It’s weird to open a 1967 wild turkey airplane mini. The immutable distillation of past experience just sitting there, under a tax strip. We have wild turkey 101 now, and protests, and riots, wealth inequality, and dudes seeking out vintage Campari and it feels weird to taste something sitting in stasis for over half a century. It’s still wild turkey but a callback to a deceptively gentle Don Draper era.
The consumers were bored of the bottled in bond protections and low proof Bourbon was made for a very particular customer. Now we get Basil Hayden’s to make people who don’t actually like bourbon feel special and alive. You can watch your coworker who loves HGTV pour it over a ton of ice and declare he recently found out he likes NEGRONIS have you had one? These people existed in 1967.
To sip this now it feels like a strong chardonnay by contrast. It has a ton of Jazz apple, candy corn, honeycomb and feels like you are polishing off the bottom of cask strength previously served on melted ice. It’s simple and, in a way unremarkable. The fact that some liquid can sit for decades and produce this effect is in itself highly remarkable.
Fifty years from now my stretch marks will be bionic and I’ll be asking Cyberdine why my transferred sentience also has a big forehead and the engineer will guffaw and take a sip from 161 proof bookers and explain to the intern that people previously had a Cartesian sense of entitlement to their self and that the term “my” is an old tymie slur before universal consciousness uploads came into vogue. And I will have cyber stretch marks.