“You might want to take a good whiff of the trays before you start to drink,” said our waiter, Scott, as he put down the last of seven trays, each topped with a constellation of eight glasses.
He was serious.
Scotch is a drink of many senses. The dense, caramel-colored liquid, sitting at the base of a wide glass, light sparkling from it, is itself beautiful to see. Then you lift the glass, bring it to your nose, inhale deeply. You swirl the Scotch to release more of the aroma: the fruits, the woods, the spices. Finally, you’re ready to taste. You press the glass to your lips and let the liquid linger on your tongue, sensing the bite and the powerful lift into your sinuses, before finally letting it slide down slowly, warming your throat and stomach.
But Scott was suggesting a step before even that—that we take in the air settling above the trays, that we indulge in the potency of aroma released by so many filled glasses in such a confined space.
On Friday night, eight of us gathered in a private room at Zia’s Trattoria in downtown Harrisburg for the monthly ritual of good drink and good conversation known as Scotch in The Burg (aka, #ScotchInTheBurg). The group started meeting last June when one pretty-well-known Harrisburg guy named Ganesh and another pretty-well-known Harrisburg guy named Dan decided to see if others were interested in exploring two things they already liked and wanted a deeper understanding of: Scotch and the city’s restaurants.
So they spread word via Twitter (thus the hashtag) and quickly assembled a core group of other pretty-well-known Harrisburg guys. There’s Brian. There’s Bill. There’s Marc. There’s Eric. Several more have come and gone, and a few others pop in from time to time.
I’m an accidental participant. After work, on one of the many icy nights of January, my girlfriend Andrea and I climbed the steep steps to enjoy a cocktail and maybe some half-priced tacos at Suba, where we bumped into #ScotchInTheBurg. The group was just assembling and graciously asked us to join them.
How do I put this delicately? I don’t know squat about Scotch. Until then, my only exposure to whiskey had been an occasional late-night nip of Maker’s Mark at a place in D.C. called the District Chophouse and only then at the insistence of a British friend, who liked to end his evenings lingering over a glass.
#ScotchInTheBurg would never consider anything so mass market. At Suba, the brands were unknown to me, the flavors complex and surprising, and the ritual novel. Ganesh was patient, explaining how one approaches a new pour, the tasting regimen and the words used to describe it (fruity, peaty, leathery).
It turned out that, even within our small group, the tasters each liked something different. Whereas Brian preferred complexity, Ganesh liked sweet and, for Bill, the boggier, the better.
The Scotch, though, is only one part of the event, the organizing principle. Throughout the month, the core group uses Twitter to recruit, communicate, organize, all building up to the big night.
Marc took the lead for the March dinner, conferring repeatedly with Zia’s over details: the Scotch and food menus, where we’d sit, the time, the price. The first plan was a little too heavy on food over drink, the group decided. So, two small plates were removed and several Scotches added. All the details had been firmed as waiter Scott entered the small private room carrying trays of glistening snifters, their brown liquids swirling from the bottom.
“Gentlemen,” said Ganesh, “and,” gesturing towards Andrea, “lady.”
He paused for a moment, the brief silence appropriate for the start of something so anticipated.
“Shall we get started?”
Marc reached for the first set of glasses filled with 12-year-old MacCallen Scotch and passed them around the table. As everyone stared at the night’s first pour, he read from a note sheet to introduce the drink.
“Sweet taste of citrus, vanilla and coconut,” he said.
“Nose: Complex with a hint of fruit and heather honey.”
Brian interrupted. “I think you should read that as James Lipton.”
“Can I do Will Ferrell?” said Marc, who then continued without doing Will Ferrell.
“Palate: Medium, balanced with fruit, oak and spice.”
“Finish: Lingering with dried fruits, oak and spice.”
Everyone took a whiff, swirled, smelled again, sipped, slurped, swallowed.
The Scotch was relatively mild, fruity, flavorful.
“I like that,” Andrea said. “It’s very girly.”
The rest of the table—all men—laughed, but, despite that critique, that first pour was a crowd-pleaser, the only one of the night that everyone seemed to enjoy.
Soon afterwards, two additions were made to the table. Bruce, our eighth, finally showed after a long day at work, and our first course, a cheese plate, arrived.
Folks were clearly hungry, and everyone reached for the selection of mild and sharp cheeses. Some went well with the early rounds, some didn’t. (In addition to the MacCallen, we toasted and shared 1-ounce pours of 15-year-old Dalwhinnie and 12-year-old Balvenie.)
“That’s definitely smoky,” someone said of the Dalwhinnie.
Another piped in, “It’s a good smoky. It’s not campfire.”
Tongues loosened, and talk around the table came to include everything from the mayor’s big red shoes to the board game Operation to the TV show Key and Peele. A description that one of the Scotches “has wood” invoked exactly the commentary you’d expect from seven guys sitting around a table.
“Maybe girls shouldn’t be allowed here,” said Andrea.
Event veterans already shared an opinion that this evening matched the best—the best to that point being the very first #ScotchInTheBurg, held at Stock’s on 2nd.
“They did such a phenomenal job that it raised our expectations,” said Ganesh. “Since then, half have been very well organized and half have not.”
Organization does seem crucial to the event. Sure, the Scotch needs to be good and of enough variety, but that’s the easy part. What really makes #ScotchInTheBurg is good company, a level of privacy, nice food pairings and excellent service. Zia’s was passing on all fronts, a feeling confirmed when Scott ushered in the next dish, two trays of enormous Parmesan-encrusted shrimp with spicy marinara dipping sauce.
“This rivals anything we’ve had,” Ganesh repeated.
As people reached in, Marc declared that it was time for the next Scotch, a 14-year-old Oban. From our note sheet, Bruce read: “Smoky, malty dryness. Rich, full-bodied, smooth.”
Glasses clinked.
The Scotch was powerful, like inhaling deeply from a meat smoker.
“Holy Christmas!” said Ganesh.
“It wouldn’t be your first choice,” someone else piped in.
“It wouldn’t be my fifth choice,” said Andrea.
Conversations began to overlap. There was a fragment about Bruce’s long-ago trip to Denver and another about Bill’s fondness for the cream ale at Selin’s Grove Brewing Co. and another about Eric’s Jewish grandmother. We discovered that Brian has someone he thinks may be his girlfriend.
A 12-year-old Cragganmore followed, described in our notes as having odors of fruit salad, smoked almonds and stemmy hay.
“You can smell the stems,” someone joked (though you actually could).
To enhance the scent, Ganesh repeated a ritual he had begun the previous month. He poured a small amount of the Scotch into his hands, rubbed them together, brought them to his nose and inhaled deeply. This is a routine of serious Scotch samplers, he had explained, and part of his own education.
The talk next turned to cultures that eat animal heads and how, in the United States, we prefer not to picture the animals we’re eating. Appropriately, the main course arrived right then: sliced filet mignon with Parmesan potatoes, plated beautifully to share family style (no head attached). The presentation was stunning, enough to momentarily silence seven men and one woman who had consumed five pours of Scotch.
Brian took a picture and tweeted it. But, before we dug in, the next-to-last Scotch was announced—a 10-year-old Laphroaig (“hint of seaweed and a surprising sweetness”). We clinked glasses again and wished cheers and salutè and nostrovia and drank.
“Whoa, that one slaps you in the face and kicks you in your [delicate man parts],” said Ganesh.
“I’m gonna call this one Casper cause this s*** is gonna continue to haunt me,” someone else announced.
And another: “It’s the only Scotch I need a chaser for.”
The filet quieted everyone for maybe 10 minutes, as we each finished off several slices and reached in for seconds until it was gone. Waiter Scott then announced a bonus: Zia’s was throwing in dessert as a final course.
Before the night’s final pour, Scott brought out tiramisu—creamy, espresso-flavored sponge cake scooped into large wine glasses—and arranged goblets of 10-year-old Orangerie around them, with fresh fruit as a centerpiece. We paused for a moment to relish the sight, the assembled glasses shooting sparks of light throughout the snug room, and several of us pulled out cell phones to snap pictures.
The orange-infused Scotch itself was fruity and smooth and mild, a welcome change from the earthier, harsher whiskies we had just sampled.
“It’s not very Scotch-y,” said Eric. “It’s more like a cordial.”
I was uncertain whether he intended that as a compliment or criticism, but we all agreed it was an excellent choice to wrap up the evening, served with dessert almost as an aperitif.
“That was downright enjoyable'” stated Ganesh with a finality earned from his nine or so months as the unofficial leader of #ScotchInTheBurg.
He may have been referring to the tiramisu or the last Scotch or the evening in general. But it seemed likely that he meant all three, with great conversation and company, a perfect two hours passed in the city of Harrisburg.
