I’m no supertaster, but I could identify a Lagavulin 16 single malt in my sleep. The initial honey-sweetness, the sudden rush of big, smoky peat, followed by the perfect combination of saltwater, brine, and a hint of greasy bacon. I bought my first bottle at New York’s Warehouse Wine & Spirits on the recommendation of a portly gentleman who described it as the “holy grail” of Islay single malts. “You’ll need to be able to handle a lot of peat smoke,” he said, looking me up and down appraisingly, “and not many women do, but if that’s what you like, you’ll never go without a bottle in the house.”

It is what I like. I like the sweet sting of a scotch served neat. I like the fire and smoke of an Islay single malt. I like pairing my scotch with everything from cheese, chocolate and bacon to a fine cigar. It happens to be a fact that my love of scotch raises eyebrows and subverts the norm—but that’s not why I like it.

When I started work at a midtown firm last year, it didn’t take me long to realize that my boss was a big-time scotch lover. His office bar (à la Mad Men) was stocked with Macallan, and at corporate events he’d nurse a double Glenlivet. A few weeks in, we found ourselves standing next to each other at an after-work happy hour, each sipping on our scotch. The conversation went something like this:

Me: So what are you drinking?

Boss: Glenlivet, neat. What do you have there?

Me: Ardbeg 10. One of my favorites.

Boss: (Raising one eyebrow comically) That’s an adventurous choice. You know, Robert, one of the mid-level associates, is a big scotch fan. I’m sure he could teach you about it if you’re interested in learning.

I was about to mention that I was a big scotch fan too, but before I had time to react, Robert joined our conversation. Within seconds, he and my boss were having a spirited discussion about the best speakeasies and scotch bars in the city. I perked up—after all, I have a running list of Prohibition-era cocktail spots and cigar bars to try. For my boyfriend’s last birthday, I’d actually attempted to recreate the bacon-infused bourbon old fashioned served at downtown speakeasy Please Don’t Tell. (Spoiler: it’s fantastic). However, my attempts to contribute to the conversation fell on deaf ears. Try as I might, I couldn’t even inspire either of the two to make eye contact with me as they gabbed away about Hudson Bar & Books (a spot where I’d recently enjoyed a dram of Jura and a delicious, nutty cigar). Though I’m not one to jump to conclusions, especially where gender norms are concerned, I left that happy hour wondering: did my boss think I couldn’t possibly love scotch or talk intelligently about it, just because I was a woman?

The experience deviated from what I was used to. Ordering scotch at a bar or at a party had always elicited a predictable reaction from the men I was with. “Wow, scotch neat? That’s pretty cool. You’re a cool girl.” Cool enough to join the gentleman’s scotch club and be an insider for the night. While the hot, brilliant, alcohol-swilling Cool Girl of Gillian Flynn’s creation was simply “pretending to be the woman a man wants her to be,” in these moments I got to be the “cool girl” just by being myself. But apparently my boss wasn’t buying it. And deep inside, I felt the need to prove to him that I wasn’t just a Cool Girl whose cover had been blown.

My second attempt: The office Christmas party. Armed with a glass of Macallan 18 and a steely determination, I approached my boss as he merrily chatted with Robert about pairing scotch and cheese. “I think Lagavulin is fantastic with blue or pungent cheese,” I chimed in. Ignored. Seamlessly, the conversation turned to pairing scotch and Chinese food. “The trick is,” my boss said, with the slightly crazy smile of someone who can’t believe their own genius, “to pair egg rolls with something like Cragganmore. And you know why that is?”

“Because it brings out the ginger flavors,” I responded without missing a beat, internally congratulating myself for having read the “food” section of my “World’s Best Whiskies” book a few nights before. Silence. My boss turned to look at me.

“Interesting. Your boyfriend must have taught you a few things about scotch!” The two of them drifted off to the bar while I stood there with a frozen smile on my face.

Take three: Several months later, I was hosting a small cocktail party at my apartment; a few colleagues, including my boss, were slated to attend. By way of background, my apartment décor is what my boyfriend describes as “Pottery Barn-lite”; coffee and crimson curtains, brown leather furnishings, and—my pride and joy—a dark wood bar well stocked with all my favorite scotches, from the Talisker Limited Edition I picked up on a transcontinental flight to a dignified Macallan 15. As I poured my boss a drink, I could see him taking it all in; the row of bottles with varying levels of brown liquid, the humidor on the coffee table, the tome about Islay distilleries on the bookshelf. I saw a flicker of perplexity cross his face.

“Great collection,” he said, indicating the liquor bar. “Do you actually like this stuff?”

I answered with a smile, “Yes, it’s a great hobby of mine,” trying not to enunciate my syllables in that frustrated, how-are-you-not-getting-this kind of way.

“I’ll have to chat to your boyfriend about it sometime,” he responded. “You can always tell a good man from his liquor collection!”

At this point, you may be wondering why I didn’t just give up and accept that, to this one guy, I was always going to be that woman who only faked an interest in scotch because her boyfriend drank it. But I couldn’t. I refused to accept that having an unusual interest made that interest implausible; I refused to accept that any interests should be exclusively male. Though I’d started out by caring whether my boss thought I was an impostor Cool Girl, the issue had become much bigger than that. I wanted him to understand that not only were my passions genuine, but that I was a woman very much entitled to love whatever it was that I chose to love.

The next time I saw my boss was at a firm summer event, mere days after I’d returned from a week-long trip to the Highlands of Scotland. As I waited at the bar for my martini (sometimes I actually drink things other than scotch), my boss joined me. How was my trip?

Emboldened by the martini I’d already had, I decided that I needed to take ownership of my passions. Yes; in the grand scheme of things, I wasn’t breaking any new ground, and likely wasn’t going to change my boss’ outlook on scotch, women, or the best kind of cheese to have with Lagavulin. But I could be honest.

“It was great,” I said. “I sampled more than twenty-five different scotches, visited three distilleries, and closed out every night at a world-famous whisky bar.” (Deep breath, gathering ammunition). “I brought back two bottles of scotch that aren’t even available in the United States and kept a notebook tracking the flavor profiles of everything I tried, along with a list of additions I’d like to make to my whisky bar.” (On the verge of embarrassing myself). “I’m also trying to come up with some new cocktail recipes for my next dinner party. . . “(OK, time to go for broke). “. . . I was thinking of buying an atomizer to artfully mist Islay scotch over a twist on the old fashioned. I’d love your input.”

“That sounds like a great trip,” he said. Paused. “I guess you really like scotch, then.”

[Internal cheerleader somersaults: VICTORY!]

Yes, I felt victorious—if only for a moment. But if the experience taught me anything, it’s that I really don’t have anything to prove. Though my opinions on the “gentleman’s scotch club” mentality are best saved for another day, I had always liked those moments of being welcomed into the club for what they were—a chance to run contrary to expectations, and to tap into a male-dominated conversation, social circle or professional network that might otherwise have seemed impenetrable. But my interests and passions don’t grant me a golden ticket into any club; they don’t entitle me to any admiration or special respect for being “different.” I have those passions because of who I am, without design or agenda. At the same time, I shouldn’t have to substantiate those passions four times in a row in order to be believed. The things we love are always legitimate.

With that said, I’m off to enjoy my 6 p.m. Lagavulin. With cheese.

—

By Carmen
Photo by Alex

Tags:  gender scotch social expectations work