The fermentation tanks at McKenzie Distillery hum softly, a sound more beautiful to me than any Beethoven symphony. I walk slowly between the towering stainless-steel vessels, drawing in the damp air rich with malted barley and yeast. Some would say it smells like alcohol and mildew. I say it smells like the future.
Our future.
“The temperature in vat three is running a little high, sir,” Ian informs me. He’s been our master distiller for thirty years.
I glance at the data on my tablet and nod. “Lower it by two degrees and increase the cooling flow slightly. I want a slower flavor development for this batch.”
Ian gives me that familiar look—a blend of respect and skepticism he reserves for my more… forward-thinking ideas.
“That’s unusual, sir. Traditionally, we maintain a constant temperature throughout fermentation.”
I offer him a calm smile. Traditionally is probably the word I hear most in this distillery. That, and we’ve always done it this way.
“The Japanese whisky Hibiki whisky uses controlled temperature variations to create more complex flavor profiles,” I say. “I tasted it in Tokyo last year. It’s remarkable, Ian. Revolutionary, even.”
His expression tightens at the mention of a non-Scottish whisky. For Ian, suggesting we might learn anything from the Japanese borders on treason.
“If you say so, sir,” he replies stiffly. “I’ll adjust the parameters.”
I suppress a sigh as he walks away. Running a centuries-old distillery in Scotland sometimes feels like trying to turn a sailing ship in the middle of a storm—with a crew that would rather sink than change course.
And if it were only the distillery…
My phone vibrates in my pocket. My father’s name flashes across the screen. Speak of the devil.
“Alistair McKenzie,” I answer, keeping my tone professional even though I know exactly who it is.
“Have you seen the quarterly sales figures?”
No hello. No how are you, son? Just numbers. Always numbers.
“Yes, Father. Twelve percent growth in the Asian market. We’re on track.”
“Not enough. McGregor & Sons announced fifteen percent yesterday.”
I grit my teeth. Of course. It always comes back to the McGregors. In my father’s world, everything is a competition with that family.
“They acquired a struggling microdistillery and inflated their numbers. It’s not organic growth.”
“A win is a win, Alistair.”
I stop by one of the windows overlooking the valley. In the distance, the McGregor castle rises—massive, imposing, just like its owners.
“We’re playing the long game, Father. Our modernization and tourism expansion plan will?—”
“Speaking of your ‘plan,’” he cuts in, “I’ve reviewed the proposals for the visitor center. You really intend to spend three million pounds on a glass-and-stone building?”
“It’s a strategic investment. Whisky tourism is booming. Last year alone, over two million people visited Scottish distilleries. With immersive experiences, we could?—”
“Immersive experiences,” he repeats like it’s a disease. “Touchscreens and virtual tastings. You’re turning our heritage into an amusement park.”
The same argument. Over and over again. I drag a hand through my hair, forcing myself to stay calm.
“Tradition doesn’t exclude innovation. They can coexist. Our production methods remain authentic, but how we present them evolves. We adapt—or we disappear.”
Silence stretches on the line before he sighs.
“The board meets Thursday. Come prepared with something stronger than ‘immersive experiences’ to justify these costs. And find a way to secure the McGregors’ southern parcel. Without it, your expansion plan is nothing but a castle in the air.”
