Listen, I’m not proud of this:

I’ve spent the better part of forty years drinking everything from rotgut bourbon to French wine that doubles as home security, and I’ve never asked anyone for anything stronger than a recommendation. But here I am, hat in hand, asking you beautiful bastards for something I’ll never be able to afford this side of the grave.

Pappy Van Winkle.

There, I said it. The holy grail of bourbon. The unicorn. The bottle that costs more than most people’s cars and appears about as often as an honest politician.

Now, before you start rolling your eyes and thinking this is just another broke writer trying to get free booze, hear me out. This isn’t about getting drunk. Hell, I can get drunk on a ten-dollar bottle of Kentucky Gentleman just fine, thank you very much. This is about understanding what all the fuss is about.

See, I’ve built a career writing about the things that separate the haves from the have-nots. I’ve tasted $400 bottles of Blanton’s Gold and $300 Châteauneuf-du-Pape, usually through the generosity of rich friends or lucky finds in dead professors’ basements. But Pappy? Pappy is in a different stratosphere entirely.

We’re talking about bourbon that sells for $2,000 to $5,000 a bottle, if you can even find it. The kind of money that could pay my rent for three months. The kind of money that separates “expensive hobby” from “mortgage the house and divorce the wife.”

And that’s exactly why I need to try it.

Because I write about value. About what things are actually worth versus what people pay for them. About the difference between price and meaning. And how the hell can I keep writing about the absurdity of luxury goods if I’ve never tasted the most absurd luxury of them all?

I’m not asking for a whole bottle, Christ knows. A pour would do. Two fingers in a glass. Hell, a thimbleful would be enough to understand what fifteen years of aging and artificial scarcity tastes like. Just enough to know whether it’s actually transcendent or just another example of people paying ridiculous money for the privilege of saying they paid ridiculous money.

Here’s what I’m offering in return: the most honest review you’ll ever read about Pappy Van Winkle. Not some flowery wine magazine bullshit about “notes of caramel and vanilla dancing on the palate like butterflies in a summer meadow.” I’m talking about a real review from someone who’s never tasted anything that costs more than a used motorcycle.

I want to know: Does it actually taste like liquid gold, or does it just taste expensive? Can your tongue tell the difference between twenty-year aging and twenty-year marketing? Is it transcendent enough to justify the price, or is it just good bourbon in a bottle with a fancy name?

I’ll tell you if it’s worth selling your grandmother’s jewelry for. I’ll tell you if it makes you understand God or just makes you understand why rich people are so insufferable. I’ll tell you if it tastes like freedom or just tastes like you’ve been financially dominated by a dead Kentucky farmer.

The truth is, there’s something beautiful about wanting something you can’t have. It keeps you hungry. It keeps you honest. But there’s also something to be said for scratching that itch, just once, so you can move on with your life.

I’m fifty-three years old. I’ve worked shit jobs, written decent books, and drunk more bourbon than any reasonable human should. But I’ve never tasted the bourbon that’s supposed to be the best bourbon ever made. And that bothers me more than it should.

So here’s the deal: If you’ve got a bottle of Pappy gathering dust in your liquor cabinet because you’re too scared to open it, or if you work at a distillery and can spare a sample, or if you’re just a rich bastard who thinks it would be funny to watch a working-class writer try to describe liquid unicorn tears – I’m your guy.

Send me anything from the Pappy Van Winkle family tree. Ten-year, fifteen-year, twenty-three-year – hell, I’ll take the Lot B if that’s all you’ve got. I promise to treat it with the respect it deserves and the skepticism it’s earned.

And if it turns out to be worth every penny? I’ll say so. If it turns out to be the biggest scam since pet rocks? I’ll say that too. Because that’s what I do: I tell the truth about things, especially expensive things that most people will never get to judge for themselves.

Plus, think about it: wouldn’t you rather see that bottle go to someone who’ll actually appreciate the experience, rather than some hedge fund manager who’s going to drink it out of a crystal tumbler while complaining about his stock options?

I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for the chance to complete my education in the absurd economics of American whiskey. To finally answer the question that keeps me up at night: Is Pappy Van Winkle actually worth it, or is it just the most successful marketing campaign in the history of bourbon?

Help a brother out. Let me taste the dream so I can tell everyone else whether it’s worth waking up for.

You can reach me at the usual places. I’ll be the guy at the end of the bar, drinking something that costs less than your lunch and wondering what the big deal is about.

Carlos Bukowski writes about bourbon, bad decisions, and the vast gulf between rich and poor from his apartment in Hollywood. He has never owned anything worth four digits except his car, and that was an accident.