Page 38 of Road Trip
“The rest of your group has already exited. I’ll have to ask you to do the same.”
“Oh. Well, thank you. I guess I got distracted.” She began walking in the direction of the kitchen.
“No,” Aerin said sharply. She pointed to a hallway to the right. “The exit is this way.”
As she leftthe mansion Maeve glanced down at the Tarrymore ticket brochure, which contained a coupon for five euros off a tour of the Tarrymore distillery.
It was late. She was tired, yet too restless to retire to her room, where Therese was likely passed out cold.
The path back to the inn had a discreet sign with two arrows, one pointing right toward the inn, the other toward the distillery. She turned left.
The rest of their tour group had apparently decided they too should take advantage of the coupon. They were standing just outside the entrance to what looked like a weather-beaten stable.
She hurried up to a bearded man wearing jeans, a button-down burgundy shirt, and a long leather apron. “Am I too late?” she asked, trying to catch her breath as she handed the coupon and her credit card to the ticket-taker.
“It’s never too late for tasting good whiskey,” he said, not looking up from the tablet where he’d just tapped her credit card.
“Come along then,” he said, flashing her a quick smile before gesturing to the rest of the group to gather around.
“Welcome to Tarrymore Distillery. We think we make some of the finest whiskies in the world, but I’ll leave that to you folk to decide. Follow me inside, and I’ll bore you for a bit while I tell you how we make that magic, and then, at the end, you’ll decide if the wait was worth the taste. I’m William, by the way, but they just call me Liam. You’ve gotten me by default today, because I’m actually the head distiller, but we’re short-handed today, so you’ll just have to put up with my nattering.”
Maeve saw one of the Australian men poke his partner in the ribs and waggle an eyebrow.
“Here at Tarrymore, we make what we think is the best kind of Irish whiskey, which is single pot. That means we make it in a single still. And we use a mix of malted and unmalted barley, which, happily, is grown here in Ireland.
“Now, I think we might have an American visitor in our group today,” Liam said as they entered a huge room filled with stainless steel racks holding wooden barrels. The smell of whiskey was nearly overpowering.
He nodded at Maeve. “What’s your name, then, and where are you from in the States?”
“Uh, Maeve. Maeve Dunagin. I’m from Savannah, Georgia.”
“Here to trace your Irish roots, are you?”
Dammit, she could feel her face grow hot. And now it was probably beet red.
“Something like that,” she managed.
“Well, Maeve Dunagin, it might interest you to know that these oak barrels we use to age our whiskey come all the way from Kentucky, where they know a thing or two about making spirits.”
“That is interesting,” Maeve said. “What’s so special about these barrels that you import them from Kentucky?”
He smiled broadly, revealing a small gap between his two front teeth. “Ahh, I’m glad you asked. You see, Irish whiskey, by law, must be aged for at least three years here in Ireland before it can be bottled and sold as Irish whiskey. Here at Tarrymore, we use oak barrels from Kentucky, which were previously used to age their bourbon. We like the white oak barrels because they contribute a kind of vanilla sweetness.”
Maeve nodded her understanding.
“The other thing special about those barrels is that they’re charred inside. That charring cooks the oak, allowing the sugars and vanillas in the oak to be released more quickly, yet at the same time, plays a role in making our whiskey taste more matured.”
“Those barrels from Kentucky are cheaper, right?” the taller ofthe Australians asked. “Because American law specifies their bourbon barrels can only be used once, correct?”
Liam did a slight bow from the waist. “I see you fellas know your way around a bottle of whiskey.”
“And bourbon,” his younger partner said, winking.
Now he addressed the Asian tourists, who’d been hanging on every word. “Now, you lot, you’re from Japan, I reckon?”
“Yes,” said a middle-aged woman. “My name is Akiko.”
“Japan is one of our biggest global export markets for whiskey. So I’m thinking you’ll be interested in tasting what we produce?”
