Maybe I’m not going to try so hard to increase the sophistication of my tastes. There’s something to be said about enjoying simple things. Something related to “ignorance is bliss.”
I was smoking Nightcap last night. Not bad, but to tell the truth, not something I would consider a “go to” yet. And I was smoking Crown Achievement right up until the point I got the flu. I wasn’t quite sold on CA yet, and now, I’m afraid, it’s permanently associated with queasiness and vomit. It was the last taste in my mouth before I went home from work sick. In fact, it was almost as if *it* made me sick, but I realize it was an unfortunate coincidence that the night before I had smoked several bowls of that unfamiliar-to-me exotic spiciness and one that morning.
I smelled it again when I was well enough to move about and I just about folded over right there retching again. Even now, a week later, I can’t stand the smell of it. I think it’s ruined for me.
Taste, like our other senses, is such a tricky thing. Mutable. Fallible. Deceivable.
You know, I’m not sure I want to have too sophisticated a taste for tobacco anyway. At least not right now.
I was thinking of my preference for artificial banana flavor over foods flavored with natural banana. Bananas are fine. I like them. But give me a choice between a banana malt made with real bananas and one made with artificial banana flavoring, it’s not even close. I learned to like artificial banana as a kid and it’s a nostalgic pleasure even today.
Bottom line, it’s about pleasure, isn’t it? And what pleases is so often an acquired taste. Isn’t that true? I guess it just depends.
I’m afraid with tobacco I might go the route I took with scotch. Most of us don’t automatically like beer or scotch, right. When I was a young bartender, I hated scotch. Stump water. Bleck. However, while I was in England, and then later touring Scotland, I was “introduced” to scotches. And these weren’t cheap-import blended bar scotches from back home.
One day a man recognizing me as American showed me how he could imitate John Wayne knocking back a shot, just for a joke. Tossing it back and then clapping the little glass on the bar, he said to the bartender, “Hit me again, Mick.” And we all laughed. He asked me which label I liked, indicating the scotches. I told him I didn’t like scotch. He said, “You say that as if they all tasted the same. It’s not all that rubbish that gets exported to America, you know. What did you try? Walker? Scrapings from the bottom of the barrel. Get up here and we’ll teach you about scotch.”
He had Mick line up shots from nine labels he called out. Mick dropped a “sixth of a gill” (about 2/3s of an ounce, my fellow Americans) from each bottle into a shot glass, all in a line. One, egad… soap! Another, fwhuck, dirt! But the next, something earthy and smoky. Nice. And then next, I swear the sip was followed immediately by belching coal dust… but I liked it. Strange to me, new, but I liked it. Then another he said was a favorite export to the U.S. This was less peaty and more like Tennessee bourbon.
We got it down to three highlands: Glenmorangie, Glenfiddich and Glenlivet. I had actually stayed at a dairy in Livet, Scotland, so I *wanted* to like it most. But, no, my taste buds favored the first two. My host was amused, saying that I had just picked two of the most popular labels. I must be a scotch drinker after all.
And then I settled on my favorite: Glenmorangie. It was my new “thing.”
I barely made up the stairs to Hall for lunch that day. And when I found a seat and settled in, a friend asked me, “What have *you* been doing? You look so flushed.”
I told her, “I’ve been learning Scotch.” She asked what could I say. And I told her, “Highland Park, Glendronach Glenmorangie, Glenfiddich, and Glenlivet.”
So at my graduation, where I had been valedictorian, when the class president asked if she could by me a drink, I said yes, please: a Glenmorangie.
When she came back she was not pleased. A shot had cost her more than 10 pounds. I was astounded because back in those days, I had been having shots for 75p each. I went to the bartender to get her the change she deserved. But he produced the bottle. It was not tall and skinny but squat, and it had a big card tied to its neck with a gold cord. I moved the tag aside and saw “Aged 35 Years.”
I just wanted regular old Glen, but I tell you what, this old farm boy recognized the difference. This was smooth. This was a different texture, pure flavor, no cutting alcohol feel over the top of the flavor. Where was the bite? It was mellow and warm and rich and its deliciousness lingered long after a sip……. And at what, about $180/bottle?
Yikes.
Now 30 years later, I’m sure it’s much higher than that. I see 30 and 40 year old scotches going for $400 to $800 a bottle. Point is, I developed a taste for single malts, dammit. Bar blendeds still turn my lips up, but some single malts have me by the nads. And I have to be careful, limiting myself to the lower range of “Glens.” Recently I’ve switched to Nadurra Glenlivet. Might be a fad thing with me, but at $65-$80/bottle, I don’t dare taste something more expensive – because I’ll like it more.
In fact, I figured maybe I should stick to home. I revisited Jack Daniels No. 7 and declared it “good enough.” Maybe overseas it, too, commands higher prices. But sipping Jack, I’m okay. And when I don’t want a full Jack, it goes good in Diet Coke. Now you don’t see that with scotches much, do you.
So back to pipe tobacco. How do I want to develop my taste in tobacco. Hmmm...
I don’t think I want to go the scotch route just yet. I think I’m sticking with my artificial banana scheme: stick with what I first liked. It gave me pleasure as a kid, high school student, college student and young husband. It takes me back now to those times and still feels familiar and pleasant and homey.
It's not really about price. Just pleasure. I could have gotten some really high-rated samples for the same price I got my Argosy Match from P&C, Cherry Cordial, Sir Walter Raleigh, Half n Half, Captain Black and Blender’s Gold Natural – I’m good.
Maybe someday I’ll visit latakias and periques again. For now, drug store baccy is just fine for this unsophisticated man. Close at hand. Familiar. Pleasing.
I was smoking Nightcap last night. Not bad, but to tell the truth, not something I would consider a “go to” yet. And I was smoking Crown Achievement right up until the point I got the flu. I wasn’t quite sold on CA yet, and now, I’m afraid, it’s permanently associated with queasiness and vomit. It was the last taste in my mouth before I went home from work sick. In fact, it was almost as if *it* made me sick, but I realize it was an unfortunate coincidence that the night before I had smoked several bowls of that unfamiliar-to-me exotic spiciness and one that morning.
I smelled it again when I was well enough to move about and I just about folded over right there retching again. Even now, a week later, I can’t stand the smell of it. I think it’s ruined for me.
Taste, like our other senses, is such a tricky thing. Mutable. Fallible. Deceivable.
You know, I’m not sure I want to have too sophisticated a taste for tobacco anyway. At least not right now.
I was thinking of my preference for artificial banana flavor over foods flavored with natural banana. Bananas are fine. I like them. But give me a choice between a banana malt made with real bananas and one made with artificial banana flavoring, it’s not even close. I learned to like artificial banana as a kid and it’s a nostalgic pleasure even today.
Bottom line, it’s about pleasure, isn’t it? And what pleases is so often an acquired taste. Isn’t that true? I guess it just depends.
I’m afraid with tobacco I might go the route I took with scotch. Most of us don’t automatically like beer or scotch, right. When I was a young bartender, I hated scotch. Stump water. Bleck. However, while I was in England, and then later touring Scotland, I was “introduced” to scotches. And these weren’t cheap-import blended bar scotches from back home.
One day a man recognizing me as American showed me how he could imitate John Wayne knocking back a shot, just for a joke. Tossing it back and then clapping the little glass on the bar, he said to the bartender, “Hit me again, Mick.” And we all laughed. He asked me which label I liked, indicating the scotches. I told him I didn’t like scotch. He said, “You say that as if they all tasted the same. It’s not all that rubbish that gets exported to America, you know. What did you try? Walker? Scrapings from the bottom of the barrel. Get up here and we’ll teach you about scotch.”
He had Mick line up shots from nine labels he called out. Mick dropped a “sixth of a gill” (about 2/3s of an ounce, my fellow Americans) from each bottle into a shot glass, all in a line. One, egad… soap! Another, fwhuck, dirt! But the next, something earthy and smoky. Nice. And then next, I swear the sip was followed immediately by belching coal dust… but I liked it. Strange to me, new, but I liked it. Then another he said was a favorite export to the U.S. This was less peaty and more like Tennessee bourbon.
We got it down to three highlands: Glenmorangie, Glenfiddich and Glenlivet. I had actually stayed at a dairy in Livet, Scotland, so I *wanted* to like it most. But, no, my taste buds favored the first two. My host was amused, saying that I had just picked two of the most popular labels. I must be a scotch drinker after all.
And then I settled on my favorite: Glenmorangie. It was my new “thing.”
I barely made up the stairs to Hall for lunch that day. And when I found a seat and settled in, a friend asked me, “What have *you* been doing? You look so flushed.”
I told her, “I’ve been learning Scotch.” She asked what could I say. And I told her, “Highland Park, Glendronach Glenmorangie, Glenfiddich, and Glenlivet.”
So at my graduation, where I had been valedictorian, when the class president asked if she could by me a drink, I said yes, please: a Glenmorangie.
When she came back she was not pleased. A shot had cost her more than 10 pounds. I was astounded because back in those days, I had been having shots for 75p each. I went to the bartender to get her the change she deserved. But he produced the bottle. It was not tall and skinny but squat, and it had a big card tied to its neck with a gold cord. I moved the tag aside and saw “Aged 35 Years.”
I just wanted regular old Glen, but I tell you what, this old farm boy recognized the difference. This was smooth. This was a different texture, pure flavor, no cutting alcohol feel over the top of the flavor. Where was the bite? It was mellow and warm and rich and its deliciousness lingered long after a sip……. And at what, about $180/bottle?
Yikes.
Now 30 years later, I’m sure it’s much higher than that. I see 30 and 40 year old scotches going for $400 to $800 a bottle. Point is, I developed a taste for single malts, dammit. Bar blendeds still turn my lips up, but some single malts have me by the nads. And I have to be careful, limiting myself to the lower range of “Glens.” Recently I’ve switched to Nadurra Glenlivet. Might be a fad thing with me, but at $65-$80/bottle, I don’t dare taste something more expensive – because I’ll like it more.
In fact, I figured maybe I should stick to home. I revisited Jack Daniels No. 7 and declared it “good enough.” Maybe overseas it, too, commands higher prices. But sipping Jack, I’m okay. And when I don’t want a full Jack, it goes good in Diet Coke. Now you don’t see that with scotches much, do you.
So back to pipe tobacco. How do I want to develop my taste in tobacco. Hmmm...
I don’t think I want to go the scotch route just yet. I think I’m sticking with my artificial banana scheme: stick with what I first liked. It gave me pleasure as a kid, high school student, college student and young husband. It takes me back now to those times and still feels familiar and pleasant and homey.
It's not really about price. Just pleasure. I could have gotten some really high-rated samples for the same price I got my Argosy Match from P&C, Cherry Cordial, Sir Walter Raleigh, Half n Half, Captain Black and Blender’s Gold Natural – I’m good.
Maybe someday I’ll visit latakias and periques again. For now, drug store baccy is just fine for this unsophisticated man. Close at hand. Familiar. Pleasing.
