On a recent trip back to the midwest, we headed to Kentucky for a stint along the Bourbon Trail. I grew up in southwest Ohio and consider Kentucky part of my broader home turf, but as it turns out the Bluegrass state would likely take umbrage at that association. Kentuckians are very much Southerners, and won’t let you forget it. It’s true I was raised to know the proper pronunciation of Louisville, but my familiarity ended there.
After an extremely tasty lunch at Otto’s, on the Main Strasse in Covington, we set off along the Ohio River toward Louisville, having opted for the more scenic route to our destination of Bardstown. This route begins as a trek through suburban sprawl (though I’m not entirely sure what constitutes the “urban” center around which these towns lie) before eventually whittling down to a rolling, densely forested two-lane road. It’s not long before the road drifts toward the broad banks of the Ohio. I’d forgotten the expansive sense of possibility that these old waterways suggest, and the great sweep of water seemed decadent in contrast to the arid creek beds of California. We stopped for a few minutes to stretch our legs and were reminded why air conditioning is so absolutely necessary; the air was heavy with moisture.
Bardstown, KY is a beautiful little town, replete with narrow shotgun colonial houses, lush overhanging trees, and….. not a whole lot else. The Bourbon Trail, established by the Kentucky Distillers Association in 1999, may have put Bardstown on the map, but Bardstown is not yet a destination in itself. Home to Stephen Foster, Bardstown does have a state park in his name. But there was only one tavern (The Old Talbott Tavern), largely deserted the two evenings we were there, and a handful of (dare I say) appallingly bad restaurants. Our first meal, recommended by the proprietor of our B&B, was at Kurtz’s — a grand stone building suggesting generations of fine meals. For steak house prices, we got nearly an entire meal sourced from a box or a can. The Mint Juleps weren’t bad, but that’s not saying much in this case. Vastly disappointed, we headed to the Old Talbott and had a tasting flight of bourbons, which made up a bit for our awful meal. Old Pogue was a favorite.
Back at our B&B, the lovely Red Rose Inn, we settled in for the evening to appreciate the rolling thunder and abundant lightening of a summer storm. I was really enjoying myself until the weather produced a tornado warning. I’d grown up with these but now in middle age, and over a decade away from the midwest, I found myself alarmed. Looking outside, the air was deadly quiet – a bad sign. Downstairs our proprietor, Audrey, was cool as a cucumber; her dog Wrigley is a reliable bell-weather and was unfazed, so she was calm too. Nonetheless when the electricity went out, we headed for her cellar. Within half an hour, the warning had passed. We all breathed a sigh of relief, and amid candlelight we sipped a bit of the bourbon Audrey offered. It was a long time before I fell asleep that night. I hadn’t thought of Kentucky as tornado country because of its rolling hills, but I later learned twisters are a common occurrence each summer. Our little brush with danger didn’t even make the Bardstown news.
But the bourbon, the bourbon! Our first visit was to the Willett Distillery, a craft brewery and home of our new favorite, Pot Still Bourbon. Its unique bottle is modeled after the Pot Still especially designed by the Master Distiller at Willett, and it’s smooth, lightly spicy, and not too sweet. Woodford Reserve (in Versailles; be sure when in Kentucky to pronounce every consonant) is as polished as you would expect, with a highly refined tour and smooth veneer. Their grounds are absolutely beautiful and their end-of-the-tour tasting suggests you try the bourbon straight (room temperature), neat (chilled) and on the rocks. We had a wonderful time there, but the real highlight of our trip was the Buffalo Trace Distillery (outside Frankfort). Our tour guide, Freddie, was a third generation employee with an infectious enthusiasm. Our tasting included an experiment with Buffalo Trace “white dog” — unaged bourbon. At Freddie’s direction, we splashed it on our hands, rubbed them together and took a sniff: lots of alcohol, with a muddy undertone. Rubbing our hands together again, we took another sniff: corn! The alcohol had burned off, and we came to the prime ingredient. Repeated a third time, our hands now smelled of yeast, bready and warm. And so the composition of bourbon was revealed in a most vivid and distinctive manner.
The last leg of our trip was spent in Lexington, where we stayed with long-time friends. Homemade meals were a treat after our days of eating out, and Jackie is a wonderful, practiced cook. Together we toured Town Branch Distillery, best known for its cask-aged beers — surprisingly delicious, but not an everyday drink to my taste. After a delicious meal at Park 310 (and exceptional cocktail of gin, oleo saccharum and celery bitters), we walked around downtown, bustling with people enjoying a salsa band in the square and movies in the park. It was a beautiful evening and a definite highlight of our trip.
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