Whiskey Business at Finch & Fork

Nothing could serve as a better rejoinder to the anti-DEI madness coming out of Washington than this Sunday's Chef's Table event at Santa Barbara's Finch & Fork--BBQ and Bourbon with Uncle Nearest. You might know of Uncle Nearest--in 2024 Forbes estimated its valuation at $1.1 billion, making it the fastest-growing whiskey brand in American history. Black-owned, it's named in honor of one of the pioneering heroes in Tennessee whiskey--Nathan "Nearest" Green, who helped develop sugar maple charcoal filtering, a process brought from west Africa, leading to delicious, clean, smooth liquor. (It's also what separates Tennessee whiskey from Kentucky whiskey, but we don't want to go too deep into the distillation weeds, do we?) Green is a resurrected giant in Black history, which is American history, of course, no matter what some political idiots say. (Oh, he also mentored some other guy you might have heard of first, since he was white--Jack Daniel.)

The distiller today at the acclaimed Uncle Nearest is Victoria Eady Butler, Green's great, great granddaughter. How's that for a tale of what makes our country great?

The dinner certainly made a delicious case for the whiskey. The communal tables were laden with platters and bowls of smoked baby back ribs, smoked chicken, collard greens, cornbread, mac 'n cheese, baked beans, and chocolate cobbler for dessert. I passed on the chicken as I still have deep sympathy for the hens we owned long past their laying days and well into their ingratiating pets period. But the ribs were delicious, more bite-off-the-bone than fall-off-the-bone, but perhaps more rewarding as you had to work for it. I'm always a sucker for smoky flavor. The greens were not just appreciated as the only veg of the night but also served right at al dente, where you want collards to be. Similarly the beans were cooked but not mush, and I would vouch the pleasure of eating beans that retain their architectural integrity is undervalued. They tasted great, too, with plenty of red pepper and bacon to add more zip. We do a home mac and cheese featuring what looks like too much dry mustard and too much panko topping but neither is extravagant that is my Platonic version of the dish, so I don't mean it as a slight that F&F's straightforward version pleased if not thrilled. (You can please me easy--thrilling me is an effort. And no, it's not just because I'm old.) The chocolate cobbler was a fascinating, gooey dark cacao mess (in looks) that was a tad too sweet for me, but Chryss loved it. It certainly paired well with the final pour, a Single Barrel that is 121 proof. It's also as smooth as any of the other whiskeys of the evening.

Speaking of those, the reason Uncle Nearest has been so successful isn't just its terrific origin story. The stuff is delish. While most of the drinking involved probably 1.5 oz pours of the five Uncle Nearest varieties for sale in California (and CA is one of only five states where Nearest Green is available, so kudos to us once again!), the evening kicked off with a Paper Plane made with the UN 1856, their first product and still their flagship. Bottled in bond and a four-recipe blend, it's meant for your whiskey cocktails that need some oomph, or just for contemplative sipping. That Nearest Green is kind of the starter pack pour, a mere 84 proof, but certainly dangerously smooth--one could knock back a lot of it gleefully. Oddly the 1884 Small Batch seems a bit hotter at 93 proof than the closing, stronger Single Barrel, but as SoCal market manager and host for the evening Sergio Nicholas put it, "It's got bite, not burn." 

And then there's the Uncle Nearest Rye. I'm a sucker for rye as I like its biscuit and white pepper notes and that it's not quite as unctuously caramel as bourbon can be. (I tend savory over sweet when it comes to taste.) As Nicholas joked, "You can't grow rye in the south--instead you sprout onions," and as most folks know, Canadian whiskey is a way to say rye whiskey--so that's where Uncle Nearest gets its rye, from Canada. It's blended and barrel-aged at the TN distillery to perfection, velvet smooth, crisp, with a long finish and richness and nothing close to a burn. It leaves its drinker with a big smile. I'll give you one guess who asked for seconds.

Somehow I left out the conviviality at the communal table--lots of fine conversations and the room's noise grew as the evening went on (sure, you can blame more whiskey being drunk if you'd like). 

If this kind of Chef's Table sounds intriguing, Finch & Fork will be holding the next one April 2, a crab bake with chardonnay.

After Years of Hunting Rabbit, The Dead Rabbit

Finally going to a place you've have put the years into yearned-to-be is a fraught experience. Expectations of greatness are difficult to meet, let alone by something that hopes to be a pub. A really damn good one. Say, one that has twice been named best bar in the world at Tales of the Cocktail.

So maybe that's why instead of trying to write up my at last visit to the lauded Dead Rabbit in FiDi* New York, I instead decided to craft a cocktail from the bar's first book, The Dead Rabbit Grocery and Grog  Drinks Manual (Houghton Mifflin, 2015). Turns out that a Bijou, inspired by Harry Johnson's 1900 Bartenders' Manual, is an almost perverse delight--gin and sweet vermouth in equal parts, with some Green Chartreuse (get them monks into the glass for a good time), and soupçons of orange bitters, Angostura bitters, and Pernod. You do "garnish" by expressing orange peel over the drink, but discard the peel (pay attention, that detail will be important later).

*That's short for Financial District, and despite our desires, it's not, alas, pronounced, feh-DEE.

The Dead Rabbit--which takes its name from one of the Irish gangs that roamed these tip of Manhattan streets in the 19th century--earns its Irishness as its founders Sean Muldoon and Jack McGarry are two self-proclaimed "Belfast boys" who first kicked butt in their hometown, then came to New York City, because if you can make it there.... (I so didn't want to do that, but couldn't help myself.) Of all things the location is around the corner from Fraunces Tavern--you know, where Washington bid farewell to his troops--so certainly offers historical bonafides. Even if most of the current TDR building was part of the build out beyond the heavy-hewed ceiling beams, it certainly has a been-around feel in the best way. You feel as if you're entering an old lair of cocktail loveliness.

It doesn't hurt that the service is far from gruff pub land. Someone opens the door as you climb the stairs to enter. You are ushered to the host stand, and led upstairs--if you are us with a reservation--to the Parlor, billed "the cocktail cathedral" on their website. (The first floor, the Taproom, offers punch and different drinks and Irish coffee and louder craic and conviviality; the top floor, the Occasional room, is for special events.)

If you get sat at the bar in the Parlor, as we were, no one will be standing behind you. It's only table and bar seating, loud enough to feel buzzy, but the buzzing won't takeover your head. Plus you get to order direct from the bartender, the only one, actually, who manages to work steadily but never in a frenzy. It's a place of calm. It's like they took service tips from the French Laundry, almost, how well-timed everything is, how knowledgeable everyone is, how pleasant. 

And then there's that book above (see the entire book as PDF online). Twenty-two cocktails await (a brief panic as to how to choose and choose the best!), arranged in pairs of Tradition and Tomorrow, although Tradition is mucked with in yummy ways most of the time. The categories: Effervescent, Martini, Gimlet, Egg White, Daisy, Whiskey Sour, Savory, Tiki, Manhattan, Old Fashioned, Bitter. We scan through, and realize it might be smart for our hopefully hangover-free tomorrows to pick a core liquor and pick two of each we hope to consume over the evening. It didn't seem prudent to go from gin to scotch, say. That made whiskey an easy choice, given it grounded several of the categories.

Plus we both wanted a Buttoned Up (Chryss luckily got it), the traditional Old Fashioned. 

Each cocktail gets its own page--how seen and honored each one must feel in this temple to potent potables. TDR helpfully offers three distinguishing characteristics for each drink, a charming drawing from the Great British Bake-Off school of culinary sketches (except the finished product actually does look like its drawing at TDR), and the ingredients. Who doesn't want an opulent char, especially one that layers Angel's Envy Bourbon and Craigellachie Armagnac Cask Scotch? You know how it is--those who are buttoned-up often conceal the most power. Plus, what a perfect, clear hunk of ice. (I really need to raise my home ice game--TDR sort of shames me.)

I couldn't resist the Whiskey Sour of tomorrow, especially because I had to Google several of its ingredients (why drink what I already know?). The Amazake Kick lived up to its dried fruit, ready, robust descriptors. Amazake, which auto-correct doesn't know either, so I don't feel so bad having to look it up, is a traditional Japanese drink made from fermented rice; TDR gives even that a twist, via Ireland, of course, making theirs from soda bread. That helps led to the breadiness, of course, and the welcome homeyness is always darling in a drink. Once again there are two whiskeys--they love layering on the core pours--and then there's the odd Danish product Plum I Suppose, from Empirical, a bright botanical liqueur that brings marigold and plum. A drink like this one makes me want to be Sour a lot tomorrow.

We also ordered both versions of the Manhattan, what with our whiskey predilection for the evening and, well, that was where we were, after all. The "traditional" Jupiter Switch did what we like to do at home--use Amaro--but even gave that an unusual nudge by making it green walnut Amaro. Not that a hint of nocino is unwelcome or even that unusual in a Manhattan, but that earthy/nuttiness is a hearty touch, especially with the eucalyptus and cacao extending all the flavor's edges.

Tomorrow's Clare to Cádiz made me wonder if the present day and tomorrow are closer than they first appear. It's good to know elegance won't go out of style in the future, as this drink combines for a laser precise lusciousness, and then just enough extender notes--that hint of apple, the edge of nettle--to make it imminently quaffable. 

Most notable about all the cocktails--none were served with garnishes. The aromatics were all poured into the glass, and nothing detracted from the prefect crystal and the combined elixirs inside. And combined they always were. Cocktails at TDR--at least our four pours--all did that "let's make a whole new terrific taste" trick, as opposed to the, "I'm getting the whiskey, I'm getting vermouth, I'm getting the Angostura" bippity-bip moments of some cocktails elsewhere. 

I would also be remiss if I left out the food. I came in with little to no expectations there, assuming it would be all about the mixology. But I was sorely wrong. It's pub food, yes, but every bit as thought-through as the cocktail menu. Take these perfect deviled eggs, elevated with smoked salmon, herbed creme fraiche, caviar, espelette and dill. Savory, creamy, salty, devilishly addictive.

And we didn't photograph the rest of our food, partially as the light was dim enough (no, not too) that good photography wasn't easy, and partially because we were hungry (our evening came after a day of coast-to-coast flying and conquering the NYC transit system with two suitcases). Chryss had the fish and chips, a large enough platter we could have shared it even in our famished state--Harp Lager battered cod, mushy peas, crispy chips, and Ballymaloe tartar sauce (which made us recall our impressive lunch at Ballymaloe a few years back). Each item was nailed.

I went for the Bangers and Mash, a plate named simply so that every thirteen year old boy could suffer a giggle fit. The Cumberland sausage themselves were tasty little numbers, the pork in a good grind and well-spiced. But, of course, this dish is all about its accoutrements, especially that scallion-flecked mash potato, creamy yet not mush, and a lick-the-plate worthy gravy that brought the whole dish together.

The Dead Rabbit surpassed all expectations, and then some. It was mighty hard not to try one last tipple--I regret passing on their Irish coffee, but I don't regret not falling hard asleep that evening, too.

Sip This: Cooperstown Distillery Triple Play

Cooperstown Distillery Triple Play: Got a serious drinkin’ baseball fan that needs a gift? Who doesn’t? (It was just the All-Star game, folks!)

It turns out Cooperstown’s got more than the Hall of Fame and the hots for Natty Bumppo; the town’s namesake distillery is crafting fine spirits, and, even better, packaging the heck out of them. We’re talking bottles shaped like baseballs, three in a box.

Want to read the rest then do so at the Independent's site.

Sip This: Speyburn Arranta Casks

Speyburn Arranta Casks Single Malt Scotch Whisky: Unless you’re up on your Gaelic, that “arranta” won’t help you; it turns out it means “intrepid and daring,” and, yes, it also means this single malt from Speyburn is a product for the American market. The good news is Speyburn’s 200-plus years of tradition means it’s not overly amped up, despite being aged in American oak bourbon casks.

Want to read the rest then do so at the Independent's site.

The Drink That Stirs the Straw

Growing up there was one, just one thing I could do faster than all the other kids--turn the page. I could read like nobody's business. So while pretty much anyone could go home-to-first or basket-to-basket or a quarter mile quicker than I could, I didn't care. I'd be busy reading them under the table. Perhaps hiding under one. But that's not the point.

That didn't stop me from loving baseball. Or helped me love losers at baseball, the Mets. While a year older than I am, they've only won two World Series in my lifetime, one I don't really remember (hey, what did you do when you were six?). But I got obsessed and it's still my favorite sport to the point I sort of tolerate that there are other sports in inverse relationship to how much good writing there is about them.

Not longer after the baseball bug bit, I discovered the joys of drinking. Which, of course, sounds wrong, but I've been always interested in a cut above my station and the drinking age was still 18 then. Living up in New Jersey my family would do things like occasionally go to a New York City dinner at the Rainbow Room, so maybe I got Art Deco and Fred and Ginger (who I didn't learn about really until grad school) and martini glasses all confused with my first beef Wellington and Manhattan (the island and not the cocktail) twinkling below. Who knows. But I was into import beer when that merely meant Heineken and Bass (remember those pre-adventurous days?), and somehow, well, no doubt a how aping my dad, into Scotch at 15. Not like every weekend, but I can remember one New Year's Eve with a bottle of Black & White and those cute doggies on the label and discovering for the first time in my life the perfect pitch of buzzed not sloshed. That's a halcyon spot I've hankered for more than I've cared to admit since.

So, look at this. There's a distillery in Cooperstown. (Why not, what town now doesn't have one?) But you can get a sampler called "The Triple Play" and it's got bourbon, vodka, and whiskey in 50 mL bottles shaped like little baseballs. This is a halcyon spot of Tom Seaver's knee dirty with full extension as his slider strikes a bum like Pete Rose out, of Darryl Strawberry's amazing Stretch Armstrong limbs knocking the snot out of a pitch, of Johan Santana, his arm basically a rubber band wearing down, finally tossing the club's first no hitter after 8000 games. And craft liquor.

Sure I'm going to review this stuff, but more than anything I want to praise its brilliance as marketing genius to at least one middle aged man. And when I empty a bottle I only wish I still had my Pitchback and try to pretend I could drop a curve on the outside corner just like fellow lefty Jon Matlack could, back in 1973 when I learned the fun of comebacks, underdogs, hope that wasn't mere smoke. When I also learned never to give up, and to lose (damn A's!), and to cry, and then there's tomorrow. To think I did all that without whiskey, even.

Sip This: Westland Peated Whiskey

Westland Peated American Single Malt Whiskey: For those who relish the rich, smoky flavor peat brings to whiskey, the magic spot is Islay in Scotland, home to the likes of Laphroaig, Lagavulin, and Ardbeg.

Want to read the rest then do so at the Independent's site.

Craft Distillers Push to Overturn Prohibition-Era Sales Laws

While Ian Cutler, the man behind Cutler's Artisan Spirits based in Santa Barbara's Funk Zone, started his business "to revive a long family history in the California spirits industry" -- his grandfather ran a moonshine operation in Oakdale -- he wishes history didn't hold such a strong grip on his current operation.

Want to read the rest then do so at KCET's Food Blog.

Sip This: Cutler's Stagecoach Whiskey

Cutler’s Artisan Spirits Stagecoach True American Whiskey: When Santa Barbara’s Ian Cutler decided that his 33 Bourbon Whiskey needed a lighter, summer-sippable cousin, he crafted Stagecoach.

Want to read the rest then do so at the Independent's site.