I was born in Brooklyn and grew up on Long Island as part of the baby boom.  At home, my dad made us perfect egg cream sodas and I was never tempted by alcohol: not the illicit beer at high school frat parties , not the big jugs of Gallo wine at college mixers. Not even the tsunami of Valpolicella and Meteus that flooded my grad school era. When I went out, the only drink for me was Coca-cola, which had been forbidden in my childhood home. 

At my first job at an international insurance company, I had to show up at huge broker conventions and talk about my company. The trouble was I was young and looked even younger, and my boss finally got fed up seeing me circulating with my coke on the rocks with a slice of lemon.

“Enough with the coke,” he said. “You’re supposed to be a grown-up here.” He ordered a weak scotch and soda and handed it to me. “You don’t have to drink it, but at least carry this around instead of your bug juice.” Little by little, I found I liked it and eventually scotch neat, in stemware, replaced my coke.

One night, at the original Union Square Café, I was admiring a specific section of bottles.  I’ve always been a sucker for beautiful glass. There was a bottle with a little metal horse on top, a couple of flat old-fashioned looking bottles and a standout dipped in red sealing wax. I had to try it! 

The bartender offered me a sample and I persuaded him to serve it in a delicate tulip-shaped cordial glass. The drink was warm, soothing, rich--a full symphony of the flavors I craved--vanilla, caramel, spice. 

“Hello, beautiful. What is this stuff?”

“ Maker’s Mark. Bourbon.”

That was it. Forget scotch.  I was a bourbon girl, and I never looked back.