5:14 PM |
I have finally escaped the vortex of E-Town. I am heading to Bardstown once again. Gary at the Ramada gave me decent directions. Very easy. Unfortunately, I needed a jump again. I have no cables because they are in the tailgate area along with all my parts and tools, and I can’t get in because I lost my keys and the guy only made the one for the ignition because his code said the door locks and the ignition locks are the same. They are not, but I didn’t care because I just wanted to get out of dodge in enough time to go to Lynn’s Paradise Cafe before I had to get on the road again. Note to self: make duplicate keys and rewire Woody to 12 volts. This 6 volt battery sucks in the cold.
I just could not call AAA again (a pride thing, although I probably should have just gotten my money’s worth). Gary called the maintenance man, who had just left to take care of the other hotel, and asked him if he had cables. No can find. After much ado, Gary told me I could take his vehicle to buy cables of my own (my suggestion, the cables, not Gary’s car). I wouldn’t do that. Sandy, the older kitchen cleaner upper was so kind as to drive me to NAPA. She had Little Debbies and one of those small cans of Dr. Pepper. My kind of girl. She also smokes. Everyone here does. Upon my return, we used Gary’s “vehicle” to start Woody up. Like velvet.
Time for bourbon! Got to Bardstown, finally. It is a really pretty place. I wish I had gotten here last night. The Jail Bed and Breakfast was right in the center of it. It was very intriguing and I had always wondered what it would be like to be locked up, but I am claustrophobic and the E-Town force field would probably suck me up from my hanging cot. Reserving this experience for almost-real imaginary boyfriend in the privacy of our own home.
Passed through town. Headed to the Bourbon Heritage Center. As I drove, I saw these very scary buildings that look exactly like our prisons, especially those on Manhattan next to the courts. They move the prisoners directly underground to their trials. Anyhow, this sign was at the corner (kinda hard to read due to snow and rain; it say Good Times Happen Here!)Wow, have fun at the prison! Hmmmm… Turned right. Came to the Heritage Center. Beautiful. As always, I was the only guest. I walked in and asked if I could plug in my laptop. I could indeed. My Macbook needed charging because I was so fucking cold that I left all my cables in Woody last night making the mad dash into the Ramada and Gary’s arms. Met George. Saw 14 (or was it 13?) minute film. Actually very interesting and informative. I was disappointed that I couldn’t go to the brick houses and see some “cooking.” However, George explained the elaborate genealogy of the Beam family (somewhat cross-bred with the Noe family, those interlopers). Yes, practically all the Kentucky bourbon producers are related. This Center is affiliated with the Heaven Hill distillery. I decided I would buy lots of Heaven Hill bourbon. Now to the brick houses. I didn’t see any out there. They looked like concrete block to me. Apparently the prisons are actually where they keep the bourbon, apparently to keep it from running away. And they are called rick houses, not brick houses. I’m not sure that is rick as in rick or rick as in rack (hey, rick rack, I made a funny by mistake). A rick is three barrels high and 16 (or is it 17 or 19) barrels wide.
The first exhibit has a quote that will be dear to my heart evermore:
Only George says the real word he used was “confounded”. I like that better. Also region called Caintuck. Is that what happens when a drag queen is sick?
Here’s what it takes to be called bourbon:
- All American ingredients (lots of flag waving and billboards with cute little babies and the admonition that they already have souls; not Obama country far as I can tell)
- At least 51% corn
- A new charred barrel each time (they send the used ones to Scotland for Scotch. Note to self: drink good bourbon, not sloppy seconds scotch)
- No additives for color or flavor (very natural whole foods stuff here; they also are locavores)
There are other whiskies, but this is bourbon which by the way was called bourbon because someone stamped it on the barrels going downstream to New Orleans, I think because Bourbon is a place.
Cooperage (making barrels) is piecework because it is such a crappy thing to do. You have to basically incinerate the insides for just the right amount of time before extinguishing it. Sounds like a lot of blisters to me. Nevertheless, jobs as coopers are handed down from generation to generation. You better not try to get one. The guy from Dirty Jobs on TV did this job. See?
George took me through the exhibits, including one where you get to smell the raw alcohol stuff that comes from the stills and then from 7 year aged and then 12 year. Pretty yummy by the time you get to the last one.
Then, Valhalla! The tasting room. We got to taste both the younger and the older bourbons and smell some eucalyptus and lemon in between so we could train our noses. There is no question that you want the older one. But don’t you dare mix this with Coke. This is a “sipping” bourbon that you drink with a few drops of branch water on the porch with a cigar. In order to make the experience replicable at home, they use WalMart water. They use limestone water for making the bourbon because it has no iron and does not turn the bourbon black. A good marketing move as far as I’m concerned. It probably also tastes better. I know the spring in my basement tastes better than other water. You can also drink it over ice, the bourbon that is, and it should take you about an hour to drink two shots. You should use the bigger lowball glasses so you can smell it. Please, please do not drink good bourbon before a meal. Everything will taste nasty, and it’s bad etiquette besides.
This is George in the tasting room. Note the barrel-like walls. The bar is made from some really old barrels, I think from 18 something.
I bought some good bourbon from him. This is single barrel bourbon so you can see the writing on the back that identifies the age and the exact barrel it comes from. Some are better than others but no one knows until you drink them. Some people drink a lot to find a great one. I like that.
On the way out I saw these made out of oak barrels. I also heard on the news that someone put scarves and legwarmers on the famous horse statues in Lexington, I think. Why didn't they think of me?
On the way out I saw these made out of oak barrels. I also heard on the news that someone put scarves and legwarmers on the famous horse statues in Lexington, I think. Why didn't they think of me?
Back to Bardstown for lunch. I actually have to make an effort to get there, unlike E-Town which effortlessly sucks you in. I ate at Mammy's. Fourth generation, but I suspect the "country" decor is more recent. Here are the cracking tiles in front of the door, and the cow in the window. I just noticed the pig, too.
Here are the waitresses. The one on the left was mine. She's the youngest generation but didn't want her picture taken because her skin is bad today and her hair not done. She said it would be okay if she could have the other girl with her. I snapped the other one when she wasn't looking.Mammy's had chicken and dumplings. Yum. Also banana pudding for desert. They had coconut pie, too, but I asked her to bring me whatever she thought was best. She went to look at them. This is a good sign because it means they are homemade and differ from day to day. They had no wafers left, but she mashed up some graham crackers real good and put in a lot of butter. You could tell.
Time to go onto more bourbon (yes!). There are many distilleries on the Bourbon Trail (that's official, since they named it 70,000 to 90,000 people come here). There is a Bourbon Trail Passport that you get stamped at each distillery. If you get them all, you get a t-shirt. They'll exchange it for free if it doesn't fit, and you can't buy it anywhere. I really wanted to go to Woodford Reserve, but it's a long way away. I heard that Maker's Mark is a good one so I went. These are the guys with the red stuff dripping down the bottle.
Driving in Woody, I have the guts to go where I would never had otherwise. At Maker's Mark, I bypassed the tour option and drove right around the hill to the distillery proper. The buildings are this off brown/black/grey color that identifis Markers Mark. Their rick houses are this color, too. All the accents are red, and the shutters have a cutout of the bottle shape. Anyhow, I drove down to the real deal. This is who I met:
So far, this is my favoritist picture of the trip. I didn't put my imaginary boyfriend in it because this is too cool solo. Each man introduced himself to me. They said my name is [insert name here] and they call me [insert nickname here]. From the left we have Chilly, Tick (I wonder if he works the ricks), and the other guy. He shook my hand and said, I'm Jim Heel. They call me Jim Heel. I'm not sure if this is Heel or Hill. Probably the latter.
The tour was pretty cool because they were "cooking." This means the yeast is eating the little shards of corn (rolled here, not hammermilled like other places), and farting. This makes the stuff bubble and get hot. You know, like when you, well whatever, in the bathtub. Here are the tubs. They're wood are from 18 something. If they catch fire, they are fixed. Other places use stainless steel. Note the red floors, consistent with the rest of the decor.
Then the stuff is piped to the still. It is distilled twice to get the nasties out of it. The stuff that results is White Dog or White Lightning. It is clear. In college, we used to drink that stuff out of mason jars, making it impossible to know where you are going to wake up. And wake up not knowing where the hell you are. I learned to eat oysters this way. The still is the copper thing in the back. It's pretty. As usual, to show up the other distilleries, theirs is the only one that is still copper. I forget what the other ones use. The still works non-stop (the overtime must be killing the budget), except for repairs. Scheduled maintenance, they said. Of course, it would never break. That would be a darn shame. No one around here curses. Anywhere in Kentucky as far as I've noticed.
Here's the assembly line for bottling. The complete assembly line. The workers are dipping the bottles into that red stuff. The label printing press is from the early 1900s. There used to be one from the 1800's but it was hard to get parts for. We were very lucky to see some "odds" being bottled. These are errors that they then charge a ton for because they're rare. These labels have been printed cockeyed. I tried to buy one but they wouldn't let me.
Our guide (no George, but then he gives written directions on a little Makers Mark pad) then took us to the bar and VERY large gift shop. I bet they make more off this gift shop than by bottling. We got to taste the regular and the 46 bourbon. The 46 had extra pieces of wood in the barrel so that they can charge more, uh, it tastes better. You caint get this most places. In Pennsylvania, we have state controlled liquor stores (i.e., price-gouging). We never get anything good. So I bought three bottles of 46, one for me and 2 for the guys who looked at my car before I left. Also, they make premixed mint julep. It has green drips instead of the red, and was a commercial failure. I bought a bottle of it. I do know, however, that all this stuff has been aged a maximum of seven years, making it A-OK for drinking with Coke. I hope George never knows I bought any. By the way, I was joined on the tour by four good old boys, but the civilized ones that look like Coach Taylor on Saturday Night Lights, possibly the best TV show ever. Well, except for The Tudors and Dexter, and maybe Big Love. Two of them tried to pick me up (together!). Felt good.
Here's another guy on the road who wanted to see the engine:
Debated whether to stay in Nashville or go on to Sewanee. The latter is a nice town, and I need a two nighter to clean the car out. Probably no locksmith, though. Also, I forgot to email college boyfriend about having lunch in Nashville where he is a muckity muck public servant. Set out for Sewanee. Frickin freezing cold again. Put hood up on long down parka. People think I'm nuts when I go into a restroom bundled up like this. It is my own Iditerod. I am hoping this is my personal best and I don't have to do it again. See billboard for radio station in Nashville: Putting The Dumb Into Random. Too many lights on highway and big city. Didn't I listen to my note to self? No more big cities.
Poor innkeeper has to wait until 9:45 until I get there. Room is really nice.
P.P.S Also first sighting of See Rock City signs.
