I am also obsessive. I am also compulsive. I also like to collect things. Thus my basement bar is a virtual shrine to Jack. Fortunately for me, I have friends who also like Jack Daniels. One in particular - we'll call him "Ernie" - has been my main partner in Jack Drinking for three or four score, now. (I'd be more precise but I can't remember how many years a "score" is.)
One day, many moons ago, Ernie and I were opening a new bottle of Jack. In case you are not a Jack Daniels connoisseur, you should know that no two bottles of Jack taste exactly alike. The distinction is slight and the uninitiated (non-lush) wouldn't even notice the difference. But those of us who drink enough Jack to refer to him as "John" (as the famous movie quote goes) can detect the subtle nuances. I could bore you with the details of why this is, but essentially it is because Jack is aged in different barrels in different parts of the warehouse. Thus, there are minor distinctions in taste for each barrel. Because of this, for us, there is a teeny bit of anticipation in the opening of a new bottle. What will this one be like? Slightly harsher? Slightly smoother? More “oaky”? So, on that fine day back in the last millennium, Ernie and I proclaimed that the opening of a new bottle of Jack should be accompanied by a brief ritual.
The first taste of a brand new bottle of The American Icon that is Jack Daniel's deserved a fitting ritual. We wanted something original and appropriate. The first thing that came to mind was obvious to any drinker: let's do a shot. But that wasn't geekily unique enough. The ritual had to be accompanied by more. After a brief brainstorming session we agreed that the the shot should be accompanied by a toast involving Mr. Jack in a uniquely different way each time. Finally, this should be done while facing towards Lynchburg, Tennessee, the home of the Jack Daniel's distillery.
Brilliant original ritual. But several thoughts may have entered your mind at this point (aside from "why hasn't his wife left him yet?") (Edit 4/26/2024: She eventually did.)
First: How do you know what direction Lynchburg is in? Good question. We consulted a map (an actual map, not Mapquest) and settled on facing generally south-southwest while in New York. Hey, this wasn't rocket science. Nobody was monitoring two OCD borderline-alcoholic dorks toasting a 19th century booze hawker. We'd just do our best and let 'em rip. (Having said that, a year or two ago I did spend a little time with my iPhone compass and a mapping website trying to more accurately identify the direction from my house towards Lynchburg. After completing my computations, I put an arrow on the ceiling of my basement which I believe points fairly accurately in the correct direction. However, I had to do it outside and remember the direction once I entered my basement. Since my basement is kind of like the hatch from LOST it is difficult to keep track of direction after you enter it. So I'm not really sure if the arrow points to Lynchburg or Anchorage. Don't tell Ernie.) I also toyed with the idea of buying a statue of Mr. Daniel to put in the corner of my basement that we would look towards. But I decided that our little ritual was close enough to breaking the First Commandment without placing an actual idol in our presence. (Truth be told, I did order the statue, but it was apparently discontinued between the moment I ordered it online and the moments later that the order was to be processed. G-d works in Mysterious ways. Praise the Lord, the one and only true god. (That should cover me.))
Anyway, back to our borderline sacrilegious ritual. The next question you may ask is what kind of toast is required? Very simple rule: it must somehow mention Mr. Jack by name. You can toast the time of year, the weather, a recent occasion, the Mets trading Armando Benitez, whatever. As long as you include Jack in the toast. An example: "To Mr. Jack, whose fine spirits help make this Cholera more bearable."
Being card-carrying Jack fans (we literally are - we're Tennessee Squires - not gonna take the time to explain - Google it.) we spent several years fantasizing about one day taking a pilgrimage to Lynchburg. Eventually, that time arrived. It was July1999. The "golf in all 50 states" bet that Ernie and I were involved in with several other friends had slowed to a crawl. We decided that a secret driving adventure through several southern states was in order.
We did not tell our friends what we were planning. We didn't even tell them we were taking a trip together. We stealthily planned our journey. 2 Yankees (ironically Mets fans) flying into Nashville, driving through Old Dixie and ending up in Memphis, collecting golf states along the way. The highlight of the trip: a stop in Lynchburg, Tennessee and the Jack Daniels Distillery. Airline tickets were purchased, hotel reservations made and the dreaming began.
I imagined the distillery tour would be much like Willy Wonka's factory, but for drunks. Jack's great-great-great grandson would lead us through the hallowed halls where the Jack is readied for the world while Oompa Loompas wearing Levi's jeans, flannel shirts, bandanas and trucker hats sang in southern drawl. "Oompa Loompa doopity doo, I've got some charcoal-mellowed whiskey for you!" We would all end up in a giant enchanted banquet hall (a la Harry Potter) where bottles of Jack hung mystically in the air above banquet seats, waiting to be imbibed. A grand tasting would ensue. We would teach the Jack folks our ritual. (Although I'm not sure what direction we would face for our toast), have a roaring evening of Jack drinking, become esteemed guests and leave showered with rare Jack Daniels collectables and demands that we return often.
Dreams are dreams and reality is, well ... let's just say it didn't quite work out that way. When we finally giddily rolled into the town that was our personal Mecca, we had overlooked one minor detail ....
(to be continued)
