
UX, Whisky, and Japanese Hip Hop — a Paris story.
Those who have read my stories know that I have a fascination with Whisky. More specifically, single malt. There’s some sort of captivating alchemy that happens when such a simple thing can become so complex, and yet, remain simple. Single.
To be a single malt, the whisky needs to be from a single distillery from malted grain mash. It’s a complex process involving partially sprouted barley, which is dried, ground and put into a ‘mash tun’ with hot water.
Now the alchemy bit starts. Ooooh — magic!
The hot water activates the enzymes in the mix to break down starch and release the sugars. The sugars ferment away in stills to make a beery kind of basic alcohol called wash. This is then refined in copper stills by boiling it. The good stuff is collected and condensed, then into the oak casks it goes! To be called whisky, it needs to rest in these oak casks for 3yrs and one day. This turns the clear liquid into golden nectar.
All this complexity to produce a simple-looking liquid, with such an amazing depth of flavour. Each one is a story in a glass. Why is this important? Read on.
Every day I load a different playlist, and take a different route to head office in Rue Cambacérès, in the 8th androssiment. This particular Wednesday I’m listening to Issugi from Monju, and choosing streets at random.
I pass a store tucked away in an otherwise unremarkable side street. I’m at once paralysed with awe. It’s the most beautiful book store I have ever seen, except it’s full of whisky bottles, not books. So many golden stories. So much alchemy. Such simplified complexity. La Maison du Whisky. I don’t know how long I stood at the widow, peering in.
Maybe 2 minutes. Maybe an hour.

That night my friend Adrien was going to show me Paris at street level. I knew exactly where we would start.
At the end of the day we walked out through the large red door that separated the agency from the street, and in through the glass door that led to a golden wonderland. The choices were dizzying. Where to start? I browsed the shelves like a library. Each volume had it’s own place, carefully considered, and perfectly placed.
We walked down a glass-framed staircase into a cellar where the ‘special’ bottles lived. For me, this was beauty on multiple fronts. The rare and expensive bottles were one thing, but the craft of the bottles themselves, and the perfectly simple labels belying the complexity within, were another.
After much deliberation, I decided on a bottle of Japanese whisky I had never seen before, resisting the urge to buy the Dalmore 1964 for just over €48,000. No, that’s not a typo, and yes, that’s in Euro.
A smartly dressed attendant wrapped my bottle and placed it into a matte black and white bag covered in gloss monograms. More beauty and attention to detail. He took my card for payment, then handed me a heavy black card with gold type: Golden Promise. On the back was an address in the 2nd, near Les Halles. The card said nothing more.
This is excellent UX. My curiosity was peaked.
Adrien and I walked the 3km from Rue d’Anjou to the unremarkable facade on Rue Tiquetonne. Each step along the way heightened my curiosity as to what we’d find at the end of our journey. When we arrived, I was underwhelmed to the point of disappointment. We stood in front of what was, at first impression, a saké bar. The girl behind the small glass-topped counter looked at us, then down at the bag I was carrying. Without changing her blank expression, she nodded her head to the right, then got back to polishing a glass. So French.
We walked to the right of the bar and saw a circular staircase descending into blackness. Our curiosity was back, and we descended into the unknown depths.
The staircase ended in a dark cellar that smelled of wax, dust and moist rock. In one corner was a small bar with an impossibly tall series of shelves — full of golden bottles. I assumed that this was the ‘golden promise’. We were either early, or lucky, because we occupied the only two seats at the darkly lit shrine to liquid stories.

The walls closed in on us in the best way imaginable. We started with a Taiwanese Whisky — the Kavalan Solist Port cask strength. Full of plum, strawberry and chocolate, it was dessert before dinner.
Moving on to one of my all time favourites, we sipped the Aberlour A’bunadh, while talking French Politics, over some Karaage and ginger. This was my peak, in the peak-end theory of this particular day in Paris.
Or so I thought.
We had almost finished the scotch whisky, when the bartender, perhaps sensing our desire to move on, asked if we’d like to see the Golden Promise. I was confused. Were we not sitting in it? This was such an amazing experience, from La Maison du Whisky, past the Place Vendôme, Rue Etienne Marcel and into the depths of this secret bar. What more could there be?
Suis moi
We did as instructed, and she led us around a dark corner to a steel door. She knocked with authority, and a metal panel slid open just enough to expose an etherial glow, which was suddenly obscured by a pair of piercing blue eyes. The panel slid shut without warning, then the sound of a heavy bolt being shifted. The door, which was locked from the inside, creaked open. What lay beyond was breathtaking. Quite literally. A slight bearded man in a white lab coat welcomed us in, then almost ominously, bolted the door behind us. This was a secure place — and with good reason.
Every wall was lined with wooden racks of back-lit bottles. None of them were behind lock and key. Our guide walked us around the large subterranean crypt. He allowed us to inspect any bottle we liked. Nothing was hidden, nothing was untouchable. We were in the inner sanctum. A single record player was playing a copy of Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out! The Rolling Stones in Concert. Sympathy for the Devil echoed gently against the stone walls. We were invited to sit at the only table — a single, solid piece of mahogany. In front of us was a leather-bound tome that listed the whiskies in this trove, along with their age, number of bottles, and price. It was as thick as a phone book and smelled of age and velum. Whoever designed this place, understood what real UX is. Down. To. The. Details.
I selected a Karuizawa 1994 Noh. One of only 472 bottles in existence. Cost be damned — nothing was going to stop me now. Our bearded friend made the pouring of our selection a ceremony. Two glasses were place in front of us. The bottle was retrieved from the shelf behind us and presented. A nod, and he poured two perfect drams into the glasses, not spilling a single drop. Then he re-corked the bottle and left it on the table in front of us so we could admire the label, and it’s image of a grimacing Japanese face mask. I won’t go into a self-indulgent description of the whisky itself. Suffice to say it was worth every Euro of the asking price.

If it were not for our empty stomachs and light heads, we may have never left this place (in some ways I never have). We walked back into the bracing Paris night in search of food, and perhaps another dram. A few blocks away we found a little bistro opposite a community centre — you’ll forgive me if I don’t recall the name. But what I do recall is my first burger in Paris, and my best burger experience ever. Just as I thought my experience could not get better, this happened. It was the best burger ever. I don’t say that lightly mind you. The beef was juicy and rare. The bun was sweet and crunchy. The cheese — mon dieu! The Cheese!! Pommes frites and a beer. This was living! We sat on the street and watched the world go by as we ate, and drank, and laughed.
With full bellies and big smiles, we decided to have a digestive. Adrien knew the place to go — bien sur. In 15 minutes we had walked to Le Syndicat, on Rue du Faubourg in Saint-Denis. This was a cocktail bar that only used French spirits. It was small, and grimy, and in a rough part of Paris, but it was so damn cool. They were playing old school Hip Hop. Loud. The table was tiny. The crowd was made up of artists and a French movie star — I’m told. I choose a cocktail called the Tu Es Le Seul Qui Maille, made with (French) Whisky triple malt, Sauvignon, Sirop d’ananas moutardé, Citrons frais pressés, Blanc d’oeuf, Poudre de Moutarde. Whatever. It’s phenomenal. I mean, it’s actually a defining cocktail — and I used to be a cocktail barman. It humbled me.
My head was spinning from the experiences of the night. This was the second best experience of my time in Paris — beaten only by my time with my cousin and her family just a few nights before. As I got into the cab back to my hotel, I remember thinking that this night was close to perfect.
Then my driver put on some Charles Aznavour, and my night was complete.
