Category: Uncategorized (Page 5 of 5)

I have been sitting on a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle 20 Year Family Reserve for several months, wondering just when to open it. I finally opened it last night, a direct reaction to the Coronavirus.

In the bourbon world, Pappy Van Winkle is an anomaly. In a market where $100 bottles are reasonably rare, a bottle of Pappy 20 Year can command an after market price of over $2,000, an insane amount of money for any form of alcohol.

I got my bottle the old fashioned way. I lucked into it. No way would I buy it.

It all started with a random conversation at the gym with a guy I have talked to but have never done anything else with. We were discussing hotels and where I should stay while on a business trip. My friend suggested I stay at a much nicer hotel than I was planning on. His point was that I have earned it, that given my proclivity towards nice cars and nice travel, I should not compromise on a hotel room.

My point was that I was content to stay in a hotel while traveling on business as long as it provided a clean, comfortable room in a hotel with decent food and a decent gym. I perceived any features above those to be a waste of money.

I have made this point to some of my other friends and they thought I was foolish. My gym friend felt the same way.

If our conversation had ended there, I would not have my bottle of Pappy. Instead, I continued to drone on about utility curves and how more is not always better if sufficient utility is achieved with a given level of expenditure.

This led to a discussion about wine, and when the price of it exceeds its intrinsic value. As neither of us are oenophiles, we were in fundamental agreement that wine hits its peak utility at about $30 bucks per bottle, and that there is not much need to spend more. Just for fun, I broached the topic of Pappy and the severe market dislocation that exists in its price.

Obviously, we both readily agreed that no bourbon or any other form of alcohol was worth what it would cost to buy a bottle of Pappy. If our conversation had ended there, I still would not have my bottle of Pappy.

After a couple of moments of silence, while he was either contemplating his next statement or catching his breath while he pumped away on the elliptical trainer, he said to me, “I can get you a bottle of 20 Year Pappy if you want one. The price point will be retail.” I almost fell off my trainer.

The MSRP for Pappy 20 Year is about $130, most likely what it is worth, though I do have to admit that I would not pay that much either, especially when I am perfectly content with my sub $30 bottles of Woodford Reserve. I say this because I have had a shot of 20 Year Pappy before. I paid $40 for the shot, not an unreasonable price for something worth that much on the open market. I had it on a boys ski trip to Aspen, the only place I have ever seen it on a menu. I liked it when I had it, but …..

Having said that, this was an opportunity I could not pass up. The conversation value alone would be worth many times the cost of the bottle. So I said, “Absolutely. Get me one.” He did. Unbelievably.

After I received it, he asked me when I planned to drink it. I had no answer for that. I mean, how does one decide when to open a $2,000 bottle of booze? I have never had to make that call before. Opportunities came and went, but I could not bring myself to open the bottle.

As I watched the Coronavirus segment on the news last night, I was struck by the utter futility of the meaningless acts we are contemplating to halt its spread. I perceived the whole Coronavirsus discourse to be insane. No matter what we try to do at this point there is no way to contain this virus. We cannot stop living because we are afraid to die.

For some reason, refrains from Eve of Destruction, one of the quintessential 60s protest songs, came to mind. Its lyrics, penned so long ago in a very turbulent time, just felt so right.

“The Eastern world, it’s explodin’…..”

“Don’t you understand, what I’m trying to say? And can’t you feel the fears I’m feeling today? ”

“Yeah, my blood’s so mad, feels like coagulatin’, I’m sittin’ here, just contemplatin’, I can’t twist the truth, it knows no regulation, Handful of Senators don’t pass legislation,“

‘This whole crazy world is just too frustratin’, And you tell me over and over and over again my friend, Ah, you don’t believe we’re on the eve of destruction.“

As I sat there reflecting on the song, I could not deny the parallels. I was 10 when it was released, too young to understand it or act on it. Sadly, I am not too young any more. I am old enough to act.

So I decided to open my Pappy. It was worth it.

I am sitting in front of a fire. Not a gas fire. Not an artificial fire. Not a wildfire. But a fire in our cabin at the Alisal Guest Ranch.

We are sitting in our room on a cold, blustery day in this little, yet well-known, guest ranch, helping our friends celebrate their daughter’s wedding. It is a magnificent place, nestled in the coastal hills of California about 30 miles north of Santa Barbara.

It is Saturday afternoon. It is freezing outside. We are killing time before we have to get ready for the wedding to begin. The Alisal is a rustic, yet real world, place. Our room does not have a TV nor does it have a phone. Having said that, it does have wireless.

Pam and I are TV freaks, or at least Pam is. I go to sleep every night with the TV and light on, as Pam watches whatever show du jour has captured her attention until she falls asleep. I like to use the TV as background noise while I read or work.

We got here yesterday, and last night after enjoying ourselves at a great rehearsal dinner, we went to sleep without the TV flickering behind our eyelids. I found it refreshing. Pam played about an hour of solitaire on her iPad.

This morning, we had a nice breakfast and chatted with friends. We went back to our cabin, and made a fire. We know very little about making fires. We sort of understand the concept of kindling and draft, but the reality is that without gas, we were somewhat uncertain as how to start,

My, how the times have changed. A generation ago, everyone knew how to make a roaring fire. Most homes had wood burning fireplaces that could be used on a daily basis. Today, burning wood in a fireplace is deemed worse than burning gas in an automobile. The country is replete with Spare The Air regulations, which limit when wood can be burned and prohibit wood burning fireplaces in new construction. It will not be long before the gasoline powered motors are prohibited in new automobiles.

I love the sound of my naturally aspirated, air-cooled flat six engine in my 1989 Carrera and the sound of my naturally aspirated, flat six water cooled engine in my 2015 Cayman. Both cars feature symphonic exhaust notes that tremendously enhance the driving experience, making it much more visceral. The same cannot be said for battery powered cars, despite their surreal acceleration, as their lack of sound detracts dramatically from the experience for me.

I feel the same way about gas fireplaces. Everybody has them now. Our daughter, Shelby, and her husband, Bryan, just installed one in their house. Pam is lobbying to put one into our fireplace, too. I sat in front of Shelby’s and Bryan’s fireplace on Christmas Day. It was pretty. It threw off heat. But something was missing. Sound.

Pam and I are sitting side by side in comfortable chairs in front of the fire in our room. A real fire in a wood burning fireplace. A fire we successfully started without gas. Pam has broken down and is watching Netflix on her iPad, while I peck at the keys on my keyboard. The fire is beautiful. The heat is palpable. The smell is amazing, though we may be wearing it to the wedding. Most important is the sound. The cracking and popping of the wood, the whoosh of the air as it goes up the chimney make the experience real, not sterile.

This is an unbelievable guilty pleasure. The weather has limited our activities, but I am thoroughly relaxed and comfortable. I could have gone to the Library at the Ranch to watch NFL Wildcard Weekend. Yet, I am so much happier here. I keep looking at the clock, wishing time would pass more slowly, enabling me to spend more time this way. This is something I never do. Something I wish I could do more of at home.

I am totally in the moment. Yes, it is not politically correct. Yes, it is indulgent. But it is so satisfying. I have not just parked myself in front of a fire for years. I feel the same sense of relaxation as when I am driving my Porsches over the backroads and twisties. There is no noise from the TV in the background. I am disconnected. Sort of. And, I like it.