by Lew Bryson
By the way, neither distillery is in Lincoln County. The only distillery making whiskey today in Lincoln County is Prichard’s, a craft distillery, where the whiskey Phil Prichard makes is not mellowed through charcoal.
Jack Daniel is a huge distillery, and getting bigger; in mid-2013 it announced that it would begin a $100 million expansion of the distillery to meet growing demand. To put that in perspective, Diageo spent about $60 million building its new Roseisle distillery in Scotland, a distillery that has been described as “big,” “large-scale,” “enormous,” and “the Death Star.” Jack Daniel’s whiskeys — the familiar Old No. 7, the lesser-known Green Label, Gentleman Jack, and the Single Barrel expression — sell well across a wide range of consumers.
Watching the white dog at the Jack Daniel’s distillery in Lynchburg, Tennessee
George Dickel, although owned by Diageo, the world’s largest drinks company, is a complete contrast. It doesn’t have as much story as Jack Daniel: although George Dickel was also a real person, he was a whiskey broker, not a distiller, and his brother-in-law got into the distilling business, but production moved around quite a bit as temperance laws, national Prohibition, and World War II had their effects on the whiskey industry. The current distillery was built in 1959. It is small, is almost completely nonautomated, and has not received a lot of promotion or attention, although its whiskeys are well liked by critics.
But what are they? Are they bourbons that choose not to claim the title? Or is the charcoal leaching significant enough to make them something different?
I’ve given you the facts; now I’ll advise you to make your own call on the issue. I’d also advise you not to get into an argument about it; one of the very few times I’ve ever been thrown out of a bar was after an argument over whether Jack Daniel’s was bourbon or not . . . with the bartender. I’ve never made that mistake again. Jack and George have very loyal fans.
Resurgent Rye
Rye as we now know it — American rye whiskey, as Canadian whisky writer Davin de Kergommeaux would insist on my saying it — is more like an exceptionally high-rye bourbon than what it used to be. Going back to the standards of identity, the only difference between rye and bourbon is that rye is the dominant grain in the mashbill instead of corn. Everything else is the same.
Rye Flavor Range
It’s still a breathtaking difference. Rye whiskey won’t give you that luxurious river of corn you get in some bourbons, or the cinnamon Red Hots you’ll get in some others. Instead it will fly up your nose in a hot herbal rush and light up your mouth like a carnival midway with a flame of bitter, oily ryegrass; the only sweetness you’ll get may be a shatteringly brittle sensation at first taste, and maybe some vanilla in older ryes. It’s quite a ride.
Although rye whiskey used to be the American whiskey, the whiskey of my home state of Pennsylvania (and of Maryland) and what the state legislature ran on (because beer would get warm and flat during lengthy debate), rye had fallen on hard times. It never really came back after Prohibition as strongly as bourbon did, and the popularity of Canadian whisky and the explosion of white spirits that started in the 1960s almost did it in.
By the time I started writing about whiskey in the mid-1990s, American rye was on the brink, down to well under a dozen brands: Wild Turkey Rye, Beam’s Jim Beam and Old Overholt (one of the famous Pennsylvania brands), and Heaven Hill’s Rittenhouse, Pikesville, and Stephen Foster brands were the only ones seen in any kind of regular distribution. Out of perhaps 200 days a year when Heaven Hill “mashed in” — cooked grain to make whiskey — I was told they were mashing for rye only 1 day a year.
How could this be? Rye was fascinating to all the staunch whiskeyphiles I knew. The earliest American whiskey, the stuff that launched the Whiskey Rebellion, the basis of many of the classic whiskey cocktails, a common bar call in classic movies — and it was wonderfully different from bourbon. Rye was spicy, minty, explosive in the mouth, and it had a delicious evolution in character from when it was young (zesty, bright, and fresh as a sun-drenched meadow) to when it was mature (spicy, still explosive, and almost incapable of being drowned in a cocktail) and finally old (deep, capable of great synergy with the oak, and capable of going older, further, than bourbon).
One of the great moments of my whiskey experience came when I first tasted the Sazerac 18-year-old rye from Buffalo Trace. It was a prerelease sample at WhiskyFest (one of the great “under the table” things that happen when whiskey people get together), and it was smooth as sin at 110 proof, a gentle but explosive punch in the mouth that left me breathlessly grinning. Again, how could it be that a whiskey like this wasn’t selling to more people?
Not long after, my question was answered, and we started to see movement in the rye niche. Cocktail writer David Wondrich deserves much of the credit for constantly championing it, convincing bartenders to try it in cocktails and demand that distillers make more. I remember him haranguing the Heaven Hill folks at an event one time, telling them what great stuff Rittenhouse Rye was and how they should be pushing it more (and charging more for it; Rittenhouse could be had for a ridiculously low $12 a bottle at the time).
Of course, we got our wish and should have been more careful about what we wished for. There are more ryes on the market now, including the great ryes that were being distilled at the old Seagram distillery in Lawrenceburg, Indiana, and are now coming out under a variety of labels (Bulleit Rye comes from there, bold and bright from a mashbill of 95 percent rye). Some companies are buying up stock of Canadian rye flavoring whisky and selling it on its own. But now we have the opposite of the problem we had before: plenty of people know about rye, and want it, and there’s not quite enough to go around.
That’s why Heaven Hill is mashing rye over 20 days a year now, and Buffalo Trace is in the rye game, and Beam has added new ryes to its portfolio, including a Knob Creek rye that just screams with the grain. Even Daniel and Dickel have rye now; Dickel’s comes from the same Indiana source as Diageo stablemate Bulleit (the Dickel undergoes a post-aging version of the Lincoln County process), while Jack Daniel is mashing its own rye, which is only out in a clear, unaged version so far (and labeled as “spirits distilled from grain,” since it is unaged).
American whiskey is growing. That’s thanks to a combination of sticking to tradition where it works, innovating where possible, and making a fine product under all circumstances. At the Stitzel-Weller distillery in Shivley, Kentucky, there used to be a plaque, put there by Pappy Van Winkle himself, that sums up how the industry has survived, and why it is now thriving:
“WE MAKE FINE BOURBON.
AT A PROFIT IF WE CAN,
AT A LOSS IF WE MUST.
BUT ALWAYS FINE BOURBON.”
The same plaque now hangs at Buffalo Trace, where Pappy’s grandson Julian Van Winkle works with Buffalo Trace distiller Harlen Wheatley to make the next generations of his family’s whiskey. They may be Pappy Van Winkle’s words, but they’re apt for this traditional industry as a whole, which has been through the wilderness and come out stronger than before.
Canadian: Blended, Always
Canadian whisky suffers from a reputation problem, which is amazing, because despite years of slow decline, it only recently slipped from first place as the largest whisky category in United States sales. Didn’t know that? It’s true: While bourbon and Tennessee whiskey — the home team! — finally edged past Canadian whisky sales in 2011, Canadian sales in the United States are still far bigger than Irish whiskey sales, and Canada sells more whisky here in America than single malts and blended Scotch put together. Top that with the latest export figures, showing the decline is over: the value of exports to the United States is up by 18 percent.
And I say Canadian whisky has an image problem? We should all be so afflicted.
Still, it’s true, and you have to wonder if it could be doing a lot better if it weren’t for some perception issues. It is blended whisky in an age that reveres the perceived purity of si
ngle malt Scotch and single-barrel bourbon. Canadian whisky drinkers are, at least in the large U.S. market, a graying category — not young trendsetters — looking for a low-priced mixing whisky rather than a superb sipping whisky. The category suffers from that very image: mixing whisky, a category that has derisively been called “brown vodka.” It’s not expensive and has been unable so far to create a high-end brand with large appeal.
And yet, all of that is beginning to change. Blended whisky is poised for a new respect as single malts continue to rise in price, and blends are created with more flavor rather than less. Canadian whisky can easily be part of that trend with a few nudges at the blender’s bench, or simply some awareness (and export) of the more flavorful blends that are already available.
Canadian whisky drinkers in the United States are still older on average, but it is reaching a new, younger audience. My 22-year-old son and his college friends, for instance, prefer Canadian whisky over most other liquor, and I see it ordered by more younger drinkers than I’ve ever seen before. Canadian whisky cocktails are even featured on some bar menus.
Why the sudden popularity? It could be as simple as a desire for change, or it could be a smart substitute to meet the surging demand for rye whiskey that American distillers can’t easily supply right now. But it’s also the liquor of choice on two very popular television series, Mad Men and Boardwalk Empire, where bottles of Canadian Club wash up on shore in the opening credits every episode.
As for the questions of flavor, prestige, and price, those would also seem to be on the verge of changing. On a recent trip to some Canadian distilleries, I saw a category that was strong in its own country and ready to build on what is obviously a very strong base in the United States (U.S. sales are about five times the volume of home sales) with an array of new whiskies. Exciting times may well be just around the corner for Canadian whisky.
Two Streams
Canadian whisky is actually quite a varied creature. In 5 days I visited four different distilleries, and none of them did things the same way. There were different types of stills, very different approaches to mashing, and quite different grains used to make the whiskies. Canadian whisky makes an interesting comparison to the malt and pot-still monoculture of Scotch single malt distilling or the uniform stills and highly similar mashbills of bourbon. (I also have to mention that one distillery, Highwood, in High River, Alberta, was the first I’ve ever visited that did not have a mill or buy premilled grain. Instead, and rather astonishingly, the distillery staff put the whole grain — they use Alberta winter wheat as a base — into a large pressure cooker at 60 psi. After a fairly short time, about 15 minutes, the pressure and heat have exploded most of the starch cells in the grain. Whatever wasn’t is blown open by the next step; the grain is blown into the mash cooker with a 120 psi burst of steam, where it hits a thick, curved steel plate and essentially disintegrates. It’s astounding.)
The one common thread through most traditional, established Canadian distillers is that they produce two streams of whisky. They may not call them by the same names, but the idea is the same.
One stream is a “base whisky” (also called “blending whisky”) that is distilled to a very high proof, up around 94 percent alcohol or even higher, and is much like the grain whisky in Scotch blended whisky. The second is a “flavoring whisky” (also called “high wines”) that is distilled to a much lower proof (it varies, but it’s between 110 and 140 proof). A single distillery may make one or more of each type, varying the grain or the distillation regimen, or doing a combination of both.
How they get those two streams can be confusing to someone who’s used to the much more traditional whisky making you’ll see in Scotland or America. Canadian distillers have left behind much of the romance and nostalgic parts of distilling. You won’t see gleaming banks of copper pot stills here; instead you’ll see a column still the size of an ICBM gushing spirit at 240 gallons a minute.
Malt as a source of enzymes for mash conversion has largely been replaced by purified enzymes, tailored to work with different grains and added directly to the mash, which mostly ferments in closed vats. I spoke to Bruce Rollag at Black Velvet, who’d been there pretty much since the plant opened in 1973, and he remembered when the switch was made to enzymes. “That was one of the better days,” he said, “when we got rid of the malt. It was dusty, hard to handle, and unforgiving on temperature or pH. If either one was too high, or too low . . . you had a vat of porridge. The enzymes are very forgiving.” That’s part of the Canadian distiller’s approach: don’t be afraid to change to something that works better or is easier.
Each distillery I visited took pains to show me their “DDG” area, the “distiller’s dark grains.” This is what’s called the “dryhouse” in Kentucky, or where they process the “pot ale” and “draff” (the stillage and the spent grains) in Scotland, but it’s not usually on the tour. The Canadians seemed obsessed with it, proudly showing it off, but it wasn’t till I toured Hiram Walker that I learned why.
We entered the huge warehouse-like space where the DDG was collected, and when my eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, I realized there was a huge pyramid of dry bits of grain — and it didn’t smell horrible. I’d always thought that the dryhouse of a bourbon distillery smelled something like a roasting chicken that the cook forgot to pluck, but this huge heap smelled like a pleasantly toasted cereal.
Dr. Don Livermore explained. “The dry-house operations are much more important here,” he said. “The DDG is not a by-product; it’s a coproduct, a high-protein cattle feed. Three tons of corn makes one ton of DDG, and we sell it for a similar price per ton as we pay for the corn.”
That’s a tidy savings, but then he explained that it was also an indicator of plant conditions, specifically fermentation efficiency. “If fermentation isn’t right, the whole plant won’t work,” he said. Too much residual, unfermented sugar will screw up the dryhouse. “I’ll smell it as soon as I walk in the door, and someone’s going to have a bad day.”
Livermore has to be efficient. Hiram Walker is the largest beverage alcohol plant in North America. Not only do they make the very popular Wiser’s brands, they also make Canadian Club under contract; it’s a lot of volume. But the truth is, the other plants — Canadian Mist, Alberta Distillers, Black Velvet, Gimli, Valleyfield, even the smaller Highwood — are all running at a scale where efficiencies are important. They need to be trim, and it shows in most of their operations.
There is also a dedication verging on fanaticism to the purity of the spirit for the base whisky. Some of the distillers use a process called extractive distillation, the “third still” I mentioned back in chapter 2. It’s a counterintuitive way to purify the alcohol, since the first step is to dilute it. The spirit coming off the beer still at around 130 proof is diluted with water back down to between 20 and 30 proof, and then it is introduced to the extractive distillation column.
Canadian: Flavor Profile for Iconic Bottlings
This chart rates five core characteristics on a scale of 1 to 5, with 1 = faint to absent, and 5 = powerful and fully present.
The aim is to force off the fusel oils and congeners, the chemical impurities in the spirit. These unwanted compounds are for the most part insoluble in water; raising the water content forces them out of the spirit. They’re taken off the top and either sold as chemical feedstock or burned to heat the stills. The alcohol now comes off neatly at about 94 percent ABV, squeaky clean.
The flavoring whisky is usually made much like bourbon: a single pass through a beer still, followed by batching through a pot still. The pot still will clean up the spirit a bit, but not too much, and leave it ready to go in the barrels.
When the whisky does go into the barrel, it’s under a varied set of circumstances. At Black Velvet, for instance, the so-called high wines (flavoring whiskies) are aged in barrels for 2 years. The rye-based high wines go into first-fill bourbon barrels, while the corn-based high wines mostly go into first-f
ill bourbon barrels, but some are in refills. After 2 years of aging, they are dumped, blended with new base whisky, and put back into barrels for at least 3 more years.
At Highwood all the whisky is aged in used bourbon barrels, and they reuse them; I was told that “a barrel is spent when it starts to leak.” That’s actually pretty common in Canadian whisky making. Wood management, which has become a huge quality issue in Scotland and Ireland, where each barrel is tracked through its life and sold off after two or three uses at most, is still a frontier in Canadian whisky making. I noticed the beginnings of a barcode tracking system on the barrels at Hiram Walker, but it’s all new.
At the time of my Canadian tour, Dr. Don Livermore was experimenting with new barrels and new woods, such as red oak. It made a very forward, spicy, bright whisky, and I asked him if people would want to drink that. “They’re all tools in the box for the master blender,” he said.
9.09 Percent
If you know a little about Canadian whisky, you may know about the 9.09 percent rule for whisky exported to the United States. It allows up to that percentage of the blend to be of . . . stuff. This may be lesser aged spirits, American-made spirits, or “blending wine.” Blending wine was described to me at Black Velvet as a very dry white wine, diluted and blended with grain neutral spirits (GNS). By using American ingredients the distiller gets a tax break on exports to the United States. The components are kept as carefully neutral as possible to make it easier for the blenders to match the flavor of the all-whisky version. It’s weird, but that’s tax law for you.
