Whisk(e)ysplaining
It’s a bad datelook
Sharing online dating horror stories is a pretty good default conversation piece. You cringe and laugh as your interlocutor recounts what Katie H. from the Upper West Side actually said about Syria and where Steve B. from Long Island City put his hand. However, one particular sin pops up a lot when I trade war stories with straight female friends: dudes who won’t shut the fuck up about whisk(e)y.
(Note: we’re going to spell “whiskey” with a good, honest, egalitarian “e” from here on out.)
The stories start out the same. After enough nonthreatening text banter on a dating app, Man and Woman agree to meet at a cool but not too sceney bar to see if they can push past a half hour of stilted banalities to find that they banter well in real life too or at least find that they’re attracted to each other enough to repeat the experience. At some point, the Man mentions how much he appreciates whiskey, most likely either Scotch or American (and of the latter, either bourbon or rye). “Are you interested in whiskey?” he’ll ask. Whether she answers yes or no and whether or not she means it is immaterial. His reply will be the same: “Well, here’s the thing about whiskey . . .” Even if she knows about whiskey, she will nod politely as he holds forth on some aspect of the brown — even if he knows little more than that the booze is brown.
Variations on this theme ensue. Sometimes the Woman will interject or try to steer away from the subject. He may become distracted by the tangent and, taking the hint, acquiesce (best case scenario). Or he may become argumentative or defensive (likely). Or (worst case scenario) he may rope the (likely male) barkeep into the conversation and proceed to ignore her as he and the barkeep discuss the (in my opinion, snobbish and misguided) notion that easy-drinking whiskies are for neophytes or, perhaps, the latest New Distillery in Illinois or Upstate New York or maybe whether Japanese whiskey is Worth It or Just Hype. There’s a good chance the Man has an established rapport with the barkeep. The Man thinks this fact, or at the very least his ability to hold his own with the professional booze purveyor, is Impressive.
This charade may last for some time, during which the Woman has not had a chance to say fuck-all, save “Oh, yes?” or “Wow, I had no idea.” Her phone has probably been out and she’s made little attempt to conceal her text to her friend, which reads something along the lines of “You won’t believe what this asshat is doing right now . . .”
The date will peter out. He may attempt an awkward kiss. They will probably part ways.
She will go home and shake her head as she opens a book or turns the TV on to wind down, more assured in her not-unfounded belief that men are insufferable bores.
Too often, thus is dating in New York and other places men prize whiskeyknowledge.
Trigger warning: I’m about to do some explaining and hypothesizing about whiskey. I will not presume your interest in hearing about it, so if you don’t want to read my thoughts on American whiskey and the rise of rye and why assholes won’t shut up about it on dates, do skip ahead to the part I’ve marked as safe.
Whiskey has become one of those common things people say they’re into on dating apps. It accompanies standbys like Netflix or books or travel or clean eating. And like everything else people say they’re into on dating profiles (and pretty much in actual life), that professed affinity is probably some combination of genuine enthusiasm and a calculated front designed to impress someone.
It’s no great secret that whiskey is having a fairly pronounced moment. Whether you’re a man or woman, saying you like whiskey on your profile marks you as straightforward and into underlying quality as opposed to ostentation. It also says you’re both traditional and up on trends. There’s a reason it’s a go-to in the About Me section. I mean, aside from the basic fact that whiskey is delicious, of course.
But not every delicious thing makes it into the urban woodsman pantheon in the US. Yet, whiskey has; it sits up there in the Brooklyn Guidebook next to craft ale, brussel sprouts cooked in cast-iron skillets, and the inevitability of moving farther east to escape bro-creep. But unlike other new hip beverages like, say, mezcal and sour ale, American whiskey has been a mainstay of the booze scene for a long time. Bourbon in particular was a national source of international prestige when American beer and wine were internationally scorned in places where those libations are sacrosanct. (The lone exception to this are those assholes who say they only drink Scotch and look down on anything else. Sadly, they do exist.)
Still, whiskey, American or otherwise, for years had an image problem. It wasn’t cool, as it was the stereotypical drink of stuffy plutocrats as well as hard-drinking shitkickers who chased it with PBR and Schlitz before that too was cool. (Though it was unlikely they were drinking the same brands.) Now, whiskey sales are killing it across the globe, and despite its mainstream popularity, the liquor’s image is still that of the rustic and old-fashioned, and so having some whiskeyknowledge has become a marker of cachet among young, American urbanites from Echo Park to East Austin to Bushwick.
Not coincidentally, rye specifically is experiencing its own resurgence. Like many of my generation, the only thing I knew about rye when I was young was that it was in that “American Pie” song and that there was a rebellion about it somewhere in the early chapters of American history textbooks. Now, it’s genuinely surprising if you ask for rye and a bar doesn’t carry it.
Rye’s outmodedness is, of course, part of its appeal. (How it became outmoded is a whole other story about tax law and Prohibition and geography and crop husbandry. If you really want to know, I’m more than happy to get drunk and tell you about it sometime.) Rye filled a void — it was a touch obscure and, unlike bourbon or Scotch, generally wasn’t drunk by your relatives in the burbs. In other words, it’s a niche market within the larger world of whiskey.
Unlike its sweeter bourbon sibling, rye has a spicy edge; it numbs your lips a bit. It also has the aforementioned benefit of not being made from mostly corn, which, as we all know, rivals gluten for the title of Dietary Public Enemy Number One. Instead, rye is made from — you guessed it — mostly rye grain. (Not that I seriously suspect dietary fads have much if anything to do with whiskey choice.)
For some, and I suspect particularly in New York and places that aspire to be New York, rye is an entry point into whiskey for younger people looking for something new to drink. It’s this mildly curious thing that is suddenly stocked up in every Brooklyn Bar — by which I don’t mean bars in Brooklyn, but rather that now-archetypal Brooklyn Bar being boilerplated across the country. It was definitely part of my own whiskey journey. I came to love straight whiskey via classic cocktails like the Old Fashioned and The Manhattan. (The renewed popularity of classic, old-man cocktails itself comes from a reaction to the cloying, clubby drink culture at the turn-of-the-century. Think: Cosmos and Long Island Iced Teas. Its correlation to the rise of whiskey isn’t a coincidence.) Many of those classic drinks technically call for rye instead of bourbon, and while many bars do just make them with bourbon, the curious neophyte would naturally wonder what the hell the difference is and eventually, through some exploration, would come to the conclusion that rye is just fucking delightful. That person may then branch out and explore new varieties from around the globe. They may soon find they like nothing more when they’re out than to sidle up to the bar and order a straight fucking tumbler of whiskey. And that same person might hate having to feel like an asshole for ordering it because a bunch of guys in chambray shirts are running their mouths on first dates.
Because whiskey is too perfect to be disserved by some obnoxious guy’s droning or haranguing. Appropriately, the word whiskey comes from the Old Gaelic for “water of life.” It’s almost too pat then to say that whiskey is actually kind of like life. If only it weren’t also kind of true. If you’re being honest, whiskey hurts a bit. And that’s definitely part of the complexity and complicated appeal, whether you’re drinking a trendy Japanese whiskey or a classic Speyside. The pain keeps the whole experience honest and interesting.
Trigger warning over.
But despite the prevalence of whiskeysplaining, whiskey is one of life’s great, fine pleasures. But infinitely more so in the drinking of it and less so in the telling people about it. If you don’t get that, you don’t get anything about it.
Dane A. Wisher is based in Brooklyn.
