Someone to scotch over me
That's why I immediately took notice when a representative from Dewar's e-mailed to ask if she could send me some free liquor. This reminded me of one of those ethical dilemmas they teach you about in journalism school, where the professor asks, "If a representative from Dewar's offers to send you free liquor, what should you do?'' and the journalism students, thinking of the one half-empty bottle of Michelob left in their dorm room, think, ``Duh!''
So I responded yes, and she sent me out a sample of the new Dewar's Signature scotch, a bottle of which apparently retails for about $200. Upon receiving the scotch and seeing the "crystal quality bottle'' featuring an "embossed married symbol and hand-crafted ceramic label,'' I'll admit I was a little intimidated -- one, because I was looking at a bottle of liquor that was more carefully engineered than my car, and two, because I'm not used to imbibing anything from a container whose label I can't peel off with my thumb.
Yes, I'm what you'd call a beer drinker, or more accurately a former beer drinker; these days I'm much more likely to find myself ordering beverages in establishments that serve Fribbles. But there was a time when I was occasionally known to knock back a few brews -- usually Budweiser, except during my "dark beer'' period, which consisted primarily of Budweiser that had been left too long in my trunk.
None of that had prepared me to tackle a $200 bottle of anything, much less one of "ultra-premium'' 12-year-old scotch. So I did what any responsible journalist would do: Offered my colleagues the opportunity to get snookered at work in the middle of the day.
Fortunately, this experiment happened to take place the day after the Red Sox won the World Series, so there was legitimate reason for a toast. And actually, as I popped open the polished copper stopper, surrounded by my bleary-eyed brethren waiting with paper cups outstretched, I thought: I've got to find a new line of work.
But meanwhile, before the scotch started eating through the paper cups, I was able to record the following comments from the newsroom crew:
"It tastes old, like baseball card bubble gum.''
"My throat is on fire!''
"I have a nice, warm glow in my esophagus.''
"Let's get the dog drunk!'' (Because someone was coming to pick up his paycheck and had brought his dog into work, and, oh, never mind.)
A few of the more sophisticated palates in the office, though, declared it to be "full bodied'' and said it "more than passed muster.'' For the record, Dewar's describes it as having "rich, fruity mellow tones of sultanas, raisins, apples and honey with vanilla and toffee overtones.'' None of which would explain why I was still sweating a half-hour after drinking an ounce of it.
I imagine scotch, or any drink that doesn't come by the case in a cardboard box, is an acquired taste. Still, my brush with ultra-premiumity (sorry, I'm still a little buzzed) allowed me to dare dream of a lifestyle involving scotch on the rocks sipped gracefully from a crystal tumbler, all while sharing urbane conversation with people who have never heard of a Fribble. An unlikely scenario, to be certain, but I saved what was left of the bottle in my desk drawer, just in case.
Just don't tell my old journalism professor.