One of the things that makes me grin in a devious way is when my friends across the pond venture over to the states for something “American” and definitely something Southern. It’s a proud feeling to know that the South has such a sparkling reputation. So, while I’m reminiscing and rehashing life and all things foodie, my friend Phillipe exclaims that he thinks a certain whiskey—that shall remain nameless—is the best that has ever had. Hmm–I thought–not on my watch. It was time to put on the “ol’ drankin’ boots” and head to the place that has my favorite caramel coloured siren… Whiskey Kitchen.
Now, Nashville has host of bourbon and whiskey alley haunts and I frequent many, but something about Whiskey Kitchen brings me back. I like it on the “non” days as I have named them. That means “non conformist”, “non busy” and “non crazy.” It’s like those easy drinking saloon days of way back yonder. We sat down bar side. Black Maple Hill was the first. This is the last thing I would drink on the planet before succumbing to alien invasion. It drinks like silk feels with that ocean smack that takes your breath away, but leaves you invigorated for more. The hint of maple just lingers inside of your mouth for the truest paradox; seconds that feel like an eternity. The second was a bartender selection. Noah’s Mill Small Batch 15 yr. It was the guillotine—hot and volcanic. It made demands and asserted itself with this persistence of cayenne and carmel and a finish of mint and tobacco…magnificent.
As I emerged from my transcendental state of I glanced at Phillipe. He had lost control of his body in the rapture of the Rebel Goddess. Welcome to the South.