“What’s your best whiskey?” asked the guy in the far-too-clean John Deere trucker hat. I grew up in the country. Several of my classmates in elementary school were routinely given time off from school to plow the fields — literally.
The school bus would drive by and there would be 14-year-old Bobby out there on a John Deere. He wore dickies and trucker hats long before they were fashionable. His were dirty — really dirty — not sparkling clean.
But still, every time I see one or the other, I think of him on his tractor. “Best?” I asked, knowing full well that a qualifier like that is totally subjective. Not everybody agrees on what “best” is.
Are shaken drinks better than stirred? Are single malt whiskies better than blends? Is red wine better than white wine? The answer? “It depends.” It depends on who is asking — and why. “I have this one,” I said, picking up a 10-year-old straight bourbon, which for its price is a relative bargain.
It’s not the sexiest name out there, but it’s almost twice as old as any of them. Unadulterated, uncomplicated by multiple barreling, or odd grain mash bills, it really is a great deal. And it checks a lot of boxes.
“Nah,” he said. Not looking for that, I guessed. I picked up another bottle, this one an imported rye from Canada, which can be complicated because rye whiskey in Canada doesn’t actually have to have rye in it.
If it’s made there and bottled here, things get more complex and one must really re.