"Van Winkle’s humble manner with a whiskey that critics herniate themselves describing is rooted in an abiding family aversion to high science and cold connoisseurship. His grandfather Julian P. 'Pappy' Van Winkle (he appears lipping a stogie on the labels that bear his name) “had a sign at the old distillery that said, ‘No Chemists Allowed,’ Julian says. “He didn’t have a lab, just some litmus paper and a hydrometer to get the proof right. He believed all you need to make fine bourbon are Mother Nature and Father Time.' "
"If you know what Pappy Van Winkle is, you're already mad at me. If you don't, I'm about to change your life. Pappy, officially called Family Reserve, is the top-of-the-line bourbon made by The Old Rip Van Winkle Distillery. It comes in 15, 20, and 23 years old. There's a cult."
"Not only should connoisseurs of bourbon not read this article, neither should persons preoccupied with the perils of alcoholism, cirrhosis, esophageal hemorrhage, cancer of the palate, and so forth—all real enough dangers. I, too, deplore these afflictions. But, as between these evils and the aesthetic of bourbon drinking, that is, the use of bourbon to warm the heart, to reduce the anomie of the late twentieth century, to cure the cold phlegm of Wednesday afternoons, I choose the aesthetic. What, after all, is the use of not having cancer, cirrhosis, and such, if a man comes home from work every day at five-thirty to the exurbs of Montclair or Memphis and there is the grass growing and the little family looking not quite at him but just past the side of his head, and there's Cronkite on the tube and the smell of pot roast in the living room, and inside the house and outside in the pretty exurb has settled the noxious particles and the sadness of the old dying Western world, and him thinking: 'Jesus, is this it? Listening to Cronkite and the grass growing?' "