The Bulleit 95 Rye opens with a traditional nose; that is to say, we got cream of tartar, raw celeriac macerated using a Slap-Chop, burdock roots trampled by frisky colts and fillies, leather elbow patches on a tweed jacket, and lilacs, as interpreted on by a jazz piccolo player. (Y’all got that, too, right?) It’s as rye as the curl of my lip in an ironic moment and as groany as the rusty hinges on a grain elevator door. Yessir.
It cries out for a cocktail like a baby for its mamma, but instead, drunk straight, it’s like waking up after a bad bender or a binge-drinking session while binge-watching Orange is the New Orphan Black Orpheus. Or something like that—maybe it’s going a bit more to my head than expected? There’s a cherry note, not played by the jazz piccolo-ist, that wafts away like holy water evaporating off of an oaken double-wide casket before the earth is sprinkled on it. Amen.
Spice, vim, and vinegar—excuse me, “vigor”—enough to wake the dead. The green grass and high rye sitting on a freshly-painted bench are still crying for a cocktail mix, although it’s hard for me lift my voice to join their chorus, given how swollen my tongue is from being stung by John’s pet hornet, Zelda. We keep asking him why he keeps a hornet, and he keeps telling us that it’s none of our beesness. Ouch. That is to say—where’s the mixer???