All this sets the stage for today's story, set in the lovely city of Boston, Massachusetts. Our company team is there for a convention, and we're staying downtown at the Omni Parker House, one of my favorite recurring hotels on our annual travel circuit. Home of two culinary treats (Parker House rolls and Boston Cream Pie, both of which they still make very well indeed), they also have The Last Hurrah, a storied bar which is about as old-school as a bar can get–walking in gives a sense of the political movers and shakers that have both drunk and said too much within its walls (indeed, the name of the bar is a nod to a political bestseller by Edwin O'Connor).
Our evening started with a bit of pub grub, and then my friend Nik and I decide to have a nightcap at the 21st Amendment. My wife and I had a great evening last year drinking at the bar with the bartender, but this year the bar was far too crowded (and the craft cocktails touted on the chalkboard last year had been replaced with the month's Sam Adams specials–we'll try again next year). Not to be thwarted in our efforts, we decide to retreat back to the hotel and The Last Hurrah.
Now, this was not necessarily a problem. I had a terrific drink at the Hurrah last year, and I recalled the drink menu as excellent. My larger, general problem is that retreating back to your hotel at the end of a night always seems to me an admission of defeat. "Well [insert city name here], I've had a great time today, but now, there's nothing you have to offer me that is more interesting than watching Adult Swim in my hotel room bed." I know that if I can just stay out for another hour, something terribly interesting is going to happen, and THEN I can collapse back at the hotel, having fought the good fight. The [insert hotel bar name here] is a coward's choice; I want a drink, but can't be tossed to find the best one available to me within walking/cab/train/rickshaw distance. Hotels are a tool, not a destination.All that said, Nik and I pull up a seat at the bar and order a couple of cocktails. Nik lives a state away from me, but getting together with him is always fun, and as he's someone I've known for over 25 years, and I'm not letting the evening go down without a fight. The first round was excellent, and we decide that we should have a bit of Scotch to end the evening, and we peruse the extensive list that the Last Hurrah has.
I like Scotch, and I'll further specify that I like peaty Scotch. When I visited Edinburgh for the first time, I took the Scottish Whisky Heritage Tour (which apparently has become a carnival ride in my absence), and walked out of the tasting room ready to buy my first bottle of Scotch (a 17-year Ardbeg from the original version of the distillery, of which I still have a bit left). I've had (and have purchased) other varieties, but for me, it's that smoky, campfire nose that I love about Scotch; it's that property that makes it different from other alcohols and what I seek out when I go for a Scotch.
But an expert, or even an informed amateur, I am not. So, I asked the bartender for a recommendation. "I'm not the best person to ask. You should talk to our manager Frank," he said, pointing behind me.
"He's the one that put together the list." I turned to look.
When you see Frank Weber standing in The Last Hurrah, you immediately think, "Well, of COURSE he's the manager." He looks at home, comfortable, aware of his surroundings, and attentive to what is going on around him. Not a surprise, really–he bartended at New York's Maxwell's Plum in the 1960's, opened bars in Cincinnati in the 1970's, turned around a few establishments, competed in some mixology competitions, and is now settled in as the food and drink manager at the Omni Parker House. This is a man who has built an establishment to his standards, and is consequently the core of its being when he strides around the place. This is HIS bar.
"So–what do you know about Scotch?"
Since my Scotland trip, I've learned an bit about the regionality and classifications for Scotch; I've purchased a bottle every year when I've been in Frankfurt, I've tried a variety and have a pretty good sense of what I like and don't like. Still, in the moment, there was a decision to make: do I sputter out something like "Islay peaty argledy blah," or do I let the nice man with several decades of experience tell me a story?
I smiled. "Let's assume I know nothing."
Frank gave us the basic tour, introduced us to Ardbeg Galileo (which if anyone reading this runs across a bottle sitting on a shelf somewhere, I need to know immediately) and the Balvenie Caribbean Cask, but it was terrific to have someone give me the guided tour, letting him share his knowledge and his bar without any pressure. It was a marvelous end to the evening, and Frank spent enough time with us to be memorable. I use "enough time" very deliberately–not so much as to interfere with his other duties, not so much as to not leave us wanting more, and enough to make two lads out for a drink on a Thursday night in Boston very happy.
Could I have represented myself as having more knowledge? Sure, but what would have been the point? There are wide categories of spirits that I have little experience with (tequila, I'm looking at you), spirits with long histories like Scotch that I know only the broadest level of information about, and even for things I am comfortable with talking about in detail, I try to be around people that know more about these things than I, because I'm NOT the expert - I'm just the guy who drinks their work and sings their praises. I am happy to be the student in most of my interactions, as it means I get the benefits of the knowledge with none of the expectations. There are parts of my life where I am the expert, and I do the teaching, but as far as my ongoing exploration of spirits goes, I am content to learn and share.
