RYE
At home with Jim Beam in Kentucky
DAVIN DE KERGOMMEAUX
It is something of a cliché to wax poetic
about the rolling hills of Kentucky. However, it was mid-April and we were just coming out of the worst winter Ottawa has known since the ice age. I was looking out the window of the plane at those soft green hills with their blossoming fruit trees, and it was hard not to burst into song. Every stereotype you’ve heard about
Kentucky is true, they warned, as I set out to discover the home of Jim Beam bourbon. Still, I was not prepared for the grand opulence of the lobby in Louisville’s beaux-arts baroque, Seelbach Hotel. Its Old Seelbach Bar has been voted one of the top 50 bars in the world, and for good reason. They serve the finest mint julep at Derby time, top-notch bourbon and bourbon cocktails the rest of the year. The Derby is the two-minute horse race
that since 1875 has taken over Louisville’s Churchill Downs the first Saturday of May each year. Decadent and depraved is what writer Hunter S. Thompson called it, noting the prevalence of bourbon-induced indiscretions among the legions of pink-faced, white-suited Kentucky colonels in the VIP boxes. Kentucky’s most famous citizen helped
to create that bourbon, making it a household name right around the world in the process. He attended the Derby regularly and was a Kentucky colonel – though, presumably, not a depraved one. That man, of course, was one James Beauregard Beam, known today as Jim Beam. His descendants still make the best- selling bourbon on the planet. It’s about half an hour’s drive from the
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Seelbach to Happy Hollow Road in Clermont Kentucky. The Jim Beam distillery sits on a well-kept acreage of verdant countryside, quietly turning out Kentucky bourbon. There, I meet John Joiner, who has driven nearly three hours from the other direction. He’s brought his son, Devon, from his home in Mayfield Kentucky, for a father-son coming-of-age ceremony. Head to toe winter camo, with a matching
camo cap, John resembles no one more than Larry from the Bob Newhart Show. Devon’s 21st birthday is coming. That’s legal drinking age in Kentucky, and John wants Devon to witness the making of a hand-poured, custom- engraved bottle for the celebration. Dad polishes the bottle and hand-labels it, while Devon captures the process on his iPhone. We tour the distillery, savouring its
luscious grain aromas, and stop at a barreling porch where the crew is preparing to fill its 13-millionth barrel. Around a corner, our guide rolls an open barrel of Knob Creek over a metal pan, allowing the contents to spill into a glass. Gasping, after a breathtaking swig of barrel-proof whisky, John passes the glass to me. This is wonderful stuff. Rich, fruity, nutty and laced with woody vanilla notes, it’s the very definition of fine bourbon. Then it’s off to the massive tall warehouses
where the bourbon sits ageing in new white oak barrels. Individual barrels are stored on “ricks” but the structure itself, our guide explains, is called a rack house. Again, we breathe deeply and the faint perfume of mellowing Kentucky bourbon fills our lungs. Strolling the manicured grounds, we come
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