Diageo is prevaricating and dissembling again about their “orphan whiskey” program.
Based on what we know, what’s most peculiar about Orphan Barrel is how closely it resembles something Diageo predecessor United Distillers & Vintners tried 20 years ago. That time it was called the Rare American Whiskeys Collection. It was intended to be a series of one-off releases of the most outstanding, unique, and rare whiskeys in their warehouses, which they had because they had acquired so many distilleries while building their empire. They planned to release a few every year, but the plan died a swift death at Diageo’s birth. The new company changed direction and within a few years, Diageo had essentially exited the American whiskey business.
The even more odd thing about both Orphan Barrel and Rare American Whiskeys is that in both cases Diageo decided to create brand names that are unrelated to the whiskeys. In that earlier case, they took names from defunct distilleries–Joseph Finch and Henry Clay–and used whiskey from other not-identified defunct distilleries. The whiskey called Joseph Finch was not made at the Joseph Finch Distillery, the whiskey called Henry Clay was not made at the Henry Clay Distillery, and the actual distilleries were not revealed. It seemed crazy then and it does this time too. This time it is what appear to be newly-created brand names with an old-timey feel.
What is Diageo thinking? You have this supposedly great and rare whiskey but you won’t tell us anything about its provenance? Then you wrap it in a package that suggests a false provenance?
Why doesn’t Diageo understand that most “discerning whiskey adorers” don’t appreciate being zoomed? Save the malarky for Jeremiah Weed and Captain Morgan, please. If the whiskey is as great as you say it is, why not just let it speak for itself? A Diageo rep said they’re not sure where it’s from. It’s written on the barrel head, stupid.
It seems sometimes that Diageo is incapable of doing anything (a) original, or (b) honest.
If you’ve eaten at my house, you’ve certainly eaten a bolognese or a risotto. They were the first things I learned to cook well enough to serve confidently, and remain staples of my kitchen.
I am not a great cook, but I can follow directions. If you’ve enjoyed those dishes at my table, you have Marcella Hazan to thank, because the recipes I use are from her Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking, first published in 1992. There is no better starting place. Prickly and opinionated, Hazan’s recipes may chide you for using the wrong pot, or the wrong kind of pasta, but it’s useful to know how to do something right before you launch out on your own.
Serving from her book, I also extend a chain of reference, friendship, and food; I learned of the book from my friend Carl sometime in the late 1990s, whom I suspect picked it up from his friend Chris, who in turn credits another friend he was visiting in Milan in 1994. I’m sure the chain goes ever backward, and includes many more links forward — I know I’ve given copies as gifts many times myself.
Food and friends and fellowship are the essence of a good time. Hazan’s book helped me create no small number of delightful evenings including all three, and for that I’ll be eternally grateful.
Marcella Hazan died on Sunday in her home on Longboat Kay, in Florida. She was 89.
Many, many Heathen have called my attention to this surprisingly witty bit from Esquire:
Create a founder’s legend.
It was Stonewall Jackson’s favorite bourbon, but they only started making it again in the 1960s after the owner talked to his great-granddad, who fought at Chancellorsville, and only gave up the recipe in a cloud of dementia and the certitude that all Yankees were dead and wouldn’t be able to drink it.
The owner is a hardcore Libertarian who began making this for barter because Jimmy Carter was going to impound all American gold. You haven’t heard of it, because until recently he wouldn’t let anyone buy it with fiat currency.
The recipe was a total accident. It only turned out this way because a colt kicked a barrel and changed the mash at just the right moment. That horse’s name? Citation.
Or, under lines to use about mouth feel and taste:
- If you drink it in a perfectly still room, you will get hints of lily, mocha and leather, and you can hear the first time your mother smiled when she looked at you.
Garden & Gun gives the bourbon & Coke its due, which, we admit, is considerable. If nothing else, its role as gateway drug of bourbon appreciation cannot be understated — but there’s more to it than that. I’m not ashamed to say that I keep a “mixing bourbon” around for such beverages, and not just for guest consumption.
According to this graph, there are more breweries in the US now than at any point, at least as far back as 1887.
One of my favorite local blogs is written by the (now former) sommelier at Oxheart. Go now and enjoy his most recent post, wherein he discusses his history with champagne sabers.
Just go read the whole thing.
Boing Boing points us to the world’s worst cookbooks.
Esquire earns its keep this month with the Brian Cox guide to Scotch pronunciation.
This is brutal and almost certainly very, very true — I mean, what would you expect from a tex-mex chain owned by Carlos Mencia and driven by marketing research?
Sample quote: “I’ve been in jail cells more welcoming — and with much more character.”
This dog DOES NOT WANT lowfat jerky.
Perhaps you’ll be delighted to hear that Chris Onstad has been doing some food and travel writing.
Apparently, yesterday was Bourbon Day.
Yet another tale of a giant corporation behaving like a jackass: Booze giant Diageo extorts award out from under rightful winner.
More at Financial Times and the Telegraph.
Diageo, if you’re not familiar, is a Brit multinational and the world’s largest producer of distilled spirits, as well as a giant in beer and wine. Here’s a helpful list of their brands, in the event that you, like Heathen Central, wish to avoid them in the future:
- Beer: Guinness, Tusker, Smithwick’s, Red Stripe, Harp, Kilkenny
- Scotch: Johnnie Walker, Carhu, J&B, Caol Ila, Oban, Talisker, Lagavulin, Dalwhinnie, Cragganmore, Haig
- Vodka: Smirnoff, Ciroc, Popov, Ketel One
- Gin: Gordon’s, Tanqueray, Gilbey’s, Booth’s.
- Rum: Captain Morgan, Myers
- Bourbon: Bulleit
- Canadian whisky: Crown Royal, Seagram’s
- Irish whiskey: Bushmill’s
- Tennessee whiskey: George Dickel
- Wine: Sterling vinyards, Beaulieu, Chalone, Acacia
I think all I’d miss is the occasional Guinness and, sometimes, Lagavulin (though I prefer another malt).
I will note, however, that I’ve apparently long since reached the age where even really amazing whisky is younger than I am.
Local Heathen idol @GunsAndTacos has a great article in the Free Press about what a raging, awful, useless, extortionate clusterfuck Yelp is. Highly recommended. Representative quote:
Revolting, slanderous reviews of local businesses are the lifeblood of the Yelp platform. The sales model would be defunct without them. It’s really a clever model, because trolls don’t cost anything, and they’re a sustainable resource.
(Astute Heathen will notice Mr Tacos is also the proprietor of the previously-mentioend One Block Off Washington, his Q-Beam illuminated Tumblr starring and endless array of club-going douchebros. He’s a national treasure, goddammit.)
John Mulaney on Girl Scout Cookies kills me:
There’s something that’s always bothered me about Girl Scout Cookies. Why can’t you just buy them in a supermarket? Why are they only available once a year, through some weird organization? It’d be like if they only sold Coca-Cola in July, and you could only buy it from the Knights of Columbus.
You know you want some Motorhead Shiraz. Someone please give Lemmy some US distribution!
The link at “Awesome People Hanging Out Together” said “William Shatner and Stan Lee,” so obviously I was gonna click it.
Then I clicked it, and it turned out to be “William Shatner and Stan Lee AT GALATOIRE’S,” and I exploded from all the awesome.
Seriously, though go read this. It’s fascinating, in a morbid and awful way. Put short, it’s perhaps the apotheosis of the weird logrolling aspect of American food business, wherein perfectly usable food — like fruit, or meat — is processed beyond all recognition to be resold as something much less healthy, useful, or cost-effective so that an entity like McDonald’s can suck more dollars from the consumer. A taste:
Barbecue, while not an American invention, holds a special place in American culinary tradition. Each barbecue region has its own style, its own cuts of meat, sauces, techniques, all of which achieve the same goal: turning tough, chewy cuts of meat into falling-off-the-bone tender, spicy and delicious meat, completely transformed by indirect heat and smoke. It’s hard work, too. Smoking a pork shoulder, for instance, requires two hours of smoking per pound–you can spend damn near 24 hours making the Carolina style pulled pork that the McRib almost sort of imitates.
And for its part, the McRib makes a mockery of this whole terribly labor-intensive system of barbecue, turning it into a capital-intensive one. The patty is assembled by machinery probably babysat by some lone sadsack, and it is shipped to distribution centers by black-beauty-addicted truckers, to be shipped again to franchises by different truckers, to be assembled at the point of sale by someone who McDonald’s corporate hopes can soon be replaced by a robot, and paid for using some form of electronic payment that will eventually render the cashier obsolete.
There is no skilled labor involved anywhere along the McRib’s Dickensian journey from hog to tray, and certainly no regional variety, except for the binary sort–Yes, the McRib is available/No, it is not–that McDonald’s uses to promote the product. And while it hasn’t replaced barbecue, it does make a mockery of it.
The fake rib bones, those porky railroad ties that give the McRib its name, are a big middle finger to American labor and ingenuity–and worse, they’re the logical result of all that hard work. They don’t need a pitmaster to make the meat tender, and they don’t need bones for the meat to fall off–they can make their tender meat slurry into the bones they didn’t need in the first place.
No, really. Apparently they — along with many other crappy chains — are in serious dire straits. The linked article notes that the ersatz Irish pub grub chain’s sales are down 88% since 2001. Ouch.
Why? First, people eat out less in a recession. Second, easier access to information about better local options via sites like Yelp made those who DID dine out more likely to choose independent restaurants over corporate crap.
I am completely astonished and pleased by this.
Apparently, one of the metrics FEMA uses to gauge how bad a hurricane was is “Is the Waffle House open?“
Remember those big metal coffee bean devices that purported to use a special filling to (a) cool your coffee to a drinkable temp and then (b) hold it there for longer?
Yeah, it turns out they apparently don’t work that well. Marco’s not the only one to find these shortcomings.
My Drunk Kitchen is at once hilarious and cringeworthy.
As it turns out “all-natural” Snapple Apple contains no actual apple.
Here’s the thing: If you want juice, just drink juice. If you want water, just drink that. Drinking some goofball concoction that’s meant to taste like juice, but isn’t, is just silly — and its sheer existence is a symptom of our larger food problem. Food companies exist to process ingredients into something else, and call it adding value — even when they don’t actually add value. If we ate fewer processed foods, and more foods in their natural or less-processed state, we’d all be better off.
Well, all of us except the lying “food” companies. But we can do without them.
Presented without comment.
(Apparently, it’s 1998 again.)
Enjoy this sequence from Jimmy Fallon’s show, with guest Marcus Samulsson from Harlem’s Red Rooster restaurant. See, there’s this hot sauce…
(After perusing their menu, Heathen HQ is now plotting a NYC getaway.)
It appears there now exists Tabasco Family Reserve. I believe most of you know Heathen HQ’s address, no? Get to it.
This review of an apparently-famous Paris restaurant is as brutal as it is hilarious. from Vanity Fair.
Ninfa’s on Navigation has a fajita burger. Who’s with me?
We’d be a shitload better off if we’d pay attention to Mark Bittman’s food manifesto, but I doubt it gets any traction; it starts with “end subsidies on corn and soybeans.”