The Beautiful Sadness Of The Yamazaki Distillery
by Carlos Bukowski Yamazaki Distillery. Osaka, Japan. The first thing they tell you is to be quiet. Not library quiet, but cathedral quiet. Like you’re about to witness something holy instead of just seeing how they turn grain into the kind of liquid that makes Japanese businessmen weep with gratitude. This was 1994. I’d been living in Shenzhen for over a year, running a small import business that was doing well enough to afford me trips like this one. Teaching English was behind me; now I was dealing with factories and shipping containers and the kind of money that let you take weekends in Japan to drink whisky that cost more than most people’s monthly salary. The tour group was exactly what you’d expect: American tourists who pronounced “whisky” like it had an ‘e’ in it, British expats who acted like the Japanese had stolen their birthright, a few Japanese whisky nerds, and one woman who caught my attention the moment I heard her laugh. Michelle. Vietnamese-French, living in Saigon, with mushroom-shaped hair and an angelic face that belonged on a Renaissance painting. She couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds, but there was something substantial about her presence, something that made the rest of the tour group fade into background noise. Our guide was a small man named Tanaka who spoke English with the kind of precision that made you aware of every lazy syllable you’d ever uttered. He wore a crisp white coat and the expression of someone who had dedicated his life to something greater than himself. “Yamazaki,” he said, “was founded in 1923 by Shinjiro Torii. He chose this location because of the water.” I was standing next to Michelle during this introduction, and when Tanaka started explaining the distillation process in rapid Japanese, I whispered a translation in Mandarin without thinking about it. She turned to me with this look of complete surprise. “Why you speak Chinese?!” she said, loud enough that several people turned around. “I live in Shenzhen,” I said, switching to English. “Business.” “But you’re…” she gestured vaguely at my obviously non-Asian face. “American. But I’ve been in China long enough to dream in Mandarin.” That broke the ice. During the tour, we ended up walking together, and somewhere around the fermentation room, I offered her one of my headphones. I’d been listening to The National’s new album, something moody and perfect for the contemplative atmosphere of the distillery. “About Today” was playing when she put the earbud in. She closed her eyes and listened for a moment, then looked at me with this expression I’d never seen before. Like she’d just realized something important about me, or maybe about herself. “This song,” she said quietly. “It’s…” “Sad and beautiful at the same time?” “Like whisky,” she said, and I knew I was in trouble. The tasting room was where things got serious. Not just the whisky – though that Yamazaki 12 was a revelation, fruit and spice and patience distilled into liquid form – but the way Michelle approached it. She didn’t just taste; she listened to what the whisky was telling her. “In Vietnam,” she said, holding her glass up to the light, “we have a saying about things that are beautiful and sad. They’re more real than things that are just one or the other.” By the time the tour ended, we’d made plans to have dinner. By the time dinner ended, we’d made plans to see each other again before our flights the next day. By midnight, we were sharing a hotel room and talking like we’d known each other for years instead of hours. I’d thought I knew what connection felt like. Mona had been magic, Melissa had been fire, but this was something else entirely. This was recognition. Like I’d been walking around with half a conversation in my head my whole life, and suddenly here was someone who knew the other half. We made love with the kind of intensity that comes from knowing time is limited. Not desperate intensity – gentle intensity. The kind that says this matters, this moment matters, you matter. When it was over, we lay there talking about everything and nothing until exhaustion finally took over. I woke up a few hours later to the sound of her voice. She was singing softly, something about closeness and distance and the space between wanting and having. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through me like the Yamazaki had – clean and precise and impossibly moving. “What song is that?” I asked. She turned to me, startled. “Just something… from earlier. From your music.” The National. She’d been carrying that song with her since the distillery, the same way I’d been carrying the taste of that whisky. Some things stick to you whether you want them to or not. We had breakfast together at the hotel, and then it was time for airports. Her flight to Saigon, mine back to Hong Kong and then the train to Shenzhen. We exchanged information, made promises about staying in touch, said all the things people say when they don’t want to admit something is ending. But walking away from her at Kansai Airport, I felt something I hadn’t felt since Mona left. That specific hollowness that comes from knowing you’ve just experienced something rare and might never experience it again. The Yamazaki I’d bought sat unopened in my apartment in Shenzhen for two weeks. When I finally opened it, I poured a proper glass and put on that National album and tried to recapture whatever had happened in that hotel room. But the whisky just tasted like whisky, expensive and well-made but no longer magical. Michelle and I wrote letters for a while. This was before email was reliable across borders, before you could stay connected without effort. The letters got shorter, less frequent, until they stopped altogether. Different countries, different lives, different timezones that made everything feel impossible. But
Early Times and the Weight of Memory
There’s something about the name that gets you there, right? Early Times. Not “Good Times” or “Happy Times” or “Premium Times.” Early Times. Like whoever named this bourbon knew something the rest of us are still figuring out: that the best times, the ones worth remembering, always seem to be behind us. I’ve been drinking Early Times for twenty years now. Not because it’s good – though it’s decent enough for the price – but because it’s honest. It doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not. No fancy bottles, no aged statements that sound like poetry, no marketing campaigns about heritage and tradition. Just brown liquid in a plain bottle with a name that cuts right to the heart of the human condition. It tastes like what it is: working man’s whiskey. Rough around the edges, a little harsh going down, but it gets the job done. There’s corn in there, some rye, probably some regret. It’s the kind of bourbon your grandfather might have drunk after a ten-hour shift at the factory, sitting on the front porch watching the sun go down and wondering where all the years went. My grandfather never drank Early Times. Hell, my grandfather barely drank at all. But I can picture him with a glass of this stuff, can almost see him in the amber liquid when the light hits it right. Maybe that’s what they’re selling – not just whiskey, but the idea of whiskey. The mythology of simpler times when men were men and problems could be solved with hard work and a stiff drink. Early Times doesn’t taste like the future. It tastes like memory. Like the idea of sitting on a porch that you never actually sat on, in a time you never actually lived through, talking to people who probably never existed the way you remember them Course, those times were never as simple as we remember them. Grandpa’s generation had the Depression, World War II, segregation, polio. They had plenty of problems that couldn’t be solved with anything, let alone bourbon. But somehow, from this distance, it all seems cleaner. More straightforward. Like people knew who they were and what they were supposed to do. Early Times. As if there was a specific period in history when everything made sense, when people understood their place in the world, when right was right and wrong was wrong and you didn’t need a philosophy degree to figure out the difference. I think about this every time I pour a glass. Usually around 10 PM, after another day of trying to make sense of a world that seems designed to confuse and disappoint. The whiskey burns a little, then settles into something like warmth. And for a moment, I can almost taste what the name promises: a time when things were different. Maybe better. Maybe just different. See, that’s the genius of nostalgia – it’s not really about the past. It’s about the present being so goddamn complicated that we’ll invent a golden age just to have something to compare it to. We look back at the 1950s and see prosperity and simplicity, conveniently forgetting about the Cold War and the fact that half the population couldn’t vote. We remember the 1960s as a time of idealism and change, glossing over the part where people were getting shot for having opinions. But Early Times knows better. It’s not promising you can go back to those times. It’s just acknowledging that we all wish we could. That somewhere in our lizard brains, we’re convinced that life used to be easier, that people used to be happier, that the world used to make more sense. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe admitting that we’re all just refugees from an imaginary better time is the first step toward making peace with the time we actually live in. I was at the liquor store last week, reaching for my usual bottle of Early Times, when this kid – couldn’t have been more than twenty-five – looks at my choice and smirks. “Why don’t you try something good?” he says, pointing to a shelf full of craft whiskeys with names like “Rebellion” and “Revolution” and other words that sound like they were focus-grouped by marketing majors. “This is good,” I told him. “That’s bottom-shelf garbage, man. You can get a decent bourbon for like ten bucks more.” And that’s when it hit me. This kid doesn’t understand. He thinks better means more expensive. He thinks progress means complexity. He’s looking forward to some hypothetical future when everything will be perfect and optimized and craft-distilled to match his personal preferences. He doesn’t get that sometimes you don’t want something better. Sometimes you want something that reminds you that not everything has to be improved, innovated, or disrupted. Sometimes you want something that tastes like it might have tasted fifty years ago, made by people who understood that the point isn’t to reinvent the wheel but to make a wheel that turns. Early Times doesn’t taste like the future. It tastes like memory. Like the idea of sitting on a porch that you never actually sat on, in a time you never actually lived through, talking to people who probably never existed the way you remember them. But here’s the thing about nostalgia: it’s not supposed to be accurate. It’s supposed to be comforting. It’s supposed to remind you that somewhere, somewhen, things felt simpler. Even if they weren’t. So I drink my Early Times and I think about early times. Not because I believe they were better, but because believing they might have been makes the current times a little more bearable. And sometimes, when the whiskey hits just right and the evening light slants through my window the way it probably slanted through my grandfather’s, I can almost convince myself that I’m living in someone else’s early times. That someday, some guy like me will be sitting in his apartment, drinking whatever cheap bourbon they’re making
Is Jim Beam Dodgers whiskey collectible?
A Meditation on Desperation and False Promises So there I was, standing in the liquor store on Sunset, staring at this Jim Beam Dodgers 750ml bottle (click that link to see what i’m talking about). Big blue letters screaming “COLLECTIBLE” right there on the label. And I thought to myself, Christ, when did we get so goddamn obvious about it? See, here’s the thing about collectibles that most people don’t understand because they’re too busy getting excited about owning something “special.” Real collectibles don’t announce themselves. They don’t need to. A 1952 Mickey Mantle rookie card doesn’t have “COLLECTIBLE!” printed across the top. A first edition Hemingway doesn’t come with a sticker that says “SAVE THIS FOR YOUR GRANDKIDS!” The good stuff, the stuff that actually matters twenty years down the line, it just sits there quietly, accumulating value like dust on a windowsill. Unnoticed until someone with half a brain realizes what they’re looking at. But this Jim Beam bottle? This beautiful bastard with its Dodger blue and white, commemorating another season of overpriced beer and broken dreams? It’s screaming its collectible status like a drunk at 2 AM screaming about how much money he makes. Which is to say: the louder you have to say it, the less likely it is to be true. And yet… And yet there’s something different about booze, isn’t there? See, most collectibles just sit there. Baseball cards stay in plastic sleeves. Coins live in little folders. Stamps get locked away in albums. But whiskey? Whiskey has this beautiful, tragic flaw: it’s made to be consumed. You can tell yourself you’re saving that Jim Beam Dodgers bottle for when it’s worth something. You can put it on a shelf, maybe even buy two – one to keep, one to drink, like some kind of alcoholic hedge fund manager. But life has a way of wearing you down. Bad day at work. Relationship falls apart. Dog dies. Rent’s due and the bank account’s looking thin. And there you are at 11 PM on a Tuesday, staring at your “investment” and thinking, well, it’s still Jim Beam, isn’t it? That’s when the desperation kicks in. Not the screaming, dramatic kind of desperation. The quiet kind. The kind that whispers, “Nobody’s going to pay $200 for this thing anyway. Might as well drink it.” And maybe that’s the real genius of putting “COLLECTIBLE” on a bottle of booze. The company knows exactly what they’re doing. They know that unlike a coin or a stamp, this collectible has a built-in self-destruct mechanism. It’s not just an investment – it’s an escape hatch. A way out when things get tough. So while the baseball cards and comic books pile up in storage units across America, slowly losing value as the generation that cared about them dies off, these bottles get consumed. One moment of weakness, one bad night, one “fuck it” moment, and boom – the supply gets a little smaller. Maybe that bottle really will be worth something someday. Not because it’s inherently valuable, but because most people couldn’t resist drinking their way through their retirement fund. The Dodgers will win some games, lose some games, break some hearts, give some hope. Same as always. And that bottle will sit on shelves across America, waiting. Waiting for that moment when collectible becomes consumable, when investment becomes medication, when hope becomes just another thing you swallow. In the meantime, I bought a regular bottle of Jim Beam. No team logo, no special label, no promises about the future. Just bourbon and the certainty that I’ll drink it before the week’s out. Sometimes the most honest thing in the store is the one that doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is. Carlos Bukowski writes about collecting, drinking, and the intersection of both from his apartment in Hollywood. His collection consists mainly of empty bottles and full ashtrays.
A Humble Plea from the Bottom Shelf (Pappy Van Winkle)
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.