Thirty years ago, I turned my back on Scotch. Not out of spite. More like economic realism, a philosophical tilt toward bourbon as the people’s drink. Bourbon was cheaper, sure. More democratic, too — domestically sourced, generally affordable, and free of the ceremonial hush that can accompany Scotch, especially the older, peatier, pricier expressions. Bourbon welcomed you with corn and vanilla. Scotch, at least the ones I used to love, asked you to prove yourself worthy.

I suppose my relationship with Scotch began long before adulthood tried to define it. In high school we drank Cutty Sark. Not with reverence or even understanding, but with the reckless abandon that comes when you’re too young to know what you’re doing but old enough to want to do it anyway. We misused it, the way young people misuse many things: with bravado, with ignorance, sometimes in pursuit of identity, more often just chasing oblivion.

But we can’t blame the recklessness on the product. Cutty Sark, with its nautical branding and pale gold hue, was our first passport into a world we couldn’t yet read, let alone pronounce. It wasn’t good or bad — it was simply potent. Looking back, it was a gateway spirit, not in the cautionary sense but in the literal one: it opened the door to something mysterious, storied, adult. Even as we abused it, something of its character stuck with me — the suggestion of ritual, of legacy, of a drink meant to be respected, not raided.

But lately, Scotch has begun to haunt me again. Not as a ghost, but as an old friend I might have misunderstood.

The drift back started with a bottle of Macallan 12 Year Old, buried in the back of a closet, dusty and forgotten, perhaps like my own more youthful pretensions. One quiet night — glass in hand, a little ice — what I found wasn’t merely flavor but memory, some measure of meaning steeped in smoke and oak. That first sip re-awakened something: not only the taste of Scotch but a whole category of reverence and restraint I had left behind.

Two decades ago, a friend told me about another friend — a man with a Fortress of Solitude built not of steel or Arctic ice but lined, wall to wall, with $100,000 worth of Scotch. The way I imagined it, this room was more chapel than liquor........

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