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Letter from the Editor by Marcy Nathan, Creative Director

I have colleagues who obsess about bourbon, with whiskey collections organized by distillery. I like to drink those special reserve and bucket- list bourbons, too —especially when somebody else is paying for them. For this issue’s photography, I borrowed some of their bourbon bottles, including a 12-year-old W.L. Weller and 20-year-old Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve. They fussed over their precious bottles having to go to New Orleans for the photo shoot as if they were children heading off for a first semester at Tulane. It was a helluva hullabaloo. My first taste of bourbon came when I was still in diapers, rubbed on my gums to help alleviate teething pain. My parents would give us a spoonful when we were sick too. And we were allowed to have a taste of their drinks on special occasions (or at least, allowed to eat the garnish). In high school, we spiked slushy Coca-Cola ICEEs with whiskey pilfered from a parent’s liquor cabinet. In college, everybody drank Jack and Coke. I still like a Whiskey Cola now and then, but now that I do know a jack more about bourbon, my standby is an Old-Fashioned. (See page ...) It was love at first sip. I had my first Old-Fashioned at the venerable Antoine’s Restaurant in the French Quarter. Numa, my family’s designated waiter, made the cocktail tableside, muddling sugar with Angostura Bitters, adding the bourbon, and garnishing it with a cherry and twist of orange peel. I still judge every Old-Fashioned by that one, and every waiter by Numa. Here’s what I know after months spent researching this issue. Bourbon is not just a drink around here; it’s part of the culture. It can still be a bit intimidating, however, especially around these big whiskey types who can rattle off obscure tasting notes and the histories of various distilleries. At the end of the day, though, it’s just fancy

American whiskey — in my case, served with an orange peel and cherry. But try telling that to a serious collector. A few weeks ago, after unloading those borrowed bottles

of bourbon and memorabilia, I texted a colleague in Thibodaux: “Help!” I wrote. “What do I do? One of the boxes is wet! I think there’s a crack in the Weller.” The text reply: “Oh jeez.” (That’s an 80 proof curse word at best, instead of the expected cask strength, which I’m sure he muttered —OK, screamed — out loud.) Of course the only thing cracked open was the opportunity to play a joke. When I returned the bottles to Thibodaux, someone tried to tell me the Pappy was missing. Puh-lease. I invented this game.

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