Kirk picked me up in a Smart Car not too far from my
office on a glorious and windy St Patrick’s Day. There was an apple for me on
the passenger seat, which was a thoughtful and delicious gesture. I felt like a
giant in the little automobile, and wondered how Kirk (who is at least 4 inches
taller than me) could drive it. Without incident, it seems. We parked near the station
and took the train, as neither of us planned on having the capacity to drive by
the end of our date.
We chatted about what was new in our lives. I had seen
Kirk at a few social gatherings lately, but we hadn’t had much opportunity to
really talk. The train was packed, and we stood chatting about friends and
dating and sex, totally oblivious to anyone around us. The conversation ranged
across topics, into elaborate twisted metaphors and back again. We laughed a
lot. I was relieved when Kirk nudged me
and said “This is our stop,” because I was starting to wonder if we’d gotten
distracted by all the chatter and had missed it. I knew vaguely where we were
going, but had never been there by train before.
We walked for a few blocks to a massive boutiquey liquor
store, where they host events and suchlike for the arty, ambitious, and
alcoholic community. Almost immediately, a clerk approached and asked to help
us find something. Kirk smiled and told her that we were here for the Irish
Whiskey Master Class. It sounded impressive. We were directed upstairs, had our
names checked at the entrance, and then each handed a small glass of beer. I gave mine to Kirk, who fortunately drinks beer without succumbing to hives and stomach pain.
We found seats. Each place had been marked out with a
placemat with six labeled circles, and upon each circle, specialty whiskey
glasses were arranged with a small amount of delicious smelling amber liquid in each. There was also a long plate with a
baguette, neatly sliced and a bottles of water. We sat down and visited while
the spots filled up around us. There were two empty spaces next to me, their
little whiskey glasses all lonely, which I was thrilled about.
The instructor began with a bit of the history of whiskey
distilling in Ireland. It was fascinating stuff, and he presented it well. A
young woman came around and distributed plates of food to every two people
which had sandwiches, cheeses, and fruit.
Some latecomers (a pair of gentlemen in their sixties)
arrived and took the spots next to me, talking rudely over the presenter, and
helped themselves to our plate of food. The one nearest me tried to strike up a
conversation by asking, "Well, young lady, what did you think of that?" and "What is your favourite whiskey, young lady?" I scowled and replied monosyllabically. Kirk did not seem
remotely ruffled, but maybe just hadn’t noticed. I renewed my interest in the
story of whiskey and managed to learn a great deal.
When the Master Class was over, we visited awhile
upstairs, then wandered the store downstairs pointing out interesting or funny
wine labels. At about 7:00pm, the Irish Festival (or whatever they called it)
opened in the basement of the liquor store, which had a sort of tradeshow full
of whiskey reps and a couple tables of food.
We started off at a pretty decent pace, grabbing drinks,
bits of bread and water as we went. There was a super smooth Irish Cream that
had hints of cocoa in it. So many whiskeys. A lot of them finished in sherry
casks (which were Kirk’s favourite) and other, bitter little potstill ones that
tickle my fancy. We chatted, snagged some food, listened to every rep’s spiel
about their product, their distillery, their philosophy on whiskey, or (later
in the night) to their inarticulate drunken rambling.
I got a few too much of the “well, young lady” treatment
for my usual taste. But the reps seemed to love Kirk, who asked intelligent
questions and seemed to better remember all of the whiskey terms we’d just
learned.
The show shut down after a couple hours of free-for-all
sampling. We’d seen and tasted pretty much everything that sparked our
interest. I’d been sure to hit the Bushmills display, as that was the
distillery where my great-grandfather had worked (I can’t quite remember the
degree of greatness, there might have been two greats). And we’d managed to get
fairly liquored up.
We rambled back to the train, louder and rowdier than we’d
been earlier. We rode back downtown, and then caught a bus back to my neck of
the woods. On the bus, we met a drunk who was three obnoxious sheets to the bad-smelling wind. He was drinking from an airplane-sized cognac bottle and
offering sips to all of his fellow transit patrons. Kirk took a jovial dislike
to the fellow, and they bantered back and forth for a while before the drunk
got bored with us and moved to the back of the bus. A Scottish man who had also
been trying to extricate himself from the boor winked at us and wished us a
good night before he exited at his stop. We laughed and continued our merry
adventure.
The dive bar down the street from my house is well known
for hosting karaoke most nights, for drunkards falling off their barstools, for
having pool tables and occasionally being a fun place to have a few drinks. As
ill-luck would have it, they didn’t have karaoke on, so instead of singing ourselves
hoarse in bad Irish accents, we drank whiskey and visited for a couple of hours
as revelers danced around us. It was still fun. We went through a few of the
question cards to spark conversation, and laughed. We covered some serious topics,
and managed to avoid traipsing into maudlin territory with a few extremely
well-timed jokes.
We decided to have one more round of whiskey when a bell
rang. It was a big bell with a leather strap that was bolted high on the lintel
by the entrance. We looked around and a few people were yelling something, but
mostly everyone carried on as before. A server came by and we placed our order.
Over the din, we managed to understand that our last round of drinks was free,
because someone had rung the bell, and bought a round of shots of Jameson’s
Irish Whiskey for the whole bar. Since that was what we were drinking (with
rocks), that worked out perfectly for us.
Kirk paid our tab, and walked me homeward. Our paths
diverged, and we each stumbled home. Before I passed out, I texted Kirk that I
was home safely, and got a similar reply. An excellent St Patrick’s Day date.
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