BOURBON There is a myth that all Southern gentlemen are connoisseurs of fine barbecue and whiskey. To know Poppy was to know that this was not in any way true. A slightly paunchy man with big ears and a broad smile from Greenwood, Mississippi, my grandfather had a lifelong love of 1950s bachelor food—pear and mayonnaise salad, Spam—and a closet full of half-empty bottles of whatever had been on sale one day at Frugal MacDougal’s liquor mart. None were good enough to finish, so they built up like sediment in a prehistoric lake. But recently he had taken a shine to a whiskey called Blanton’s, a pricy “single-barrel” bourbon that came in a ball-shaped bottle with a metal racehorse on the stopper, looking for all the world like the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. It cost him a bit more than Jack Daniel’s or Jim Beam, but, he said as he poured me a finger, he liked it.
Posted on: Thu, 07 Aug 2014 23:39:11 +0000
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