That may sound redundant. How could such a day help but be happy? It's quite unlike National Secondhand Wardrobe Day, with which it shares the date August 25th. A day saddled with that moniker could go horribly. But Whiskey Sour Day? As we say about our lucky princes, it was born on third base, waiting to steal home.
I hope that the country wasn't so swept up in the excitement surrounding Thursday's World Nutella Day that we've forgotten about National Pisco Sour Day, which comes on the first Saturday of each February. It distinguishes itself among the galaxy of national tippling days in that it's officially recognized by the government and accompanied by food fairs, music and dancing in the street—in Peru anyway. The holiday has yet to get its due here. And in Chile, which has been feuding with Peru over the origins of this spritely Southern American brandy for centuries, they wait until May for their big Pisco Sour bash.
In the firmament of cigar-pairing spirits, rum holds a place in the top triad of choices (along with whisk(e)y and brandy). Its taste profile (resolutely sweet, owing to a sugarcane base) and its shared origin with cigar-producing areas (at least a lot of the time) can put it hand-in-glove with a great smoke. A marque system, recently developed and now coming to the United States, attempts to make that logic even more useful to consumers who are formulating their own pairings.
I really didn't expect the bank to be open on Friday. After all it was a national holiday. It was a good thing it was, however. You see I'd neglected to draw funds in anticipation of National Martini Day and was planning to perform my observation at a drinking establishment where I hadn't yet developed a line of credit.
When you think of a Churchill that requires a specialized environment to maintain its integrity and that will develop mold under the wrong temperature and humidity conditions, you usually picture something the color of leather and about seven inches long by 47 ring gauge, like a Romeo y Julieta.
First of all, I'd like to profess my complete innocence in the case of the missing 65 three-bottle cases of Pappy Van Winkle's Family Reserve 20 Year bourbon and nine bottles of Van Winkle Family Reserve Rye taken from Buffalo Trace Distillery, in Frankfort, Kentucky.
This is going to be hard to write without seeming to gloat, but I'm going to plow through anyway and hope for your indulgence.
I just experienced about the greatest day of whisk(e)y drinking that a fellow can have: the New York WhiskyFest Weekend Seminars. It was part of last weekend's extravaganza of brown spirits at New York's Marriott Marquis.
I always liked the sitcom "How I Met Your Mother," but until Monday night I never knew how much.
In the latest episode, the show's best characters—the delightfully sleazy Barney and the comely Robin with the odd masculine taste—are set for with their last night out before their impending nuptials. The plan is to relax and celebrate "everything that makes us awesome" at their favorite table at a familiar bistro.
The first thing I did when I heard the unsettling news Monday morning was to run out to the liquor store and buy a 1.75-liter bottle of Maker's Mark—not because I needed a drink at 9:30 a.m., but because I wanted to secure some of the original proof Bourbon from Loretto, Kentucky, before it sold out.
I have a confession to make. For three seasons now I have been hooked on what is essentially a soap opera: Masterpiece Classic’s “Downton Abbey,” produced for British television, but shown here on PBS.
Sure it’s very classy and all, telling the fictional story of a noble English family during the last days of the great manor houses in the early 20th century, but still—I admit—it is a soap opera. And I’m hooked at the gill—addicted to this show that is more the kind of thing my wife would watch than my smoking buddies. Even while I was performing the manly rite of watching the Super Bowl on Sunday I was secretly recording “Downton Abbey” on DVR for later viewing. (No! I didn’t forsake my beloved Ravens during the brownout.)
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