“I do not refer to myself in the third person.” Kirby rolled his eyes.
“Yes… yes, you do. A lot actually. Church this and Church that… I’ve got it! You’re afraid you’ll forget your own name so you keep saying it over and over and over—”
“I ken what my own bloody name is, wench.”
“You did not just ‘wench’ me.”
“I did. Wench.”
“Kir-by.” I bit the word.
“I dinna care. Call me whatever you want… wench.”
I huffed, my mind spinning for something smart to say back.
“Here, maybe the whisky will loosen up your brain.” He took two shot glasses from behind the bar, lifted a bottle and examined the label, then poured two measures. He carefully slid one to me. “Unless yer afraid,” he dared, then pounded the shot back, slamming the glass on the wooden bar.
“It’s not a contest.” But I knocked back the shot he gave me. The whisky trailed down my throat like a hot coal, warming my belly and spreading that heat throughout all my limbs.
I held in a cough, but damn if that shot wasn’t like swallowing fire!
“What kind was that?” I asked with a hoarse voice, my throat still tingling.
“One of our stouter varieties. ’Twill warm ye up a bit, give you an… open mind.” He filled up another shot glass and lifted it to his lips.
“You’re not getting laid.”
The whisky spewed from his mouth and all over the counter. Coughing, he turned a deadly glare to me. “What made ye think that?”
“Liquoring me up so you can take advantage. Shameful. A new low, even for you.” I shrugged. Grabbing the bar mop, I tossed it at his face. “Clean up your mess and don’t waste whisky.”
“You’re a pain in the arse.”
“Never claimed not to be.”
The kitchen door swung open and William came out carrying two trays of French fries, or chips as they called them. The steam swirled above the overloaded baskets and the heavenly scent called to me.
Fried food was a universal language.
“What happened here?” William asked as he set down the baskets and eyed Kirby as he mopped up the sprayed whisky.
“He choked.” I offered a sweet smile as I picked up a ‘chip’. It was blistering hot, and I dropped it back in the basket.
“Did not. Wench, here wanted to get laid… I told her it wasn’t proper to do it in a pub.”
“What?” I shouted, smacking him on the back of the head. “That is not what happened!” I turned to William.
“She’s a wily wench.”
“You’re a jackass!”
William’s deep laughter interrupted my anger and he shook his head. “I’m too old to be taken as a fool. Now, if you’ll stop your shenanigans, I’ll get you started with something.” He pulled out two clean glasses and raised his eyebrows, waiting for Kirby.
“Verra well.” Kirby cleared his throat. “How about…” He studied the bottles below the bar and above on the shelf behind him. “A Speyside. ’Twill be a good starter for the lass.”
“Agreed. ’Tis one of my favorites as well.” William took down a bottle and poured a generous measure of the light amber liquid into the two glasses.
I reached for mine.
Kirby slapped my hand.
“What?” I asked.
“You have to do it right.” He lifted the glass and swirled it, like wine.
Sighing, I lifted my glass and mimicked him.
“What do you smell?”
“The bouquet?” I asked.
“One and the same.” He shrugged then put his nose in the glass, inhaling deeply.
I sniffed then took a deeper inhale. “It’s kind of fruity, but a bit of smoke as well. Spice.”
“Good, good.” Kirby gave me an approving grin. “Take a taste, but only a small one. Let the flavor grow in your mouth before you swallow.”
He took a sip, closed his eyes and then swallowed. “Lovely. The finish is long and perfect, just the right amount of oak and fig.”
“Aye, ’tis a good one. Lighter, with the only the one distill.” William added.
I took a sip as well, letting the smooth texture of the whisky tease my senses, and then I swallowed. Immediately I could almost breathe the small nuances of the fruity fig and deep oak that Kirby mentioned. And as he’d also said, the finish, or aftertaste, of the flavor lasted long after I swallowed.
“Not bad.”
Both men turned to me, blinking.
“Fantastic?” I amended.
“Better. Whisky is never mediocre. It’s…”
“Poetry,” William finished.
“I’ll drink to that.” But rather than lift his glass of whisky, he lifted a glass of water.
I glanced down and saw I had one as well. “You need ta clean yer palate after sampling one kind of whisky before trying another.” William nodded to the glass before me.
“Got it.” I lifted the water and took a sip. My stomach rumbled. “Before we have any more to drink. I need to eat or Kirby here is going to have to carry me out that door.” I nodded toward the exit.
“Ach, and you’d be a heavy burden.” He lifted a ‘chip’ and took a bite.
“Not as heavy as that ego you carry around all day.” I took a chip as well and tried not to moan as I ate it.
“God bless Scotland and its potatoes.”
“Eh?” William gave me a perplexed look.
Kirby rolled his eyes. “She has this thing for the tattie scones too.”
“Have ye tried the bangers and mash yet?” William crossed his arms, a grin on his face.
“She needs to try the haggis,” Kirby interrupted.
“No! No haggis! I don’t want to eat sheep’s bladder!” I grabbed my basket of chips and hoarded them, just in case they thought about taking them away and replacing it with haggis.
“You eat hot dogs.” Kirby crossed his arms, staring me down.
I took another chip. “Ignorance is bliss.”
“How about I make you haggis, but no sheep’s bladder. Will tha’ work?” William asked.
“Thank you, but—”
“Are you afraid?” Kirby taunted.
“No, I—”
“Yes, you are.” He mocked and flapped his wings like a chicken.
“You just look like an idiot. That doesn’t motivate me to eat the haggis.” I crossed my arms as well, still careful to hold tight to my basket of chips.
I wasn’t taking chances.
“I sense a wager here.” William smacked the counter.
“A wager!” Kirby echoed.
“No.”
“Scared?”
“Is that your question after everything I say no to?”
“No.”
“Lucky me.”
“May I suggest the terms?” William asked.
“No.”
“Yes.” Kirby answered at the same time.
“If the lass will eat the haggis, then you, Church, will bring her a full box of tattie scones for breakfast.”
“I can get tattie scones on my own,” I grumbled, even as my mouth watered just by thinking of them.
“Not the ones from my mother.” William speared me with a knowing expression.
“Mae’s? You’ll give her a whole box of Mae’s tatties?” Kirby’s expression was one of shock, then anger as he turned a glare to me. “That is not fair. What do I get? Nothin’!”
“Ach, ye want some tatties fer yourself, lad? All ye gotta do is wink in my mam’s direction and she’ll make ye a batch.”
“She’s a feisty one.” Kirby took a step back from the bar.
“Ach, she is. Randy in her old age,” William answered with a tight smile.
I glanced to Kirby, he was turning a slight green color. “Aw, is the little old granny scary?”
“That granny isn’t little, nor is she as old as ye think… Gotta protect yer manhood with a bat when yer around that one.” He shivered.
&nbs
p; I turned to William, curious as if he’d be offended. He simply shrugged, accepting.
“I want to meet her.”
“No, no you don’t.” Kirby shook his head.
“Might not be the best idea. My mother’s a bit off her rocker these days. But her scones? They haven’t changed one bit. It’s a worthy offering, lass.”
I glanced between the two men. The idea of the scones — and the woman who made them — had me curious. But was it worth it? To try the haggis?
“Okay.” I nodded once.
William clapped once and then turned to Kirby. “Now, lass. If you like the haggis, Kirby here, gets something.”
“What… gets what?” I asked, eyeing Kirby suspiciously.
“She has nothing I want,” Kirby grumbled but sat back down at the bar.
“If you like the haggis, then you have to give the lad a bottle of his favorite whisky.”
“How much is his favorite whisky?” I asked, expecting some astronomical number, not that it mattered. I was not going to like the haggis.
“About seventy-five pounds.”
“Oh.” I bit my lip. “Agreed.”
“One other thing,” William added. “You’ll have to do yer own dishes. I gotta close up early tonight. Church here knows where everything goes, and ye have the key, laddie?”
Kirby nodded once.
“Brilliant. I’ll just go make my famous haggis, without sheep’s bladder, and be out in a few minutes.” He ambled into the kitchen, leaving me slightly confused.
“You have a key? Did you work here as kid? Wait… is William like your uncle or something? That would make the creepy old lady your grandma and that’s just all kinds of weird.”
“No, William’s mam is not my relation. And yeah, I did work here as a kid but I have the key because it’s my pub.” He shrugged, took another bite of chip and chased it with water.
“It’s your bar?” I glanced around the room, studying it differently. The dimly lit room was warm and inviting. It was impeccably clean, but strangely vacant. “Do much business?”
“Yeah, this is one of my quieter places. For that reason, it’s one of my favorites. William prefers it as well, because it’s lesser known.”
“Oh.”
“Shocked?” He grinned mischievously.
Damn, but that grin just did me in every time. Ignoring the way my blood rushed through my veins, making me hot in all the wrong places, I cleared my throat. “A little, it’s nice.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” He cocked an eyebrow.
“Compliment.”
“Then, I thank you,” he teased.
I picked up the last chip in my basket, lamenting that the next thing I’d eat would be haggis. Kirby must have seen the heartbreak in my eyes because he started laughing.
“It’s not your last meal, Merry. Put a stop to the dramatics.”
“You’re not the one eating haggis.”
“Says who? William will bring out two plates. You going to eat both?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then I’m planning on eating one, if ye don’t mind. William’s haggis is one of my favorites. And since you’re so uptight, we’re going to loosen you up a bit more.” He slapped the bar and stood, walking around the bar. He started to set up six glasses. Turning, he selected a few bottles from the rack behind him, then a few more from below the bar. He refilled the water glasses and started to pour whisky into the empty glasses, placing a small amount of each kind in a separate glass.
“We started out with a Speyside, but I’m going to take you on the tour.”
“Tour?”
“Yeah, we’ll visit the Highlands with a Dalmore, the Lowland Ladies with a Glenkinchie, and an Islay Lagavulin, or Lag.” He slid a glass toward me and lifted one of his own.
“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” I asked, sniffing the light amber liquid in the glass.
“This one is the Dalmore. You’ll love it because the nose is like a warm coffee house in Seattle. It has a coffee nuance you’ll appreciate, since you’re addicted to the little black bean.” He lifted the glass in a toast, and took a sip, following the same methodology as before with the Speyside.
“If it has anything to do with coffee, this one gets my vote.” I took a sip, closing my eyes and immediately understanding what he said about the first taste — the nose — being like a coffee house. The flavor was warm and inviting, slightly acidic like coffee, but not bitter. As the flavors swirled in my mouth, I also tasted a fruity flavor I couldn’t name, and a sweet chocolate flavor. How, I had no idea, I only knew that I could taste it, ever so slightly. I swallowed, noticing the afterglow of the flavors didn’t last as long as with the other kind I sampled.
“That was my favorite so far.” I opened my eyes, noticing Kirby’s approving grin.
“Told you. It was the coffee, eh?”
“Yeah, but it also had this chocolaty and fruity thing going on. I’m a fan.”
“Marmalade. The fruity thing, it was a marmalade note.”
“Yes!” I shouted, then calmed down. “Uh, yeah. I couldn’t think of the name, but it was that!”
“You American’s don’t have it as often as we Scots. Shame, that.”
I rolled my eyes. “What’s next?” I asked, studying the glasses and ignoring his jab at America.
“Water. Drink yer water.” He handed me my glass.
“Right.” I took a few swallows, and set it down, waiting.
Who knew whisky could be like wine tasting?
“Next we’ll try the Lowland Ladies.”
“Ladies?”
“It’s what we call ’em. I picked a Glenkinchie. It’s a lighter one, but I’ll not give away the flavor. I want ye to think on yer own.” He handed me another glass. “But dinna drink yet. Check out the feints, look at the color.” He lifted his glass, studying it.
“Feints?”
“In wine, you’d call it the legs. It’s the strands of whisky that run down the glass after you swirl it.”
“Oh, wow.” I swirled the glass and watched as the ‘feints’ trailed down the glass.
“Now we sip.”
This one was immediately different than the other two. It was lighter, almost earthy and green tasting — if a color could have a flavor. It had a fruit note, but it was camouflaged.
“What did you taste?” Kirby leaned on the bar counter, watching me. It struck me how he seemed so completely at ease, as if this was where he was most comfortable.
“Green. Almost like a salad, but with some fruit mixed deep within.”
“Well done.” He smirked. “Apparently you can be taught some things.”
“Ah, well. You never did give me much credit. Which ironically, always came back and bit you in the ass.” I smiled sweetly.
He laughed, filling the room with the sound. “Verra well, lass. Here’s your final stop on the tour of Scotland. What do you smell?” He handed me the final glass.
I inhaled deeply, fully expecting something similar to the other whiskies.
I coughed, set the glass down, and gave Kirby a confused stare. “What is that?”
“That, lass, is an Islay Whisky. Distinct, is it not?” He took a big whiff. How he didn’t cough, I had no clue. The scent was strong, like iodine and old hospital; neither were appetizing smells.
“Try again, this time look beyond the iodine.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumbled but took another, more cautious, sniff. Sure enough, it had changed as I swirled it and I picked up the essence of tea and smoke, vanilla and sweet spice.
“Better?”
“How does it do that? It changes. So weird.” I took a sip, shocked that it tasted and smelled so differently. I had expected the old hospital scent to translate to taste.
I was wrong. It was like a mouthful of malt and sherry, but then shifted to a smoky oak flavor. Bold, punch-you-in-the-gut powerful, but good. So good. The finish was long and spicy, lasting long after th
e swallow.
“Okay. So it’s not my favorite, but it was probably the most complex.” I set my glass down.
“Indeed. It’s the peat.” He took a sip of water.
“Like moss?” How did moss have anything to do with whisky?
“Yeah, Islay whisky is produced on the Island of Islay, off the west coast of Scotland. It’s the salt in the air that makes the peat different, and in turn it affects the flavor of the whisky.”
“Are ye ready?” William came from the kitchen, his two hands lifted with plates of steaming haggis.
Oddly, I wasn’t nearly as contrary to the idea as before.
Blame it on the whisky.
Or Kirby.
Both, I’d blame both.
The scent was heavenly, rich and deep and promising me to make my still-starving belly full.
That was a siren call I couldn’t ignore.
“Here, lass, I’ll give you the honor of the first bite.” William handed me a fork. The plate was a mountain of mashed potatoes, fluffy and creamy with a side of some minced meat that had a rich, almost beefy scent.
“Try a bit of the haggis with a wee bit of the mash.” William coached.
Tentatively, I took a small forkful of the haggis and bigger portion of the mashed potatoes and blew across the bite.
“Don’t stall, Merry,” Kirby taunted.
“Bite me.”
I took a small taste.
The flavors melted in my mouth. Onion, garlic, creamy potato, and a grainy texture all blended into a sweet harmony of delight. There was a slight mineral flavor that completed it all, almost like strong beef. I swallowed, trying not to let my approval leak through to my expression.
I failed.
“Ha! I told you that ye’d like it!” William smacked the bar counter, then high-fived Kirby.
“Not a soul could turn down your haggis, William.”
“It’s okay.” I shrugged.
“Yer a poor liar, Merry. Dinna even try. You love it.” Kirby wagged his eyebrows and dug into his own haggis with enthusiasm.
“Ach, yer not gonna break my heart, lass? Tell ol’ William how much you liked it.” William gave me these sad, puppy dog eyes.
And damn it all, it worked.
“It’s… actually really good,” I admitted, taking another bite.
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