Recently, I fell in love with Nick Offerman’s scotch. The raw product, a Scotch whisky with a distinctly American bourbon presence, aged 11 years in oak red-wine casks that have been shaved down and charred, is certainly drinkable—but the pro move is pouring two fingers into a rocks glass, then adding a splash of filtered room-temperature water. This draws out the perfume, the floral romance, the latent sweetness lying beneath its unctuous, musky angularity. I open with this because the taste of... Read this story
