In the rare event of friends visiting our Long Beezy apartment, I would find myself eventually offering them some scotch.
How I came to be in possession of scotch is itself an interesting anecdote: Auntie Peg prefers Dewars, and people give her Glenlivet as gifts. "I don't drink single-malts," she says, "Here, Patrick, do you want this? Just take it..."
"Why, I think I can make a home for that," I nod as I look it over. Then thank her. I guess that anecdote isn't that interesting...
Anyway, the only hard liquor we ever really have in our apartment, when we do have some, is either Jameson or Beefeater. Irish whiskey or London gin. Old school and works for us.
The Glenlivet, for me, was similar to Jameson, only smoother. It was warm and sweet and relaxing and deliciously fiery. I started to learn why people drink scotch. I've tried it with ice, but as of now, I prefer it neat.
Anyway, I offer it to the random visitors. "Ooh, I don't dig on peat," they say. "Ahh, that's to peaty for me. I don't like the smoke..."
What? "What exactly does peat taste like?" I ask them. Smokiness, or something...I can't get a satisfactory answer from them. In fact, it sounded like a line oft repeated in peer circles I am no longer privy to. Like everybody agrees to dislike something because of a perceived sleight. I have, for full disclosure, been part of those peer circles before, agreeing that I dislike something for reasons that I may have agreed with, but certainly never explored how strong the perceived dislike was through experimentation.
Anyway, I use an old timey safety razor with removable blades, cold water, and a badger brush; I shave at night before bed. My skin has never been happier. Now I enjoy scotch, and my liver may rejoice if I have three ounces of scotch instead of twenty ounces of beer.
I've never felt as grown-up as I do now.
