Gentleman Jack

I don’t like Jack Daniel’s. I find it’s a bit too sweet for my liking. It also tends to remind me of juvenile alcoholic L.A. rock stars but after going on the distillery tour in Lynchburg Tennessee, I have a new found respect for it.

The county is stunning. America’s oldest distillery is set into the side of a lush hill with trickling brooks. The staff here takes it so easy that you feel like you are on Uncle Jack’s farm instead of the largest and most profitable distillery in the United States and possibly the world.

Jack Daniel’s is still made in the traditional way from a mixture of 80% corn, rye, and malted barley. The water emanates from a limestone cave on the property. What separates Jack Daniel’s from Bourbon is the way it is filtered through sugar maple fired charcoal on site. The charcoal filtering adds no colour only flavour. Gentleman Jack, a notch above the regular, is filtered twice through charcoal. The best of the best is Jack Daniel’s single barrel. It is made only from the barrels at the top of their warehouse.

More about barrels. The barrels are still hand made by a cooper in the traditional methods with a mixture of different woods, most of which is oak, and then charred. These barrels experience the largest temperature changes throughout the seasons causing the most amount of condensation. The whisky breathes through these inner charred planks giving it its colour and some of its flavour creating what they describe as a more “mellow” taste.

What struck me most about the place is the smell. Smell is probably my worst sense second only to hearing but here I was bombarded by yummy smells. My first step out of the rental car and I was welcomed by the sweet smell of corn mash. The damp and smokey whiskey smell flooded the charcoal filtering plant causing my fellow tourists to sigh. Myself included.

And the taste? Get on with it already. Don’t ask me. The only day I could make the tour was on a Sunday. Lynchburg is a dry county. Sadly like most southern states, booze is not sold on Sundays. I was left to drool and pant on the window of the darkened bottle-filled gift shop with its array of liquid souvenirs. The free Lynchburg lemonade at the end of the tour was a classy touch but it did nothing to satiate my wanton thirst.

If you have a large group you can throw your own private party here up on the hill. In true American fashion, for less than fifty bucks a head, you get all the Jack and BBQ you can consume. The only catch is that you have to rent you own bus to drop off and pick up your mates.

I can hear his cursed words under his defeated breath, “I should have worked at Hertz.” I would not want to be the poor underpaid bus rental sod who has to clean it up upon its return.