This article appears in the September 2007 issue of
The American Spectator. To subscribe to our monthly print
edition, click here.
The American dream lives on in Virginia’s Blue Ridge. Probably not
a surprise, but it may be a surprise to know that it is doing very
well in a little distillery in an old apple warehouse down at the
end of a dusty road in a little place called Sperryville. There
Rick Wasmund is trying to make the best single malt whisky in the
world. I’ve tasted enough whisky to be pretty discerning, I think,
and in my mind, he’s coming damned close.
“Single malt in Virginia?” you may ask. “Isn’t that something
the Scots make?” Sure, but there is no reason why Virginians cannot
do it just as well.
Wasmund had a bunch of sisters and no brothers, so he was
responsible for splitting and carrying firewood and keeping the
fires burning. He liked to experiment with different kinds of wood,
and noticed the different smells produced by oak, maple, locust,
and cherry. He particularly liked the way cherry smoke smelled. As
he grew up and developed a taste for drink stronger than Coca Cola,
he wondered if he couldn’t figure out how to get some of the cherry
smoke into a bottle of whisky.
Wasmund, an enterprising and friendly fellow who used to sell
insurance, got a few investors together, bought the apple
warehouse, and built himself a distillery. My guess is that people
investing in the whisky business are probably more interested in
the product than the profit, and to be sure, Wasmund told me that
at his last stockholders’ meeting batches of his single malt were
tasted by all, and the investors went away in a very happy
mood.
IT IS A SLOW-MOVING SUNDAY afternoon in July, and I am chatting
with Wasmund in his distillery in Sperryville, a couple of hours west of
Washington. I settle into an old rocking chair and Wasmund brings
out a bottle of batch #13, his latest, which we slowly sip as we
talk. We are surrounded by the kiln and the still, sacks of barley,
some old woodworking machinery and a woodstove and other stuff that
you might expect to find in an old apple barn. And, of course,
barrels of whisky. Wasmund lights up a cigar and we talk about his
American dream. What could be more congenial than that?
Bourbon and Scotch — which make up the bulk of all the whisky
in the world — are both made from wheat, barley, and corn (maize
in the case of Scotch), which is blended to make a
consistent-tasting drink. But the Scots found that by using only
malted barley, and making each batch in small quantities, the
result — single malt Scotch whisky — was far superior. Being
Scots, they also liked the fact that they could get far more money
for each bottle.
Wasmund wanted to make a single malt, but he did not want to
just make more Scotch. After much experimentation — and being his
own taster — he got what he was looking for. He starts with
barley, he tells me, purchased from a Virginia farm, which he malts
himself — a simple process of dampening it, spreading it out on a
concrete floor, raking it periodically, and, when it sprouts,
putting it in a kiln to dry it out and stop the germination
process. Having little else to use, the Scots burn peat in the
kiln, and the smoke filters up through the malted barley, leaving a
musky and smoky flavor. But no peat for Wasmund. He needed to get
the cherry smoke into the bottle, so some cherry wood, mixed with a
little apple, did the trick.
The barley is ground into a sweet and smoky mash, hot water is
added, a little yeast, and the fermentation begins. Later the
whisky is distilled and distilled again, one batch at a time, and
then goes into old bourbon barrels which, by law, can only be used
once (that is why bourbon barrels are readily available at your
local garden store for planters). Once again, Wasmund departs from
the norm. Single malt Scotch sits for several years, during which
the alcohol absorbs flavors from the oak barrel and blends to make
a smooth and palatable drink. Wasmund thought about having barrels
made out of cherry but instead submerges little bags of chips of
toasted cherry and apple wood into the whisky, taking, he says,
more time and passion than could be expected from a larger
operation. After six months, the whisky is hand bottled, the taxes
are paid, and it is sent off for sale.
Experienced whisky drinkers are skeptical about anything that
cures for less than several years. By law, Scotch must stay in the
barrel for three years, bourbon for two, and premium brands often
sit for far longer. But Wasmund found that the apple and cherry
actually accelerates the process sufficiently that six months is
plenty of time. He sent a sample that he’d made six weeks earlier
to the Scotch Whisky Institute and asked it to guess how old it
was. The response? Seven to eight years.
The proof, of course, is in the pudding. Cherry and apple do
more than hurry this whisky along; they leave a very pleasant and
unique sweet and woody flavor — one that evokes the calm beauty of
Virginia’s Blue Ridge. Plenty of moonshine whisky has come out of
those hills before, but nothing like this lovely single malt. And
when Rick Wasmund takes it to market, he doesn’t even have to
outrun the revenuers.
