: Three tumblers