The Whisky Affair (Raymond Armstrong Series) (3 page)

“I know you Raymond,” she continued. We used to call you the ‘moment man,’ when you had time for anything important outside your blessed job. I am a married woman and so don’t bother inviting me to your room for a nightcap after dinner if I do meet you later.”

“What if we stir up old emotions?”

“I will suggest you take a cold shower. Alone! How’s 7:30?”

He nodded, trying to look innocent.

The door to Gordon’s office was slightly ajar so Raymond didn’t bother knocking. With a gentle push it opened so he could see Gordon was deep in conversation on the phone. When he spotted Raymond, Gordon put a hand over the receiver.

“Go have some time with Willy and I will catch up with you shortly.”

No problem, Raymond mouthed back.

Raymond wandered through the distillery and found Willy, the Distillery Manger, busy at the spirits safe.

“Raymond Armstrong!” Willy shouted. “How is the new President of the Stamford Whisky Society?” he asked as he approached Raymond to exchange a firm handshake.

“Ready to learn and then take it all back to the Society. How about sharing some tidbit we can get our teeth into while sipping on our whiskies? I plan to buy two of everything in the shop before I leave.”

“Okay, but I am just in the middle of something here. I will only be a moment, so feel free to look around.”

Raymond stood next to one of the stills admiring their shiny copper exteriors, which emanated a golden aura of light around the distillery floor. He ran his fingers on the copper surface and thought about the fabulous team and facility Gordon had assembled at the distillery.

Willy, as Distillery Manager, basically ran the production of all their single malts. After forty years in the industry, Gordon Reid had persuaded him to postpone retirement and join the team at the Bute Distillery.

Willy had worked for two other island distilleries in his career and knew exactly what style Gordon was looking for. He liked the idea of a new challenge and living on the Isle of Bute.

Gordon had invited Willy to the distillery to discuss bringing him out of retirement. Before Willy accepted the position, he insisted he drive to the distillery’s reservoir. He took samples of the water and placed them in his knapsack. He hiked up the mountainside following the stream, studying the vegetation and all that came into contact with the water as it tumbled down from the mountains into the reservoir.

Willy was known in the industry for sticking to tradition – relying on the old ways that had worked for centuries. ‘You always start with the water and not focus on casks alone,’ he would debate at many large whisky conferences around the world.

Willy walked quite a few miles that day, according to the story Gordon told many times. Upon his return he sent the water samples to a lab in Glasgow and waited for the results. Finally, a few days later, he gave it two thumbs up, announcing this was one of the best water sources in Scotland and would make a wonderful single malt whisky. Then he accepted the job.

Gordon’s daughter, Louisa, applied her master blender skills and assisted with the sales and marketing side of the distillery. She had attended Durham University and graduated with a master’s degree in chemistry and spent all her spare time alongside her dad in the distillery. Raymond had to laugh each time he saw Louisa as she grew up. By the time she was twelve, she could nose any single malt and give you a full description of aromas. She was not allowed to sip until she reached fourteen, when her dad let her have a wee sip to study all the tastes. It was obvious, even before she attended university, that her chosen profession in chemistry would land her front and center in the whisky industry.

James, Gordon’s son, was a different kettle of fish and the oddball of the family – a bit of a dark horse. Gordon had actually sent him to an exclusive private school, hoping that the discipline and camaraderie would help James develop interests and skills. That did not work out too well, but at least he graduated. James finally chose Bristol University and he barely scraped through their marketing program. His campus life was more about partying and generally doing as little as possible.

After a few years working at the distillery, Gordon’s derelict son was given the title of Brand Ambassador. A job that most people in the whisky world would have killed for – metaphorically speaking. He would swan around the world overindulging on a large expense account, regardless of the consequences of his actions. His notoriety in the industry was already established at his young age.

Most around the whisky world were impressed with his breathtaking video of the Isle of Bute – he produced it himself, using some fancy software. It featured the distillery as the key focal point. He also added the audio that put forth the compelling story of the distillery’s success.

As for the business, James had a decent palate but a dreadful nose. He would invent the aromas as he went along. His only salvation was the book of notes on the specific aromas provided by his sister Louisa, who had a perfect whisky nose.

“Raymond, I am close to taking the spirit. Would you help me over here?” Willy asked while studying a glass half full of clear alcohol.

“I had a feeling you were doing your magic.” Raymond moved closer to get a better view.

“After all these years and modern technology, it’s not magic. I could do this in my sleep,” Willy said in a matter of fact manner.

“Quiet, or you will take all the mystique out of whisky making. My whisky club members could debate for hours at every meeting about taking the middle cut. In their minds, distillery managers and stillmen are up there with the likes of U2 and the Stones.”

“Showing your age, Raymond. I imagine that analogy would have a young person thinking I am ancient.”

“I get your point: Some super fresh rapper with ten #1 hits. A hip guy doing his whisky magic.”

“Much better,” he said, laughing. Then his attention turned to the liquid again. “Right, she looks clean,” he said, referring to the spirit running through. “Alcohol content at 71%. What do you think?”

“Good to me.”

Willy nodded, obviously pleased. “Well, turn the lever.”

“Me?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“You do realize I will take all the credit for this batch – being the one that performed the middle cut on this run.”

“You may have to wait twelve years, but you can have the credit.” They both laughed.

“Actually, all the work involved in producing this fine spirit has already been done,” Raymond reasoned. He’d read taking the middle cut was not so much a science as a feel: the right touch in the hands of the stillman.

“So what are you waiting for?”

“Just thinking about all this…and how I’ll explain this experience to the whisky club members at our next tasting.”

“Why do so many of you enthusiasts over-think all this? If we all did the exact same things and told you all our little secrets what would whisky be like? Boring, I imagine.”

“Look, let me explain this in layman’s terms so you’ll have it right when you explain,” said Willy. “Within every distillation, the distillate is divided into three cuts. Only the second cut, the heart of the spirit run, will be used. The first cut – sometimes called foreshots – and the last cut – known as tails or feints – are sub-standard and will be redistilled with the next batch.

“The middle cut, containing few impurities, is what we are all after. On average, the middle cut is twenty-four percent of the total distillation. We capture the middle cut in a cabinet with this viewing window…” He pointed, then opened the small door. “We take a sample from here to nose and look at the appearance. We are looking for a clear spirit, close to 70 % alcohol by volume.” Willy smiled and held up a sample, then continued: “Macallan Distillery only takes 16 % as the middle cut.

“In other words, we are all different, Raymond. Do you understand? All the talk in the industry about regions and shoppers buying by region is ridiculous and outdated. When you are hosting the club tastings focus on explaining that each distillery in Scotland has their own brand, their way of expressing their individuality.”

“Okay.” Raymond was in awe of the older man and scrambling to remember the details to write down later.

“Now, I have my middle cut, and have added my pure water to it. It’s crystal clear and ready to go into casks. Smell it.” Willy handed a small glass of clear spirit to Raymond who kept his nose well way from the glass.

“Interesting, it smells of fruit, maybe pears. I always thought it would smell more like pure alcohol or a hospital,” Raymond said, perplexed.

“Aye, some of those fruit esters can influence the whisky.”

Raymond had learned a lot from this whisky icon.

He now had a better understanding of the middle cut, or head of the spirit and realized it’s impossible to generalize about the production of single malt scotch. If you picked up a book claiming the ‘how to’ of making scotch, and took that generalization to a distillery and chatted with a guy like Willy… Enough said: you’d have a different story. Reading about the prescribed shape of stills and their influence was another perfect example, one that could be so misleading.

If the longest stills in the world were at Glenmorangie and the shortest were at Edradour, then obviously, a creamy malt would come from a short still and light and fruity whisky from a tall one. He’d learned Bruichladdich stills were quite short but with long necks and they used the trickle distillation technique, so that theory is blown. Therefore, you can’t generalize in whisky making. He decided that while he was there with Willy, one of the best in the industry, he might as well get baffled again and ask another question.

But before that, he had to turn the lever and take the middle cut. Raymond grasped the small lever positioned on the front of the spirit safe. He moved it, watching the spirit make its way to the awaiting casks. It would be ten years or more before this batch would be bottled and ready to drink.

“Very good,” remarked Willy, admiring Raymond’s enthusiasm as he moved the lever.

“Are you still using the slow trickle distillation process, Willy – now when you are so busy?”

As part of his studying to understand more about single malts, Raymond had explored this distillation process. The trickle technique still baffled him. But he had grasped that the busier a distillery became, the less time was likely taken to distill slowly. He wondered if a distillery would start changing their techniques and identity if demand for their whiskies increased?

“Of course we are. Trickling is what makes Bute whiskies so creamy and clean – with no impurities. We bottle all our whisky, non-chill filtered and free of any artificial coloring. We can’t hide anything.”

“So it’s your long necks that are giving you so much copper contact?” asked Raymond, looking toward the roof at the long, thin copper necks winding upward to the arm. They rose toward the ceiling, almost to the roof and then took a slight turn in a downward direction. It reminded him of a swan just beginning to bend her neck toward the water. Finally, he focused on the large condensers where the hot vapors were turned into liquid.

Willy nodded. “Imagine a trout farm. You’ve hardly fed the thousands of small fish in the pond. A large pond with copper walls. The trout are all swimming around, coming into contact ever so gently with copper walls. Then, you make an opening into the wall with a long, copper pipe, just wide enough for the fish. Put a bag full of food at the other side of the pipe, and what happens?”

“I get it. A ton of fish trying to get through the pipe at once. They obviously all can’t and while they are trying to get through – lots of copper contact.”

“That would be like our spirit vapors in our unique Bute stills, with the vapors trying to get to the condensers, through the swan neck and arm,” Willy said, indicating the huge units above their heads.

Raymond was beginning to understand the process in a new way. Of all the variations in what made a great single malt so different, he was most fascinated by the different production tools each distillery used. Some were subtle and other totally outrageous. But they all worked and together with process, gave each distillery their special identity with the whiskies they produced.

Knowing each distillery’s special identity was the only way to appreciate their mysterious art and appreciate the nuances found when you nosed and tasted their unique expressions… Unless, of course, it was whisky produced in a big factory-style distillery, churning out thousands of gallons per day.

It was the regular single pot distillation, the one batch at a time, that intrigued Raymond.

“Ready for lunch, guys. I am buying,” came Gordon’s booming voice from across the distillery floor.

Mitch Farrell was on board the British Airways flight from London to Las Vegas and watched the tall, attractive redhead with the seductive British accent announce the mandatory seat belt sign was now off. Ten hours sitting on a plane was torture to Mitch. He stood for a few seconds to stretch and smiled at the flight attendant.

He gave her his best flirtatious look, the one he had perfected all those years ago in Tulsa. She smiled back far too weakly for his liking.

Damn, I’m losing my touch.

Mitch was just under six feet tall, with dark hair that looked like as if it were slicked back in place with gel. The look was, in fact natural and required no work. He’d worked hard to develop his toned muscular body – a work in progress that involved hours at the gym every day... He was handsome, most women had told him, but with a rugged edge. His piercing green eyes and Roman nose were partially responsible for that impression.

British women were far too pompous for his style anyway, he decided. In only ten hours he would have his pick of gorgeous women back in Las Vegas.

He sat down, his thoughts racing back to his childhood and that led to thoughts about his life in Tulsa…