Of course, our unwritten code of conduct stipulated that he had to break the seal on that bottle then and there, so we could each sample a dram or two. Before the night was out, I had pulled out my meager single malt collection for comparison: Talisker, Lagavulin, Laphroig, Glenfiddich … our discussion of this evening got the gears turning in the mind of another scotch-loving friend.
And so it came to pass, that about three months later there were about a dozen of us converging in one friend’s downtown apartment, preparing to embark on our first-ever Single Malt Club meeting. Two bottles of “the good stuff,” proudly stood in the center of the table, where—in another context—an elegant centerpiece might have rested. Surrounding these bottles, like crystalline castle walls, was an assortment of empty glasses and a couple of carafes of water. The space was abuzz with anticipation and activity. There were some significant others, some friends of friends—and everyone was interested in tasting single malt scotch. A couple of things were being prepared in the kitchen, while newly arriving participants were adding their contributions to the big dining room table and its ever-growing buffet. Pretty soon, everyone who was expected had arrived, and—having been tempted by the regal bottles on display—everyone was eager to slake his/her collective thirst.
The meeting was called to order and the first drams poured. There was a little bit of nervous talk, as no one was sure how to act. We needn’t have worried. As the focus of the evening turned to the scotches, the comments flowed naturally, drawn forth by the inspiration of connecting to an ancient culture, a distant land, and the salty Atlantic air that, caressing lush green countryside, had produced such miracles. Some of us city dwellers couldn’t tell peat from cow pies. But for this brief evening, we could imagine what it might be like to touch the earth from which these drinks had been born.
My minutes from that night read like … well, like notes taken during an evening of drinking. However, as I sat at the computer a couple of nights later, those cryptic scratchings were enough to open the floodgates on many (humorous) recollections. Some of our club’s first minutes follow:
