This past Tuesday I broke out of my usual inter-nerd hermit lifestyle to attend an actual social engagement. Yes, amazing, right? My friend, Jean, of NotCot invited Emily and I to attend her first official sponsored party hosted at the W Hotel in Westwood, a fanciful affair co-hosted by her friend from LAist and catered by that most revered brand of spirits, Macallan. The party was attended by a mixture of online movers and shakers, like Jean and Bobby from Kitsune Noir (who are both design-style curators extraordinaires) from the LA area (I guess I now fall under this demographic?), alongside a mix of Macallan’s people. Not my usual scene to say the least, as I’m a [draws square] who avoids the usual drink and link gatherings. But it ended up a surprisingly fun and notable evening thanks to friendly crowd and a notable surprise.
Most everyone I know is aware of my non-drinking status. I’m horribly allergic to spirits, suffering asthmatic symptoms and a general discomfort related to a genetic predisposition to skip all the positive effects of alcohol and fast forward to all the shitty feelings associated with drinking too much. Despite this, I entered myself into a giveaway that evening for an exclusive taste of a 57 year vintage of Macallan single malt scotch, drawn from casks first sealed in 1952, with only 400 bottles made available for $15,000 a piece. Historic liquid gold.
Ironically, as possibly the only non-drinker in the room, I was chosen as one of three people to be served a special tasting of this most rare of drinks. One doesn’t turn down the chance to sip history, even when you’re allergic, so that evening I found myself sipping what tasted of molten copper, bound in aged leather with pages smelling of fragrant vanilla bean and caramel. I don’t enjoy the taste of alcohol normally, and this was not the exception, but I did very much enjoy the lingering bouquet and taste afterward…like french kissing a beautiful librarian who had the smell of rare manuscripts on her clothing and the taste of desserts on her lips. To think about it, that pretty much describes Emily…well, except she’s nowhere near 57 years old and she doesn’t make me vomit if I overindulge in her presence. Thank goodness.