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‘Some kind of Old Fashioned,’ I said, after a sip.
‘Plus a secret ingredient. A drop of Grand Marnier.’
‘Not bad.’
‘That’s how Kingsley Amis made them.’
‘Amis was a bourbon drinker?’
‘Thought it was a bit bland, but yeah, he drank it. Only thing I do different from him is with the Old Fashioned, I mix the sugar beforehand.’ He held up a plastic bottle of homemade simple syrup. ‘Otherwise you end up putting warm water in your glass.’
‘How’d you get into this stuff?’ I asked.
‘My mum always cooked with bourbon. Poured it in the mix for pecan pie when she was whisking the eggs. Carrots too. She browned them in a skillet on the stove first. Then she made a sauce with butter and this here.’ He took a slender bottle down from the shelf.
‘Four Roses.’
‘My favourite for cocktails, too. Has a higher percentage of rye so it cuts through with some spice.’ He took down another bottle, this one with a narrow neck and a fat body.
‘Old Fitzgerald.’
‘It’s aged 12 years and the mash has a high wheat content so it finishes nice and soft. Can mix with it as well.’ He pointed to a squarish bottle of Knob Creek. ‘Another small batch that’s good for drinking neat. Depends what you want, really.’
I sipped my Old Fashioned and my mind drifted. The citrus smell reminded me of the orange tree in the back yard of the house where I grew up in Florida. The colour was tannic, like the dark Wekiva River. This is what bourbon is all about, a drink of empty rivers and hot afternoons, of flattery and fighting words, of lonely nights in crowded bars. It reminded me of home.
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