I know, I've been there. I was recently in Pittsburgh, doing what it is I do; visiting bars, talking to bartenders, drinking. My uncle Don was with me, a long veteran of bars plain and fancy, and no stranger to the demimonde of speakeasies, after-hours clubs, and shot-and-beer joints. Two experienced bar-hoppers. Yet this place, Chiefs, was putting us off that night.
It was drafty and cold. Unidentifiable, jangling music played on broken speakers, and there were no more than five people sitting in the place on a Friday night. Men would lurch in, buy an 80-cent shot of Imperial vodka with coins, and drink the anesthetic-grade jolt through a bar straw so they didn't miss a drop. After tilting the cup up to drain it, they'd slip out past the huge man leaning by the door.
Don and I sipped the beer of the house, 16 oz. plastic cups of draft Busch that was cold and clean. The bartender grunted as he dropped them off, spoke not a word as he serviced the bar's other clientele. We were coming under the malign influence of the place, grunting to each other.
"Hunh. Beer's cold, anyway."
"Yeah."
I was bored to the point of fear. Why was I here, what was I doing, had I lost my way completely to be doing this for a living? And in the midst of my confusion, as I was sinking into despair at the thought of drafty bars and Busch as my lot, a gleam of sunflower yellow caught my eye on the backbar. How it wound up there I'll never know, a rarity you won't find in one bar out of fifty: Jim Beam Rye Whiskey.
I sat up, despair forgotten. "Hey, bartender!" I sang out, making the timeworn call bounce lively down the bar. He swiveled and eyed me blackly, but I was ready. I had found my ladder out of hell, and the night was gonna be all right. "Let me have a shot of that Beam Rye, in the yellow bottle," I asked. He had to search for it, then he looked at it for a second, almost as if he'd never noticed it before. He poured me a shot and he stood there, holding the bottle, still looking at it.
"Thanks," I said, and raised the shot. It was the genuine article: light amber innocence, a simple liquor in appearance, only mildly colored by four short years in the oak. But then I raised it to my lips and paused long enough for a short sniff: rye! That brittle honey and spice wrapped around the scent of fresh rye grain, brisk and zesty and rough-rider ready. I was ready too.
WHAM! Rye burst in my mouth, with wild zaps of mint and honeydew and honey-laced fire. Beam Rye detonates on your tongue like fireworks, young and sassy, nothing subtle or smooth about it. Rough, sudden, powerful, but never, ever harsh, this is a whiskey that lovers of whisky should look into, for there are ever so many parallels to a fine malt. It is a spirit that bursts freely, then clings to the tongue, reminding you of the pleasures of another attack.
I couldn't help but smile, and broadly. The bartender (I noticed as I came out of my brief rye reverie) still stood there, holding the bottle cradled in his palm, looking at me. "That stuff any good?" he asked, the first genuine feeling in his voice all night.
"You bet," I said with a grin. "Have one with me? It's great with ginger ale, too." He declined, saying "the boss" didn't allow it, but walked away with the bottle to show to another bar customer.
Hell didn't seem so cold, so noisy, so lonely anymore. Don got to talking to the guy down the bar about deer hunting, the music changed tempo, and someone finally shut the backdoor. I knew what it was. Rye, the old American magic. Try it, learn it, love it... then go out there and demand it.
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