I can't remember the last time I had Scotch or Whiskey or Bourbon. Heck, I don't even think I know how to differentiate those. So, when Jake and I sidled up to the bar in Restaurant 1833 last night, having just dropped the boys off at their aerodynamics workshop for a few hours, I was more than a little surprised that he sat right down and asked Michael, the bartender, which Scotch he would recommend. What?!? Who was this man sitting beside me? Michael said that there were 10, 12, 18, and 25 year options. He ordered a 12-year Scotch. But since I'm always up for learning something new. I swirled it, sniffed it, and took a swallow. I think what I actually did was more of a sip - and a timid one at that. I was expecting something harsh and was taken aback at how smooth it was. It rolled off my tongue, soft and warm, reminding me of pearls and cashmere. Okay, that's not a very manly image and Scotch is the quintessential Good Ol' Boys drink, right? But what I mean is ...
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