Shawn R.
Google
Before we took our leave from Kentucky, we resolved that, what, pray, is a visit to this land if one has not paid proper homage to its liquid culture, bourbon?
Thus, we set our course for Michter’s. Ascending to the upper bar on a morning so chill it sharpened both thought and collarbones, we found ourselves embraced by an interior of bronze and somber hues. The architecture compelled admiration, as though the walls themselves whispered, “Be civil, but not sober.” One felt at once refined and perilously close to mischief.
My Lady, whose kindness often arrives disguised as gentle conspiracy, procured for me a bourbon tasting. I accepted with the gravity of a scholar conducting vital research for the betterment of mankind. Her cocktail, too, proved to be a worthy drink. Pleasing to both eye and spirit. Among all potions I have beheld this turning year, None wore its beauty with such confident grace.
I confess to a single regret, that we had not arrived earlier, armed with more time and fewer duties tugging at our sleeves like disapproving chaperones. Still, it was a most proper Kentucky experience, warm in soul, strong in character, and just intoxicating enough to convince a man, however briefly, that he departs wiser than when he arrived.