The National Drink:. Slainte!

On my first visit to the Celtic Connections, I stopped by some of the booths. There were tastings at  one: some special Shetland gin (flavored w/ seaweed?!) and a blended whisky. ( Sadly, the chocolatier was stranded by weather, so there were just a few for show.  A pity, they looked amazing!) I realized that, here I was in Scotland, and I wasn't drinking Scotch!  So I I did some research and then wrote to an expert....

Hi KP, I plan to stop by a well-rated whisky bar in Glasgow (the Pot Still). Any suggestions as to what I should order?

Here's a really fun rebuttal to a poor Trip Advisor review of said whisky bar :

• So all told you spent 20 seconds waiting at the bar in a visit that lasted a minute and a quarter. The youngest Scotch we sell waits three years in cask before its even considered a whisky, let alone ready to be bottled. The oldest whisky we have waited 50 years before being bottled. When it went into cask, no-one knew who Sergeant Pepper was and the UK was trying to get INTO Europe.
• If you feel 20 seconds is too long in your life to hang on in that company, then maybe you're not ready for whisky yet. We'll be happy to help you with recommendations when you are. 

KP's reply:

I guess it depends what single malts they've got. My own favorites, depending on mood are:
Smoky: Lagavulin
Spicy: Talisker
Light: Glenfarclas
Sherried: Macallan
Sweet: Cragganmore
The regular offerings of the above are aged 10 or 12 years; Lagavulin is usually 16 years. You might want to try a sip of anything they've got 25 years or older, but do it first before alcohol from other tastings numbs your palate. Ask for the darkest they've got, I suppose, as it will have drawn the most flavor from the cask, which will have held wine, port, or sherry, not a bourbon barrel. If they are serving cask-strength, take a sip straight and then add drops of water.

So, armed with this advice, I walked through the ice and snow to the Pot Still.  I had about 2 hours before the doors opened for the Tannahill Weavers concert.  I had to ask directions, as I only had a vague remembrance of the address. I called it the Still Pot, but they knew what I was talking about, and I was close.

It looked sweet:  an old building with a hanging sign picturing a copper pot.  But when I stepped in, I was gobsmacked.  It was like a college bar, only filled with 30-somethings.  It was packed, standing room only, the bar to the left, and large tables and booths to the right.  In front of me was a wide space dotted with columns around which people were clustered.  Towards the back a half flight of stairs parallel to the back wall  led to an open landing, lined  on three sides with a dark wooden bench.  Small tables and short stools stood in front of the bench. and small tables. Open wooden railings separated them from the drop to the main floor. People stood 4 deep at the bar and movement was going to require shoulder tapping and wriggling. My glasses steamed up in the heat.  The noise of conversation was an assault, and you could only hear the music as a background thrum, just the bass line, fuzzy, deep, and tuneless. All that was missing was the fug of smoke:  it appeared that smoking was not allowed inside.

I shouldered my way to the bar and got the attention of a young dark-haired woman in a t-shirt.  She looked about 18, but she seemed to know her stuff.  We shouted back and forth a bit, and I said that I thought I preferred dark and smoky.  It was all I could remember of K's advice.  She brought out 4 shot glasses and climbed the ladder to pull out 4  bottles that might fit the bill. She took the time to describe each, uncorked them and let me sniff before she poured.  One was so peaty as to be medicinal. I went for her favorite:  smokier and less astringent than the rest. It left a  sharp numbness on the back of the tongue, and had a little salty aftertaste.  She wrote it down for me:  Leadaig - Tobermary. Isle of Mull.  I don't recall how old it was, but I think it was around 10.  On looking it up, I discovered that it indeed has a high reputation. 

She poured me a wee dram, neat, and I clutched it as I surveyed the room. a little helplessly, I asked if there was another room, and she said no, but I could stand at the bar, and welcome.  I  took off my long black wool coat, long scarf, and sweater, hanging them from a hook under the bar. I stood for a bit, and then thought I saw some space up in the loft.  It was hemmed in by people, but I thought, hey this is Europe, I can join people, right?  Turned out, it was an empty table, and I edged onto the bench.  piling mybelongings next to me.

To my left was a young male couple drinking beer, phones in hand, talking quietly together.  To my right a quartet of 30-ish women, screeched stories at each other.  In front, a group of young men in white shirts and vests dominated the space.  Down below was the crowded room.  Above was the metal ceiling, patterned in stars and ovals and circles. It was very complicated and reminded me of Macclesfield silk patterns. 

 I managed to take a picture of the room before my phone ran out of juice. 

Pot Still: building from 1835, has over 300 malt whisky varieties. I had one.

An elderly couple with glasses and bad teeth came and perched on stools at my table, after I nodded agreement.  But they didn't talk to me or each other, just sat bundled up and sipping their drinks.  I did discover that they too were in town for the Celtic Connection, killing time before their concert (which was earlier than mine.)

An elderly gent in tweed, wearing a cap, sat at the railing.  When the couple left, another gent joined him, taking one of the stools from the table to my right, and sitting by the railing with his friend. 

My bartender came by to bus the tables and I asked her for a pen.  She brought it, and I wrote, partly to pass the time, partly to get my impressions down.

A large man with white shirt and short black vest, stomach hanging over belt stands up.  He smiles and says something to the table, then walks down the stairs and out the door, followed by another young man.  The vest is half way up his back. Although I don't see him take his coat and assume he's going out for a smoke, he doesn't return.  Brrrr.

What with the noise and the accents, I can't understand anything people say.  I smile and nod a lot. 

Lights were dimming.  I probably had been there around an hour, time enough for the evening lighting to kick in.  I finished my wee dram and donned my layers.  As I left the table, the two gents took it over. I wish I had offered to trade places with them earlier.  I moseyed back up the street for my concert.