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seven
After dinner,our host, Ian, reminded us that no trip to Scotland could be complete without a few sips of the “water of life,” and encouraged us to visit the lodge’s extensive whisky bar.
Harlow, whose body was a temple, went upstairs to bed, and Bea, who turned her nose up at the offer, made a nest for herself in the sitting room. Spencer had begged off and slunk away to his private room, leaving me to have whisky with the other men.
I’d given up on Scotch as a drinkable alcohol long ago, but I agreed with Ian—no better way to participate in Scottish traditions than by sampling it now. When in Scotland, and all that.
The bar held narrow wooden shelves packed with dozens of bottles of various shades of golden whisky. A few older vintages had peeling labels but most looked new. Acting the proper barman, Ian stood behind the counter and nodded for me to come forward.
“Ladies first. What’ll it be?”
“I have no idea.” I scanned the array of whisky bottles. I had no clue what constituted a good one, or even how to order one properly.Give me the orange-labeled onedidn’t sound especially sophisticated. “What do you suggest for someone who doesn’t normally drink whisky?”
“Drink more whisky, of course.” He gave me a good-natured look of reproach but found a bottle and poured some into a small glass. “If you’re new to whisky, I have just the thing. Slightly sweet, excellent for beginners.”
I didn’t love being called out as a beginner, but admitting all the Scotch I’d tried before had tasted equally terrible probably wouldn’t impress the very Scottish barman.
He passed a glass to me. “There’s a wee dram for you.”
I took the little glass and swirled the golden liquid around as though I could fake my way to classiness. Duncan leaned an elbow against the bar, watching me take the tiniest of tiny sips.
Ian scoffed. “Aw, doing it that way, it’s a wonder you can even taste it.”
I took a slightly less tiny sip. I caught a thick, almost caramel flavor when it hit my tongue, but it burned just as much as I remembered on the way down.
“It’s surprisingly not awful.” I jiggled the glass again and took another sip. I’d call it drinkable, but only in small doses.
Ian laughed. “That’ll have to do as a compliment. Gents?”
The men had a better idea what they were after, and once we each had a drink, we took over one of the stout wooden tables. I sank onto a plush chair, sipping at mywee dramof whisky. The flavor could grow on me, but the bite would take longer to get used to.
Like, a whole lifetime.
“What do you think of it?” Rupert asked.
I wanted to be honest, but…not as honest as I could be. “It’s better than Jack Daniels.”
Duncan shook his head. “That compliment’s as good as an insult.”
“You’re bad-mouthing perfectly good ten-dollar liquor?”
“It costs ten dollars now?”
I laughed, feeling lighter already. My thoughts skipped around the way they did before sleep, and I stopped sipping so frequently at my glass. What was the alcohol content of whisky versus wine? I wasn’t the best at liquor-related math, but judging by how out of sorts my brain had gone after a few sips, the whisky must have been something like two hundred proof.
I rubbed my foot against the table leg to try to ground myself, hoping the repetitive motion would keep me from drifting away on the alcohol. Trying whisky was one thing, but I didn’t need to get trashed with these men.
“Maybe you just don’t have a taste for American whiskies,” I said, scrambling for a little more conversation. If I had something to focus on, maybe my thoughts would stop folding in on themselves.
Duncan indulged my belated retort. “Given that most of their whiskies have definite notes of jock strap and old horse leather, I think I’ll stick with Scotch.”
“Old horse leather?” I repeated with a grin.
His eyebrows quirked up, but he didn’t explain. Should I know the difference between new and old horse leather? What was horse leather? Was this a Scottish thing or a Duncan thing?
Oh no, I’d gotten drunk on two tablespoons of whisky.
“There’s a great whisky bar I go to in L.A.” Carlos looked around at the lounge’s dark wood paneling, somehow both admiring and judging. “Not as authentic as this place, though. Too crowded. Sometimes the waitlist to get in isn’t worth it.”
