Beam, Straight Up

by Fred Noe

  “Fred, It’s Shirley Bekins. Is Eddie there?”

  I’d be staring square at Eddie Bekins, elbows on the bar, head in glass.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s definitely not here.”

  “You positive?”

  “One hundred percent. No sign of Eddie. You might want to check church, I think there’s bingo tonight.”

  That all changed one night.

  “Fred? This is Betsy Watkins. Is Tommy there?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “I’m positive, ma’am. He’s definitely not here.”

  “So, there’s no one there with a beer gut, a UK sweatshirt, and a sorry ass?”

  That description could have fit just about everyone in Toddy’s. “No, ma’am. No one here like that.”

  “Well, Fred, I think you’re full of shit, because I’m in the phone booth across the street and I can see him sitting right across the bar from you.”

  I looked out the window. Sure enough, there was sweet Betsy inside the phone booth. When she stepped outside and gave me the finger, I quietly hung up the phone. “Last call, brother,” I said to Tommy. “Time to get back to your little princess.”

  After that, my motto was, “If you’re here, you’re here.” And I stuck with it. I had enough trouble in my life. I didn’t need any more from The Wives of Bardstown, Kentucky.

  I also didn’t need any trouble from the FBI. Toddy’s was rumored to have been a place where a man could place a bet or two. Legend had it that it had been raided some years before, but I could never verify it. Toddy was mum on the subject, as were the regulars. Code of silence when it came to that issue. But every so often, someone from out of town would come in and want to lay some money down. Put it on a horse, bet against the spread of the UK game. I never knew what to do and when I asked Toddy, he would get more agitated than usual, tell me to throw them out, say he didn’t know what the hell they were talking about, that he ran a legitimate business, and storm away to mop up the back room. My guess was there was a time where you could get more than a drink there, but those times had changed and Toddy, whether it he liked it or not, was now on the up and up.

  I worked at Toddy’s for more than three years, and as I said, I can’t say I didn’t like it. When it was slow, I did my studying. I had finished up at St. Catherine and was now attending Bellarmine University in Louisville during the day. But while I was working on my degree, I was getting my real education every night. In a lot of ways, my job at Toddy’s helped prepare me for my future.

  It was there that I learned how to get along with people, listen to them, humor them, entertain them. It was at that small liquor store and bar on the west side of town that I got to see working men up close, hear their life stories, their hopes, their disappointments. I saw how hard work can make a man, but could also break one.

  I also saw what alcohol could do to you, how too much of a good thing could turn bad. How having “one for the road” wasn’t a good idea. Oddly enough, it was while working at a bar that I first learned the lesson of drinking smart, in moderation.

  I also learned about Kentucky, my home state. Even though there were mostly Bardstown regulars in Toddy’s, a lot of people from other areas dropped in to buy packaged liquor on their way somewhere. Coal miners from the eastern part of the state, horse people from Lexington, city and bourbon people from Louisville. Someone once said Kentucky is like three states in one, since every region is so different. The mountains in the east, the bluegrass and horse farms in the center, the Ohio River and hills (or knobs, as we call them) in the west. But there are common traits, I noticed, things that tie all Kentuckians together. Honesty. Humility. A work ethic. An ability to roll with whatever life gives you. And a sense of humor. More than anything, I think we’ve got that.

  We have a lot to be proud of in Kentucky. For a small state, we produce the world’s best whiskey, the fastest horses, and a lot of multimillionaire basketball players thanks to the University of Kentucky (all right, and sometimes Louisville).

  What really sets us apart, though, is the priority we put on family and friends. They come first. Always have, always will. When you get right down to it, Kentucky is like one big small town. Everyone seems to know everyone, everyone seems to be pulling for each other. When someone from Kentucky makes it, we all make it. We kind of have a permanent underdog thing going, an us-against-them mentality. We’re not East Coast, we’re not West Coast, we’re not Midwest, and despite how we talk, we’re not really even South. We are who we are. A hilly little state that’s been around longer than most, full of tough but decent people. And it was Toddy’s, a shoebox of a bar in my hometown, that first made me see and appreciate that. Strange where you can learn things.

  After I got my degree in business administration, I immediately put it to good use by hitting the road with Hank Williams, Jr. and his band. Hank was something of a family friend back then, Booker knew and liked him, and the company (per my original suggestion, I like to point out) had started sponsoring him because, at the time, he was a devoted consumer of our product.

  The family wasn’t thrilled with my decision. I finally had a college degree, I was part of a prominent family, and here I was running around with a band. But I wanted to get out of Bardstown, spread my wings, do something different. I knew the distillery was there and that the ghosts were waiting for me, but I wasn’t sure I wanted that life. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure what I wanted, so I hit the road and hit it hard.

  I actually didn’t spend all that much time with Hank. I spent most of my time with his band. I was the jack of all trades for them, doing this, doing that. In addition to my primary job, making sure everyone was well provisioned with bourbon, I helped the roadies haul and set up gear. Sometimes I played security guard, kept the fans away from Hank, or helped his manager collect and count the money from the promoter. (They always paid in cash.)

  When I wasn’t working, I was having a big time in whatever town we rolled into. We were a mobile party, I’ll tell you that. The bus had Hank’s name on the outside, so everyone knew who we were. We could stop in the middle of a desert in the middle of the night and within minutes, there would be girls pounding on the doors of the bus, wanting in. We obliged every time.

  I loved the life, no doubt about that—this was as close as I was ever going to get to being a rock star—so I did it off and on for a few years, soaking it all up. I don’t remember too many specifics about those times, to be honest, just bits and pieces: sleeping on the bus with the boys, eating in coffee shops, passing the bottle around before and after the concert. I remember one night, after the show, Dixie, the piano player (a man named Dixie could only play in a band), pulled out a gun and shot out the TV in our hotel room. I guess he couldn’t find the remote. I remember another: sitting on the floor of the bus, counting piles of twenty-dollar bills from the last show and sticking it all in a big brown paper bag when I was done, like I had just robbed a bank. Like I said, bits and pieces of memories swirling around.

  It was in Paris, Tennessee, when Hank asked me to officially work for him. We were in a parking lot shooting off hand-engraved pistols that he had just given everyone for Christmas (he was pretty creative in the gift-giving department; no ties or fruit cakes from him) when he asked if I wanted to be the band’s road manager. Up until that point, I had more or less been freelancing, working in an unofficial capacity, getting paid here and there under the table. But now, though, hell, I might even get a business card, maybe even a W-2 form.

  This was close to a dream come true. Life on the road. Seeing the world. Girls, partying, music. And a regular paycheck. This wasn’t some garage band. Hank was a huge star, his career off the charts. He was playing to sold-out crowds around the country and making music videos. (One of his videos, “Young Country,” even starred Booker. It won top
country music video of the year two years in a row.) I could latch on to Hank’s tail and ride it for a while. I was in my mid-twenties, hadn’t seen much of the world, if anything (when I traveled with the band in my unofficial capacity, it had been pretty much been in Kentucky and Tennessee), so I was happy with the offer.

  But then the damnedest thing happened. Instead of saying yes, I told the band that I had to think about it for a few days, and I did. I’m not the most introspective person in the world—usually I do what my gut tells me, try not to overthink things—but I was conflicted. While life helping to manage a big band was appealing, down deep, I knew I had another calling; down deep, something was pulling me in another direction. I called Booker, told him about the offer, and asked for his advice.

  “That ain’t no life for you, boy,” he said. “Maybe we can finally find something for you at the plant.”

  I think there comes a time in everyone’s life when you have to look in the mirror, take stock of who you are, where you’re going, and make a decision on what direction you should head in. Crossroads, they call them. Some people might come to them just once in their lives, others a few times. Regardless, they’re important, and most likely, the decisions are hard.

  I thought about what Booker had said and I knew he was right. Working for Hank was no life for me. I was no rock star. I called Booker back, told him I wanted a job. It was time to go home. I was a Beam, and Beams make bourbon.

  BOURBON PRIMER

  How to Taste Bourbon

  Since you now know how to make bourbon the right way, I guess it would only be right to know how to taste it the right way. All you need is a nose, a mouth, and a glass. Hell, sometimes you don’t even need a glass. A bottle will do just fine.

  But to do it right, get a glass and pour yourself a shot. (Don’t overdo it now; we’re tasting, not drinking.) Take a look at its color, assess it. All bourbons are brown, of course; as I pointed out, they get that color from aging inside the barrel. As a general rule, the darker a bourbon is, the more complex in flavor and the higher proof it is. So if it’s dark, batten down the hatches.

  Next, swirl the bourbon a bit to aerate it, mix it up with the air and let it breathe, then put your nose deep into the glass and inhale deeply. Make sure you keep your lips parted when you do this, that’s key. This way, you’ll taste the bourbon before you actually taste it; you’ll feel it floating around in your mouth. You’re going to smell different things when you do this: honey, tobacco, wood, fruit. Everyone is going to detect something different, and it’s all good.

  After you’ve done that, it’s time to taste it. Now the tongue has different taste points: the tip of it detects sweetness, the sides spices, and the center is pretty much neutral. So you want to involve your whole mouth in the process. The best way to do that is to take a sip and move it around the sides of your mouth, work it hard, chew it a little. We call this the Kentucky Chew. So chew it a little, then swallow it. Depending on what you’re drinking, you’re going to taste different things. More fruit, some wood, some sugar, a little fire. Once again, all good—especially if it’s one of our bourbons.

  There’s people out there, spirit writers, smart people who taste whiskey for a living and write about what they taste. (Hell, I thought I had a good job.) While many of them are my friends, I have to admit, I think they sometimes go too far in trying to describe a bourbon. I’ve seen bourbons described as tasting like “new-mown grass” and “soot.” Terms like that don’t exactly resonate with me. (How many times have you tasted soot?) But they’re professionals, and I guess they know what they’re doing, so I’ll let them do their job.

  When I lead a tasting, I try not to “overdescribe” the bourbons to the people in the audience. I think taste is an individual thing; everyone detects something different and I don’t want to influence them with my “expert opinion.” It’s up to you if you taste honey, grass, or soot. (If you taste all three at the same time, you’re drinking one weird bourbon. . . .)

  A few other tasting notes: if you’re tasting a few bourbons, start with the lowest proof first and gradually make your way up to the highest proof. This way you won’t be shocking your taste buds. Also, when you’re done tasting one bourbon, make sure you have a sip of water or a bite of a unflavored cracker to clean your palette before moving on to the next sample. One more final note: you should initially taste your bourbons straight up, or “neat,” to get their full aroma and flavor. After you’re done, you should then add a splash or two of bottled water. (Try to avoid tap water if you can; as we say, the chlorine don’t do the bourbon proud.)

  The final step in the tasting process is to assess “the finish.” This is kind of a fancy way to say how the bourbon feels in your throat or stomach—the lingering sensation it creates—after you swallowed it. Some bourbons have a long finish, they stay with you, others have a short one, there and gone. A lot of the finish is determined by the age and proof. Usually, the higher proof, the longer the finish, but once again, it’s an individual thing, so it’s your call.

  CHAPTER 5

  STARTING OUT

  I started on the bottling line. Clermont plant. Night shift. Relief supervisor. In other words, they didn’t put my picture on the bottle right away. It wasn’t glamorous, and I was on my feet a lot. I remember wondering after my first night what Hank and the boys were up to, where they were. A couple of weeks earlier, I had been partying in Nashville, living the life; now I was in a hot and noisy room watching bottles whirl around on an assembly line. Four PM to 1 AM. Sometimes 4 PM to 4 AM. Half hour for lunch or whatever it is you eat at 10 at night.

  Luke, this is your destiny

  I need to be clear on one thing here: nobody, not Booker or my cousins, nobody forced me to come work for the business. Despite the legacy, despite the generations of Beams working there, no one pressured me, or even encouraged me for that matter, to go make whiskey. Booker in particular was very impartial on the subject. He wanted me to make up my own mind, be my own man.

  “The distillery’s not for everyone,” he told me when I came back from the road. We were sitting at the kitchen table, waiting on breakfast from Mom.

  “I know that.”

  “Last time. You sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  I admit, since I had returned home, I had been asking myself that question a lot. And I came up with an honest answer: “Because I think this is supposed to be what I do. This is what I know.”

  Booker looked hard at me. “You know, this isn’t a party. No Hank Williams, Jr. It’s work. Hard work.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He kind of chewed on his bottom lip, mulled things over. Booker was big into mulling. “All right,” he said. “We’re going to do it right then. You going to learn it from the ground up.”

  That was the reason he started me in the bottling house (where we filled bottles with liquor). It was the only part of the business he didn’t know. Booker had never worked there, so he had never been able to teach me much about it. It was a gap in my education, as he put it, so that’s where my bourbon career officially started.

  I can’t say I loved it at first. It wasn’t the most interesting job. Plus, the other workers there were wary of me; polite but distant. I found out later they thought I was a spy. Jim Beam’s great-grandson, checking up on them, ready to report back. But after a while, they saw that I was one of them, just another guy making a living. No special treatment. Bring my lunch bucket, just like them. Pretty soon, once they realized I wasn’t tape-recording their conversations or taking notes and running back to Booker, they relaxed.

  I remember the night they officially accepted me into the fold. I was on the bottling line overseeing a run of margarita mix (while we only make bourbon at the distillery, we sometimes bottle other products there before we ship them out) when one of the older guys, a mechanic, told me there was a problem with one of the palletizing machines and I needed to check it out right
away. I had nothing to do with the maintenance of the palletizing machines, and I told him that.

  “Just go on now, go down there and check it out. Something needs your attention. Get your ass back here when you’re done.”

  So I went over to one of machines off in the corner, and sure enough, there was the thing that needed my attention: a cold, tall margarita, waiting for me. I picked up that glass, turned around, and toasted my coworkers, then threw that thing back fast. From that moment on, I was just one of the boys.

  I ended up liking the work. It was important, and it was straightforward. I liked the fact that we were some of the last people to see our bourbons before they were shipped off to points around the world.

  Every so often, I got to do something that made a difference. After I moved over to the labeling room, I soon learned that we needed a system to track which cases were going where. So I came up with a code that we would put on each label before we put it on a bottle. Eventually it became known as the “F. Noe Code” and we used it for years, until computers came along. I was proud of that code. Made me think I had an impact.

  We had some interesting situations pop up in the labeling room, things that kept us scrambling. During that time we were expanding overseas, shipping our product to Australia, Germany, Japan, South Africa, and Russia. We had to come up with different labels for the different countries, and in some cases we weren’t sure what we were putting on the label. No one spoke Japanese in the shipping department in Clermont, so we had to call over to Tokyo and ask our local sales contact how to spell “bourbon.” In South Africa, we learned that we couldn’t use the word “proof” on our labels; apparently it was a derogatory term down there.

  Another interesting situation: We used massive containers to ship our products. We sent them overseas to Russia or the Far East full and they would come back empty on ships. Well, supposedly empty. More than once, workers unloading the containers in Europe found people, whole families hiding in them, stowaways, trying to sneak into the West free of charge. Like I said, interesting situations.