Bourbon and Grease, or the case of house-brand bourbon and attempting to fuck with my drink
Ions ago, in the mysterious and often booze laden days of undergrad, a tradition was started. A simple tradition, but one that I have held stead fast to in the years since. Every year on Kentucky Derby Day I consume Chinese food and bourbon. Kentucky bourbon, Makers Mark, to be more pointed. You might balk, but you should remember that grease and bourbon are a food group. I assure you that the US Surgeon General is aware of this food group but has just fallen short of making it an official category of edible consumption. None-the-less, in my yearly tradition--which I'm not sure if the roommates even remember or bother with anymore, I ate greasy Chinese and drank Makers. The flavors along my mouth's taste buds are a subject for another day, but the act of consuming a memory, partaking in a self-imposed tradition, and partaking in a brief moment of sports for which I never watch and have no desire to engage (meaning little outside of my realm of existence) soothes the soul and occupies the mind. Or perhaps it says more about my roots, past, and associations than I care to reveal.
Grease and bourbon as its own food group could possibly be not just a group but a form of consumption. I dare to bet that many a Kentuckian knows more than a few recipes including fat, bourbon, and heavy southern taste.
Yet, what is this "southern taste" so often mentioned and bottled and sold? Is it fried foods, with crispy outter layers and juicy, luscious, and high calorie centers? Is it heavy cream and butter whipped and fried into submission? Is it a gentle layer of bourbon lining a palate and easing the soul as flavors rich with blocked arteries, diabetes, and high calorie counts melt with the senses like a sunset meeting its horizon?
These are the things the academic in me ponders as I read far too much on food, its history, and what the placement of food, condiments, and processed goo do for the American psyche and table. Read, new project . . . Yet, the part-time southerner and twice made Kentuckian in me ponders--most profoundly--the meanings of Kirkland bourbon. Yes, you read that right, Kirkland the brand of Costco has its very own bourbon. Its very own bourbon that Jim Beam is brewing for these corporate bastards.
Excuse me while I take a sip of my bourbon.
In my book, and I don't care that the Kirkland ad inside the Costco magazine gives an elegantly worded spiel about only the best bourbon comes from Kentucky, bourbon is refined through a process. The best comes from Kentucky and in a pinch Tennessee ones will do.* Well, yea . . . it does. But, what happens when bourbon melds with corporate America for a house-brand generic? Really? Do we even need to ask? There is something special about a glass of true Kentucky bourbon. As it opens up in the glass, as ice melts with it to awaken flavors, as it rolls across your tongue . . . as it goes with everything. Bourbon at a wedding. Bourbon at a funeral. Bourbon on a date. Bourbon after a bad date. Bourbon while breaking up. Bourbon post break-up. Bourbon while grading lackluster student papers. Bourbon while writing . . . yet, a cheap store brand of bourbon is the equivalent of Wal-Mart making its own version of bourbon via the Sam's Choice or--better yet--the McDonaldization of bourbon.
I may buy Starbucks from time to time, usually I hit the deli or coffee shop in the neighborhood, but I do. Starbucks has made coffee like hamburgers, the same from coast to coast: lackluster and without personality or full flavor. Unlike the burgers at White Trash on the Upper East, with their juicy beef and literal melting power in your mouth (yes, I eat red meat twice a year. This year I hit American Trash once. That burger . . . orgasmic!), McDonalds has taken the simple joy of eating a burger and made it into a flavorless fest of grease and god knows what other fillers between those buns. The meat is dry, not really meat, and the over-processing makes it flat and pale in comparison to the art of a burger in days gone by. This is what Starbucks has done to coffee . . . much like the processed McDonalds burger has been turned into a smorgasbord of specialty items--the Big Mac, the Bacon and Cheese, and other attempts to create a unique version of cardboard bliss litter the menu. Starbucks allows the buyer to add caramel and whip cream to a perfectly good cup of coffee.
Perhaps I should admit that I'm known to devour a caramel macchiato, but . . . when I purchase one from a local cafe the taste . . . the taste is so unparallelly stellar that it makes you wonder how in the hell Starbucks ever became a staple in my life or of the American public. Easy. McDonalds sold us cheap, accessible food that could be consumed in the flashy status symbol of the car. Starbucks sold us the high calorie confection of sugared coffee that doubled as a status symbol because its price was not necessarily cheap. And now . . . now we have bourbon becoming a house-brand, much like Starbucks coffee is "proudly brewed" at your favorite chain hotel, bookstore, school, and even hospital. Bourbon already has cheaper versions of itself, but this Kirkland business . . .
Kentucky should be ashamed to have this stench coming from its borders. Kentucky bourbon is not cheap and house-branded. It is not the chain restaurant and coffee house marketing itself as the "all-American meal," which really does little more than give Americans a bad name. Kentucky bourbon is sometimes rough around the edges, smooth on the way down, and delicious to the soul. It breathes in traditions of horse races and corn pudding; white gloves and thick southern drawls; and ham sandwiches with enough mayo to kill a horse and Cokes enjoyed on a hot summer's day by the riverbank. This house-brand nonsense takes my tradition of grease and bourbon, merging them into one (not the intention of what began in college), making for a lackluster drink . . . much like the burger has fallen to the wayside of respectable edible consumption.
What am I drinking? Makers. What else?
*I drink TN when I am up to no good.
Grease and bourbon as its own food group could possibly be not just a group but a form of consumption. I dare to bet that many a Kentuckian knows more than a few recipes including fat, bourbon, and heavy southern taste.
Yet, what is this "southern taste" so often mentioned and bottled and sold? Is it fried foods, with crispy outter layers and juicy, luscious, and high calorie centers? Is it heavy cream and butter whipped and fried into submission? Is it a gentle layer of bourbon lining a palate and easing the soul as flavors rich with blocked arteries, diabetes, and high calorie counts melt with the senses like a sunset meeting its horizon?
These are the things the academic in me ponders as I read far too much on food, its history, and what the placement of food, condiments, and processed goo do for the American psyche and table. Read, new project . . . Yet, the part-time southerner and twice made Kentuckian in me ponders--most profoundly--the meanings of Kirkland bourbon. Yes, you read that right, Kirkland the brand of Costco has its very own bourbon. Its very own bourbon that Jim Beam is brewing for these corporate bastards.
Excuse me while I take a sip of my bourbon.
In my book, and I don't care that the Kirkland ad inside the Costco magazine gives an elegantly worded spiel about only the best bourbon comes from Kentucky, bourbon is refined through a process. The best comes from Kentucky and in a pinch Tennessee ones will do.* Well, yea . . . it does. But, what happens when bourbon melds with corporate America for a house-brand generic? Really? Do we even need to ask? There is something special about a glass of true Kentucky bourbon. As it opens up in the glass, as ice melts with it to awaken flavors, as it rolls across your tongue . . . as it goes with everything. Bourbon at a wedding. Bourbon at a funeral. Bourbon on a date. Bourbon after a bad date. Bourbon while breaking up. Bourbon post break-up. Bourbon while grading lackluster student papers. Bourbon while writing . . . yet, a cheap store brand of bourbon is the equivalent of Wal-Mart making its own version of bourbon via the Sam's Choice or--better yet--the McDonaldization of bourbon.
I may buy Starbucks from time to time, usually I hit the deli or coffee shop in the neighborhood, but I do. Starbucks has made coffee like hamburgers, the same from coast to coast: lackluster and without personality or full flavor. Unlike the burgers at White Trash on the Upper East, with their juicy beef and literal melting power in your mouth (yes, I eat red meat twice a year. This year I hit American Trash once. That burger . . . orgasmic!), McDonalds has taken the simple joy of eating a burger and made it into a flavorless fest of grease and god knows what other fillers between those buns. The meat is dry, not really meat, and the over-processing makes it flat and pale in comparison to the art of a burger in days gone by. This is what Starbucks has done to coffee . . . much like the processed McDonalds burger has been turned into a smorgasbord of specialty items--the Big Mac, the Bacon and Cheese, and other attempts to create a unique version of cardboard bliss litter the menu. Starbucks allows the buyer to add caramel and whip cream to a perfectly good cup of coffee.
Perhaps I should admit that I'm known to devour a caramel macchiato, but . . . when I purchase one from a local cafe the taste . . . the taste is so unparallelly stellar that it makes you wonder how in the hell Starbucks ever became a staple in my life or of the American public. Easy. McDonalds sold us cheap, accessible food that could be consumed in the flashy status symbol of the car. Starbucks sold us the high calorie confection of sugared coffee that doubled as a status symbol because its price was not necessarily cheap. And now . . . now we have bourbon becoming a house-brand, much like Starbucks coffee is "proudly brewed" at your favorite chain hotel, bookstore, school, and even hospital. Bourbon already has cheaper versions of itself, but this Kirkland business . . .
Kentucky should be ashamed to have this stench coming from its borders. Kentucky bourbon is not cheap and house-branded. It is not the chain restaurant and coffee house marketing itself as the "all-American meal," which really does little more than give Americans a bad name. Kentucky bourbon is sometimes rough around the edges, smooth on the way down, and delicious to the soul. It breathes in traditions of horse races and corn pudding; white gloves and thick southern drawls; and ham sandwiches with enough mayo to kill a horse and Cokes enjoyed on a hot summer's day by the riverbank. This house-brand nonsense takes my tradition of grease and bourbon, merging them into one (not the intention of what began in college), making for a lackluster drink . . . much like the burger has fallen to the wayside of respectable edible consumption.
What am I drinking? Makers. What else?
*I drink TN when I am up to no good.
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