A town made famous by Jack Daniels.
A place no self-respecting drinker would miss on a tour of Tennessee.
And I’m a self-respecting drinker.
So I headed south from Nashville, to the hometown of one of the great alcoholic drinks in the world.
Dawdling I got there mid-afternoon after a lateish start, so it was with more than a modicum of restraint that I opted to simply drive by, with plans to take a tour on the morrow, when I would have an entire day.
I searched for the closest iteration of Hotel Walmart and headed about 12 miles east in Tullahoma.
Just before I arrived I saw a sign for the “Historic George Dickel Distillery” stated to be about a mile away.
I’m familiar with George’s work, so quickly altered my plans to drop in there first, before heading back to Lynchburg.
I’m glad I did.
After a peaceful night of tv catch-up courtesy of Kodi, which has been my go to link for sport, tv and movies, I set out to see George’s place.
I got there early, and as a result, the next scheduled tour had one participant – just me.
George’s place
Judy, my lovely guide, took me on a wonderful and informative tour. I was keen to properly understand the distilling process, and George was the perfect place to start. They still do everything old school, they use old time tools, including 1950s graphing computers, and are proudly home to the only female master distiller in the US.
It had such a homely, personal feel to it, from the rocking chairs in the waiting room, to the small room which is the only place they are legally allowed to offer you a taste of their products, which, btw are ridiculously good. If you ever see their No 12 available snap it up – my favorite drink so far on this trip.
A note of explanation though, the number 12 has nothing to do with the age of the bourbon. Like Jack Daniels being a no 7 Tennessee whiskey, the number is not determinative of anything. The key to the numbers has been lost in the ages and various people spout various ideas on what they mean. The most credible I’ve heard is that they are some sort of tax code from back in the day, there is/was a No 5 whiskey made in Nashville for instance, and no two whiskies have been known to bear the same number.
My tour over, it was back to Charlotte and the reverse trip back to Lynchburg.
Jack is a huge facility, the biggest maker of Tennessee whiskey in the world, and has nearly 1 million barrels (53 gallons each) ageing at anyone time, in 80 plus rickhouses.
The entry hall is professionally produced and the tour is slicker than at George’s, which you should expect, simply on scale. They put you on a bus to take you uphill, after which you slowly amble back down to the tasting room over an hour and a half.
The tasting is great, I learned a few things about Jack that I didn’t know, like Gentleman Jack is intended to be a much softer and smoother drink than the famous old no.7. I compared what I had learned at George’s with what I learned here, like the difference in char rating on the barrels, the mash mix recipes, how many feet of charcoal the whiskey is filtered through (which by the way is the biggest difference between Tennessee Whiskey and Bourbon) – I was becoming the quintessential 2 min expert on something (like I haven’t done that before).
I didn’t buy anything after the tasting – their products are too ubiquitous back home (btw we are Jack’s second biggest overseas market behind the UK)and to be honest I preferred George’s number 12 (which I had bought a bottle of). Who would have thunk ?
With time on my hand I thought I would fit in the other distillery in the area, Pritchard’s, who specialise in flavoured rums, whiskeys and liqueurs.
I’ve set my Garmin to avoid highways, as I’ve found the alternative routes of America much more interesting, so far with good effect.
Today not so much.
Garmin directed me down backroads, including some unpaved dirt tracks, before giving me instructions to turn on to a bridge to cross the nearby river.
As you can imagine I didn’t make it across (or even try). After some backtracking I finally made my way to Pritchard’s but was a little late for the tour. I asked if I could do a tasting on its own and after a quick consult they said yes. The owner’s wife took me to the tasting room, and just as she was launching into the Pritchard’s story, the previous tour (one couple) and their guide came in. She handed over to her, leaving 3 of us tasting (a much less daunting idea than me on my own).
Pritchard’s is a family owned distillery, smallbatch production, but their range is huge. They make somewhere in the vicinity of 20 different products from 12 year old rum to a fudge brownie liqueur. And they are generous – all of us got to taste as many as we wanted – it would have been around 12 to 15 of the products on offer before we felt a little guilty. I don’t know how they do – I suspect what they do might technically be in breach of laws (for instance Jack and George can only pour each person 1 oz/30 ml), but they might be in a different county (Jack is in a technically dry county). As I was about to leave I asked how much the tasting was – it was free! Hats off to a small business that makes such a generous gesture to broaden their name. I’m not sure if they distribute to Australia, but please if you ever see their product give it a try.
Day done, I need to find a resting place. The nearest town of any size that might have mobile reception was Fayetteville, TN. It also has a HW (you can figure that out), so off we went. Needing a bite and a beer after a day of hard work sipping various 10 ml pours of whiskies, yelp, foursquare and google all recommended the best place in Fayetteville – Tammy’s Outback (the name alone should have been entreaty enough).
Let it be said, the interweb was bang on. Tammy’s is fantastic small town bar, full of regulars, live music, brilliant bar tenders and Tammy still works to this day in her own bar. And it’s the place of my most humbling, yet uplifting moment so far.
As I do, I got chatting – within 10 mins of being there the bartender just gave me a coozy (we call them stubby holders, which Americans find hilarious), told me to just leave Charlotte in the parking lot for as long as I wanted, and I was talking to one of the locals – an ex-military guy by the name of Tim.
We shared some stories, he bought me a beer – everything was great. I excused myself to head to the restroom, whilst Tim got his check and after a few minutes came back to my seat. About 15 mins later, I thought about dinner – the steak special, which I had discussed with Tim. As I ordered it I was informed that unbeknownst to me, Tim had already paid for it.
He didn’t tell me, he didn’t want any acknowledgement or thanks – he simply did a true act of generosity. Now I’ve been known to do similar random acts of kindness (I once bought Adam Gilchrist and his wife dinner in a Perth restaurant) but I’ve never had it done to me.
It was humbling, unexpected, surprising, modest, and uplifting.
Tim’s simple act moved me deeply, gave me an insight into the kindness of small town America, and even today as I type a tear comes to my eye (of thanks, not sadness). It tells me that random acts of kindness are incredibly powerful – I fully urge all of you to think about that and maybe just buy a stranger a coffee now and then for no reason other than you can. The act of giving is wonderful for the giver, but having been on the receiving end I can tell you it is indelible on the person you give to.
Tim, who will never read this, will always be a critical figure in my life.
So after that I was a little contemplative and quiet for a while. Since Tammy’s was packed, soon enough some-one else took the empty seat at the bar. Yet another Tim, this one however in his 20s, another local, who knew a whole bunch of people.
We too got chatting, and late in the night he suggested that we and his friends go to the local dive bar which also doubled as a karaoke place – Floyd’s. A little (?) buzzed I agreed – Tim drove us there in his truck and we entered a smoke filled, small town, late night dive. It was fantastic – they only sold beer (no spirits) and I am reminded of the Pickled Possum back home in Sydney, only significantly less classy.
I murdered a version of “the Devil went down to Georgia”, Tim did the same to some country song I don’t remember, but no-one cared – the karaoke was minor part of drinking still being available in the wee hours of the morning.
I was offered a place to stay, but I’m so used to Charlotte now that I politely declined and Tim dropped me back at Tammy’s.
I will say that nearly everyone outside of Tennessee has never heard of Fayetteville. Yet it’s indelibly written into my mind, and even outshone a visit to the home of Tennessee Whiskey – Jack Daniels.
The world is such a surprising place.
