Bacon & Whisky

This is a true story. Hope you enjoy it! 

Bacon & Whisky

By: Jack Roberts

In the mountains of northern Utah, a stone's throw from the Idaho border sits a little mountain town called Richmond. I had recently moved to northern Utah and heard about a boutique ski resort called Cherry Peak and it resided in the canyon above the town. Having just spent five years in the heat of Texas, I was anxious to get back to the winter sport I loved and begin teaching it to my young and growing kids.

Cherry Peak was a relatively newer ski resort, and as such, had attractive prices for season passes. In truth, I could get a family pass for nearly the same price as one adult season pass at other resorts. I had heard from friends that it was a great ski spot for families, especially if you were teaching kids or beginner skiers. First, however, I figured I should scout it out and make my own assessment of the place.

It was late afternoon, and the dark and cold of December was quickly closing on the day. I was following the directions, per my GPS, through the town of Richmond and on towards the ski resort. The entrance to the canyon greeted me with a hostile embrace: its peaks stood colossal, gray, and icy granite. The warning of the mountain whispered my fate was in her hands if something were to go wrong. I was beginning to doubt the GPS was leading me true as there were no other drivers, road signs, and no indication of light ahead to beckon my welcome. With a bit of trepidation, I kept driving further into the dark. Around another bend in the road, I came upon a large and spacious ski lodge with an empty parking lot and no light illuminating from within. Clearly, I had misunderstood the website’s hours of operation, and thus my drive had been in vain.

I made a U-turn in the snowy and icy-streaked parking lot, and began driving home. As I passed back through Richmond, something caught my eye: it was a neon sign glowing, “State Alcohol Store.” Surprised that a town this size would have a state liquor store, and figuring I had time to spare, I pulled over and parked.

Oddly, the storefront looked more like a drug store from the 1940s versus a state-sponsored liquor store. Turns out, the old brick building had been an old drugstore from the early 1900’s, according to the historical plaque that hung from the chipped brick wall outside the entrance. Intrigued the more, I entered.

It was dim and dark when I walked inside. The sound of heavy metal was jamming out on speakers hidden behind the wooden shelves that held the carafes of spirits. The music came into focus as I realized it was playing songs of Christmas to the tunes of electric guitars, keyboards, and drums, reminiscent of the Trans Siberian Orchestra. Dangly lights of red and green and other holiday decorations were strewn from the tops of the shelves creating an unlikely pairing of Christmas magic amongst the bottles of booze. But then, something else startled me, a feline rubbed her body across my lower leg, gesturing for affection. As I rubbed her soft fur, I noticed another feline friend watching me from the check-out counter nearby, making my welcome there complete.           

                Yet still, aside from my newfound furry friends, there was no one standing guard; nobody was protecting the valuable booty from potential thievery.

                “Hello?” I asked, aloud.

                “Ah, just a minute,” a grumbly voice responded from a backroom.

                As my eyes adjusted to the darkly dimmed lighting, I noticed an assortment of beer, wine, and clear spirits of gin, tequila, and vodka. But, behind the counter, protected, as it were, sat the bottles of whiskey. While admiring the selection, a man wheeled around from the backroom, a half amputated leg perched up on the wheelchair footrest. His hair was long with streaks of grey and it bled into his bushy beard which descended until it rested upon his chest. Somewhere, between the hair, I could detect two eyes and they were smiling at me, if eyes could smile.

                “Nice place you got here,” I said, hoping a compliment would set the right tone for a conversation with a stranger.

                “Yeah, well. The owner of this place takes a lot of pride in it.”

                “I can see that,” I replied.

                “Whatcha shopping for?” he asked.

                “I glanced around. “Well, I’ve only recently begun trying-out whiskey. Thing is, I just don’t know that much about it.”

                I sensed an excited eagerness from the man. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. The owner is huge whiskey connoisseur and sources only the finest whiskey’s to keep in stock.”

                “Great,” I said.

 “He’s even published articles in whiskey magazines wherein he discusses the art of whiskey distilling and the intricacies of the craft.”

                “Impressive,” I replied.

                “I’m the owner,” the man said bluntly, in case his clues hadn’t clued me in.  

                “I’m Jack,” I replied, extending a hand.

                “Bacon,” he said, giving my hand a hearty and firm handshake.

                “I’m sorry, did you say your name was Bacon?”

                “Indeed I did!” he replied, boisterously. “Bacon, just like the breakfast.”

                I chuckled. “That’s a name I won’t forget.”

                He laughed in return. He then wheeled over behind the counter to where the bottles of whiskey were lined up. “Do you prefer bourbon or scotch?”

                I hesitated; my face cringed. “I’m embarrassed to say I don’t think I know the difference.”

                “Well hell, let me give you a lesson in whiskey.”

                “Well alright,” I replied, attempting to match his positivity and good energy.

                “First thing’s first: not all whiskey is bourbon, but all bourbon is whiskey.”

                My perched eyebrows must’ve been enough to indicate he’d already lost me.

                “Whiskey is an umbrella term. Beneath whiskey you have various subcategories. Bourbon happens to be a whiskey that is made here in the U-S-of-A following a certain criteria. You cannot make bourbon outside the USA; it’s an American original.”

                I was doing my best to follow. So far, I was with him: bourbon was strictly American.

                “Now, Scotch is any whisky made in Scotland, simple as that. Except you spell “whiskey” without the “e” when referring to Scotch whisky.”

                “Huh. Why is that?”

                “Don’t ask stupid questions, son.” Bacon replied in good humor.

                I laughed. “Okay, what’s better, bourbon or scotch?”

                “Ha!” Bacon retorted. “That’s an impossible question to answer. But let me ask you, have you had Scotch before?”

                  “Yeah,” I replied. “It was very floral though. I didn’t love it.”

                “Floral is the right description for certain Scotch whisky’s. So, props for getting that right. Have you had anything peated Scotch before?”

                “You got me again,” I said. “I don’t know what ‘peated’ means.”

                “A ‘peated’ whisky means it’s smokey, like a campfire. Man, scotch has the best peated whisky’s there are. It tastes like they bottled the smell of a campfire on a rocky seaside beach on an island in Scotland.”

                “Now you’re just talking crazy,” I replied, knowing that comment would give Bacon a good rise.

                “The hell is does. Don’t believe me?”

                “Seeing is believing, right?”

                “More blessed is he who believes without seeing,” Bacon quipped.

                “Quoting Jesus’ rebuke to Thomas? Can’t say I saw that coming.”

                Bacon laughed a deep bellied laugh. A sparkle emanated from his eye. “Look, I’m not supposed to do this but, you seem like a guy I can trust. Can I trust you?”

                I glanced around. “Well, it sorta depends, don’t you think? If we’re talking murder, I might not be your guy.”

                Bacon chuckled. “Okay then, follow me.”

                I followed Bacon through an opening that led into the back room. The room was spacious, larger than the area where the booze was for sale. A table, couch, and tv were all situated therein. I couldn’t help but notice we weren’t alone. A strange man was seated at the couch.

                “That’s Enrique,” Bacon said. “What was your name again?”

                “It’s Jack.”

                “Enrique, this is Jack. Jack, this is Enrique.”

                “Hey,” I greeted.

                Enrique nodded. By his blank expression and half-opened eyes, he looked stoned off his ass.

                Bacon led me to the circular table. The tabletop was messy, like college dorm room messy…wrappers, bottles, cans, and glasses were littered all over. He grabbed a green-colored bottle of whisky, and a glass that wasn’t exactly sparkly clean.

                “This here is a scotch whisky called Laphroaig.”

“La-what?”

“La-fro-e-guh”

I repeated it correctly.

“That is,” he said. “This bottle of Laphroaig is a ten-year-old whisky, meaning it was distilled and then sat in barrels that aged for at least ten years before they bottled it. It is a peated whisky I was telling you about.”

                He popped the cork and poured the golden-colored liquid into the glass. He took a powerful inhale, smelling the whisky intently.

                “Ah! That is some fine scotch.”

                He handed me the glass. “Smell it. Smell it deeply.”

                I leaned my nose toward the opening of the glass and inhaled. Just like Bacon had said, it smelled exactly like a campfire.

“Holy shit, you ain’t kiddin,” I replied. “That smells like a campfire.”

Bacon seemed amused. “Smell it again, and tell me what you smell.”

I leaned down and inhaled. Again, the smell of campfire emitted but this time something else followed it. The aroma was oddly salty and wet, like the smell you would get sitting by the sea.

“I’ll be damned,” I said. “I smell the sea. How’d they get that flavor into it?”

“That’s the magic!” Bacon boomed. “That’s what makes it so special. They bottled the essence of being seaside in Scotland sitting next to a campfire. Tell me that ain’t a miracle in itself.”

“I believe in miracles,” I replied.

“Now,” Bacon said. “Take a sip but don’t drink it. Just, let it sit on your tongue for a second or two before swallowing.”

I took the sip. A burning sensation emitted all around my mouth; then I swallowed. “It burned,” I said, a bit disappointedly.

“That’s cause you’re not used to whisky. That’s the alcohol. Your first drink will burn but your second and third is where all the flavors will begin to come forth. Drink some more.”         

                I took another sip, and then another. The burning sensation was going away, and even the campfire savor was giving way to an almost sweet and honey-like flavor.

                “Call me crazy,” I said. “But the smokiness is turning sweet.”

                “You got it!” he said, pointing a stubby finger at me. “Most people don’t detect that on their first drink. You’ve got a good palate for whiskey. Now, the real question is, do you like it?”

                I finished the last of the whiskey in the glass. “Yes, this is good stuff.”

                “Well then, it’s $50 bucks a bottle. Can I ring you up?”

                We returned to the counter. My leg was again brushed by the cat I had encountered earlier. I paid for the bottle of Laphroaig, thanked Bacon for his hospitality, and we said our goodbyes.

                Months went by, as they do, and I found myself in Richmond once again. This time it was summer and the sky was bright blue, the trees were full of their leaves, and I was in shorts and a tank top. I wanted to see Bacon and maybe have him teach me more about whiskey and try a different bottle that he’d recommend.

                I pulled into the same spot I had parked before, got out and entered the store. However, this time there was no rock n’ roll or friendly felines to welcome me. The place had changed entirely; it was clean, clutter-free, fully illuminated, and no hidden backroom. Instead, a different person was sitting behind the counter, looking respectable.

                “Welcome,” he said.

                “Hi,” I replied. “Is Bacon off today?

                The man shook his head. “No, the state shut him down.”

                “Oh no. Why?”

                “I guess he was drinking with some of the patrons and selling beer to underage kids.”

                So much for trusty patrons, I thought. “Well, that’s too bad,” I said. “I had only met him the one time, but he sure made an impact. I was coming back here partly just to say hi to him.”

                “Yeah, he’s a good dude. We all love Bacon. Is there something I get you?”

                “I’ll take a bottle of Laphroaig.”