Blog: A shot of whiskey goes a long way in Downtown Honolulu

Having been born with a decidedly unsophisticated palate, I’ve never been interested in attending tastings. I enjoy food and various adult beverages, but never with an understanding of the sublime, gossamer subtleties of flavor that my foodie friends discuss with airy erudition. So when I was offered to attend a whiskey tasting hosted by the Friends of Saint Patrick at their Celtic Room at O’Toole’s Irish Pub, I looked at it as a chance, if nothing else, to learn that I don’t like expensive whiskeys. Sadly, this was not the case.

There are innumerable Irish songs about whiskey, so as a musician in a Celtic rock band, I felt that it was my professional duty to attend the tasting. “Call it R&D, man, and write it off,” said a shrewd fellow attendee.

Tom Turner is a big man. He is also a Master of Whiskey, one of the world’s elite keepers of an ancient tradition, so his size is advantageous considering the fact that he basically drinks whiskey for a living. And if that sounds like a tough gig, consider that he flies all over the world to do it, the poor guy. Gregarious and animated, Turner clearly loves his chosen career path and possesses a vast amount of knowledge about the history and the making of countless varieties of scotch, whiskey, and bourbon. I had no idea that there was so much to know about a Jack and Coke.

Actually, there was no Jack Daniels, and any whiskey-drinker would shriek in unholy terror at the thought of adding anything other than a few drops of water to the fine whiskeys tasted that night. Rare varieties of Crown Royal and Bushmill’s, fine single malts and esoteric Irish whiskeys were passed around and discussed, along with some interesting anecdotes about the storied history of distilling. I was particularly interested in what the supposed “Jameson is Catholic, Bushmill’s is Protestant” rift was. In fact, the rift was fabricated by the very company that made both brands, Irish Distilleries. The whole thing isn’t some sort of religious conflict, it’s a marketing tactic.

I enjoyed each and every one of the six varieties we tasted that night, even the one that tasted like smoked dirt (I was to learn that the particular whiskey was “double peated”). I was surprised at how dignified the event was, as the last time I was in a room full of whiskey-drinkers, there was a mechanical bull and sawdust on the floor. And I remember leaving the Celtic Room.

As the night drew to a close, attendees were gratefully gulping down the food that was provided. I felt enlightened, knowing how to truly appreciate a fine whiskey. I’ve not forsaken the stalwart Jack and Coke, but I do have a deeper respect for the ancient and noble spirit Whiskey and appreciation of its liquid gold color. I asked Tom Turner how one gets a job as a Master of Whiskey, and more importantly, how one keeps it when a love for the stuff is required. He laughed, but didn’t answer.