by Fred Noe
We talked about the business, talked about my son Freddie, even talked a little bit about life and death. He opened up about things, said he knew he had been hard on me. Told me he was proud of me. I had waited a long time to hear those words and they meant a lot.
After a while, his conditioned worsened and the doctor said they would have to amputate his foot. I was there when the doctor told Booker. He fell quiet and did some thinking.
“Say I don’t go through with it. What would happen?” Booker asked.
“I would strongly advise that you do. This is very serious. It would be life threatening.”
Booker got quiet again. “And say I stop with the treatment, how long would I live?”
“Stop the dialysis? Not long, a few weeks at most.”
Booker got to thinking again, thought long and hard, looked down at the floor and considered things. Then he pushed himself up out of his chair. “Why don’t you go on and cancel my treatment from now on.”
“Booker!”
“I’m done. Going home. You been a good doctor. Did the best you could. Fred, get my hat.”
We didn’t say much on the drive back to Bardstown. My head was swimming, didn’t know what to say. Hard to talk about the weather or UK basketball in that situation. Finally, Booker asked for my opinion.
“What do you think about what I’m doing?”
I was quiet, then softly said, “It’s your call. But you may want to think on it.”
“I have been thinking about it.” He went quiet and he looked out the window. We were getting off the expressway and pretty soon we would be driving right by the distillery.
“You know,” he said, “life’s not about quantity, it’s about quality. I’ve lived a quality life, that’s all that matters. Don’t care how long I live, never have. It’s always been how I live.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you don’t have to call me ‘sir’ anymore, god damnit.”
“Yes, sir,” I said again, and then we laughed, which probably kept me from crying.
When we got back home, Booker got busy dying. Word got out and soon everyone in three states was stopping by to say goodbye, share one more story, have one more drink, though Booker could only take a sip. Our house was never empty. Booker wanted to be cremated and have his remains put in a specially designed wooden box, along with his lucky hat and the very first bottle of Booker’s ever produced. Two local men, friends of Booker’s, designed the box, and Booker made them come over to the house and show it to him. I guess he wanted to make sure it was perfect since he would be spending eternity in it. The men were crying real tears when they showed up and Booker, propped up in bed, offered them a drink. “Relax, boys, you’ve done a good job.” Jack Kelley, his best friend, said it best: “Leave it to Booker to be alive at his own wake.”
Three weeks after he got home, he died in his bed, the same bed his grandfather Jim Beam died in, another life lived. Half of Kentucky came to his funeral.
There’s an expression in our business. Every year, each barrel of whiskey loses about 4 percent due to evaporation. Goes up in the sky, disappears. We call that the angel’s share. When Booker passed, the word around the distillery was that the angel’s share doubled. That made sense, I thought. They got one big angel up there and I imagine he’s always pretty thirsty.
I miss my father; be a liar if I said I didn’t. Think about him every day. Booker. My dad. Yes, sir.
Booker, he taught me things, or tried to at least. About being fair, about being honest. About remembering who you were, and where you came from. About doing things right. To be sure, he had a temper, but in the end, he was a fair man, didn’t hold a grudge. Had a heart, could be generous.
He taught me about my family, the grandfathers, the uncles, the cousins, our legacy and our responsibility to it. He also taught me about bourbon, how to make it the right way, how to preserve the process. How to stay focused, how to stay humble. He also taught me the importance of hard work, how there’s no substitute for it. I try to remember what he said, try to do things the way he taught me. I hope I’m not letting him down. And I hope I can pass some of those things on to my own son, Freddie.
BOURBON PRIMER
The Beams’ Bourbons
We’re known worldwide for Jim Beam Bourbon, the famous whiskey with the white label that has little pictures of the seven generations of Beams on it. That’s our flagship, the franchise player. We sell a lot of it, more than six million cases per year around the world. From Hardin Creek to Japan, it’s been quite a ride.
But we sell a lot more than just Jim Beam Bourbon. The following list are our different bourbons, with some facts and tasting notes. There will be no quiz on this information, and they are in no particular order. Read up if you want!
Jim Beam® Bourbon: The big dog and the one that started it all. A little bit sweet with a touch of caramel, this is a clean, crisp bourbon with a gentle snap. Bottled at 80 proof, and aged four years—twice as long as we have to, I might add. Good in your glass with some ice, or mixed with anything from a cola to a chocolate milkshake (try that sometime and thank me later), this whiskey was built to last and it has.
Jim Beam Black®: This 86-proof bourbon has the same recipe as our flagship brand, but it’s aged longer (eight years in the United States). It’s those extra years getting to know the wood that gives it a full-bodied flavor with smooth caramel and warm oak notes. It’s meant to be sipped and savored. Good front porch whiskey.
Old Grand-Dad®: An historic bourbon, been around since 1882. Specifically formulated with more rye for a lighter, spicier flavor, lately it’s been experiencing something of a renaissance, especially with younger consumers. Comes in various proofs, so you have your choice. Suggestion: they’re all good, so you can’t go wrong. Good straight up, but also makes for a nice cocktail, especially an old-fashioned.
Old Crow®: Another piece of history, this whiskey was the creation of a Scottish chemist turned distiller, Dr. James Crow, who worked for the Old Oscar Pepper Distillery in 1840. Aged four years and bottled at the standard 80 proof, it has a medium-light body and a short, sharp finish. Some more history: Dr. Crow invented or at least popularized the sour mash method, the process of using a little of yesterday’s mash with today’s. This ensured consistency in the whiskey. This process helped revolutionize whiskey making. We bought this bourbon in the late eighties.
Knob Creek®: Aged nine years in charred, American white oak barrels and bottled at an honest 100 proof, this whiskey has a maple sugar aroma and is a little sweet, woody and rich to the taste. I like all bourbons, but I like this a lot. If you’re a fan of Manhattan cocktails, this brand works especially well as the main ingredient.
Knob Creek® Single Barrel Reserve: This bourbon is carefully hand selected, barrel-by-barrel. Aged nine years, and bottled at 120 proof, it has a little kick to it. But it’s smooth and has a nice wood and vanilla flavor and aroma. It’s easy sipping all the way.
Basil Hayden’s®: This is one of the original Small Batch Bourbons, so it’s been around for a while. Aged eight years, and bottled at a somewhat mild 80 proof, it uses twice as much rye in the recipe. The result is a slightly peppery taste and aroma with some honey mixed in. It has a gentle bite, so it can be enjoyed neat or in a cocktail. It’s your call.
Baker’s®: I’ve got a soft spot for this Small Batch Bourbon because it’s named after my cousin, Baker Beam, who spent most of his life working at the distillery, then when he retired, he bought a house next door to it. Aged seven years and bottled at 107 proof, it’s full bodied and has good balance. When you drink it, you’ll probably pick up some fruit and caramel tastes. If you like cognac, you’ll like this whiskey. It’s won all sorts of awards.
Booker’s®: One of the first ever ultra-premium brands, Booker’s was the creation of the man it’s named after. (I think I’ve already mentioned that.) It’s still one of the only uncut, unfiltered, straight-from-the-barrel bourbons available today. Nothing is ad
ded to it: no water, no filters. What’s in the barrel ends up in your mouth. Has a big oak nose and a pretty intense flavor that includes tobacco and fruit. Aged between six to eight years, it’s bottled anywhere from 124 to 130 proof, so it’s not to be fooled with. (The high proof allows you to add your own amount of water to your drink and lower the proof you want. Booker was big on that.) An honest Small Batch Bourbon from my dad. Probably should have listed this one first since it started a big trend.
Red Stag by Jim Beam®: The first flavor-infused bourbon from Jim Beam, this four-year-old, 80-proof whiskey comes in three distinct flavors: Black Cherry, Honey Tea, and Spiced.) More flavors, more choices. This is a good example of some of the new thinking we and the entire bourbon industry are embracing.
Devil’s Cut®: This one might need a little more explaining because it’s made a different way. When bourbon is dumped out of the barrel, a certain amount of whiskey is left trapped in the wood. We use a special process to extract that bourbon, pull it out. The name plays off the notion of the angel’s share that I already mentioned. Bottled at 90 proof, it has a bold and woody taste and nose with some vanilla mixed in. Top-shelf stuff. (I get into a little more detail on this bourbon later on.)
1In 2005, the Boston plant was renamed the Booker Noe Plant in his honor.
CHAPTER 4
COLLEGE MAN
Let’s rewind now and go back to my college days, because they were a special part of my life—at least the part I remember. At Western Kentucky University, I majored in partying. Early colonial partying. Postmodern partying. Neoclassical partying. Political science partying. Economics 101 partying. I really took to the subject over in Bowling Green, really got into it with a passion and an interest, and my grade point showed it: 0.08—still an NCAA record.
I always thought the people who filmed the movie Animal House had secretly based the movie around me and my buds. I can’t and won’t get into a lot of old stories since the statute of limitations in Kentucky hasn’t run out on some of the things I did back then. Let’s just say I was always one step ahead of trouble.
If being a Beam drew attention at military school, that attention doubled in college. I had gone to Western with a number of local friends and soon made a lot more. You couldn’t have a party without inviting Freddie Noe, Jim Beam’s great-grandson; you knew I wouldn’t come empty handed.
I took a lot of road trips back then, mostly to Nashville or Memphis. Once, Booker made the serious mistake of loaning me his Cadillac (all Beams eventually drive Cadillacs; I may be the first one not to), and about nine of my college buddies piled in and off we went, left Bowling Green in the dust. We put more than 3,000 miles on that vehicle in four weeks. We drove the wheels off that thing and when I came back, Booker checked the mileage and then blew a major gasket. So much smoke was pouring out of his ears, I could barely see his face.
“Where the hell did you drive to, boy? Mars? ”
I shrugged and got the hell out of the kitchen. Truthfully, I really wasn’t sure where I had been. Those three weeks were kind of a blur. One place I know I wasn’t, though—class.
Most of my academic efforts in freshmen year centered around trying to persuade the Dean of Something, an old, little woman who could barely see over her desk, from kicking me out of school. I clearly remember one particular attempt.
“You never go to class, Mr. Noe,” she said, peering over a pile of books through Coke-bottle glasses.
“Please, call me Fred. May I call you Edwina? That’s a very beautiful name. My mom Annis’s name is Edwina. Lovely name.”
“You never go to class!”
“Well, Edwina, the truth is I’m too busy doing homework. I can’t do both.”
“This is unacceptable and I don’t think we can tolerate this much longer.”
I looked down at the floor, tried to make eyes well up, which was easy because they were already bloodshot having been up all night. “I will redouble my efforts, ma’am,” I said.
“You better, young man!”
“Yes ma’am.” I got up to leave, then turned back around. If it worked at military school, it might work here. “Excuse me, ma’am, but I happen to have in my possession a case of bourbon. It was sent to me by accident, I think. It’s in the trunk of my car right out front. Jim Beam Bourbon, best-selling bourbon in the world. I’m Jim Beam’s great-grandson, by the way. Don’t know if you know that or are familiar with him. By any chance, you wouldn’t have a need for some of America’s Native Spirit, would you? Aged four years, and bottled a real nice drinkable 80 proof. Pretty copper color and nice nose. It’s all yours to enjoy. I have an endless supply, not that that matters.”
Edwina looked at me like she had just stepped in something.
“If not for you, ma’am, then maybe for the man in your life? Makes for a nice present.”
She pointed to the door behind me. “Get out of my office right now, Mr. Noe. Right now.”
“I’m leaving, ma’am. Heading straight to the library, yes I am. Going to read every book in it even if it takes all morning.”
As (bad) luck would have it, Booker had the honor of telling me my college career at Western had come to an ignominious conclusion. We were sitting at the kitchen table having supper over winter break when he casually asked me where I was going to go to school the next semester. At first I was confused, then suddenly I wasn’t. I remembered grades were due out any day. I stared down at my dinner, thought if this was my last meal on earth, I would have preferred something other than meatloaf and carrots. I pushed my plate away from me. I had meant to get home to check the mail that day, get to the mailbox before Booker did, take the initiative, but had gotten involved in a little card game instead.
“Western,” I said. I stared at my meat loaf like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Western Kentucky University, that is.”
“You think so, huh?”
“Yes, sir. Eager to get back to the books.”
Booker gave me one of his “How dumb do you think I am, boy?” looks, then slowly nodded and slid a letter across the table. The letter was short and left little for interpretation: I was no longer a student at Western Kentucky University due to academic infractions. I was pretty sure Edwina had hand-delivered that note that morning.
“Must be some kind of mistake,” I said.
“I think I’m looking at the mistake,” Booker said.
I studied the letter, saw my grade point average, saw a whole lot of zeroes. “I’ll fix this.”
“Looks like you’ve already been fixed, boy,” Booker said. (Full disclosure: That’s a highly a sanitized version of what he actually said. What transpired at that kitchen table for the next hour is best not repeated.)
“Yes, sir,” I said when the father-son pep talk was over. “I’ll start researching new schools tomorrow, maybe even tonight. Get right on it.”
Well, I didn’t get right on anything. Booker did. He was two steps ahead of me. That afternoon, he had already gotten me an application for St. Catherine Junior College, which was nearby, as well as a job working at Toddy’s Liquor Store in downtown Bardstown.
Toddy’s was an institution in town. It was part liquor store, part bar—and all Kentucky. It had a strong and regular clientele, a colorful group of men I got to know pretty well. It was owned by Toddy Beam, who was a cousin of mine six-and-a-half times removed. (We never figured out how we were related. As I have said, there are a lot of Beams in Kentucky and the family tree is long and the branches tangled. I’m sure if we each had a month, we could have figured it out.)
Cousin Toddy was short and squat like a whiskey barrel and he was always griping or moaning or fussing about something: business, the weather, Notre Dame football, politics, being on his feet all day and all night. He was also a neat freak; he was constantly dusting or sweeping or mopping. Even though Toddy’s wasn’t exactly the bar at the Waldorf, I have to admit it was spotless. Toddy was always running a rag over something, making things shine. H
e was proud of the place. It was his life.
I worked six nights a week, tending bar and stocking the shelves. As you can imagine, I wasn’t thrilled with the whole situation: living at home, working a few blocks away, going to a community college during the day, Booker watching my every move. I was a trapped rat and regretted what had transpired at Western. I had had a good thing going in college, freedom, but I had blown it and was back where I started. The first few weeks in my new life were tough, but after some thought, I decided, what the hell, might as well make the best of the situation. So I gave it a go, worked hard at something for once. Besides, I didn’t have a whole lot of options; I was flat broke and needed the paycheck.
Eventually, things got better and much to my surprise, I actually started liking my job. Down deep, Toddy was a good old boy, had a real heart, and the regulars—and there were a lot of them—were funny and entertaining boys. Everyone had a story to tell, everyone had a joke. Most of them were working men, ducking out to grab a shot and a beer before heading back home to the wife and kids. Wednesday night was a big night in Bardstown because that’s when the Kentucky Standard, the weekly newspaper, came out. The men would use that as an excuse to get out of the house. “Going out to get the paper, be right back.” Then they’d hustle down to Toddy’s, do a little drinking and razz on Toddy, who was always telling them to watch their cigarette ashes. (“A bar ain’t an ash tray! How many times I gotta tell you?”)
I would get a lot of calls from pissed-off wives on Wednesday night. At first I did my best to cover for my customers. I was young and respectful of them.
