My buddy N is dating one of the owner’s of Noorman’s Kil in Williamsburg, right in my old neighborhood.
Billy, there in the middle, he’s the one.

Can I just say how exciting it is to go down in the basement, past the keg fridge and into the room where they keep the secret treasures of old and rare whiskey? I settled in for some Noah’s Mill, but  Jason on the right ended up drinking a Vintage 17 Bourbon that was the best thing we found that night.  So damn sweet and smooth, like a preacher looking for a donation. There was also a really good peat smoked stout but by that point I couldn’t be bothered to remember things like names or my tab.

I expect N to shortly die of whisky poisoning. Her boy has around 300 kinds.  That can’t end well.

This morning started… slowly.