Bottle Rockets
By Matt Markovich

Great scotch!

WHISKY GETS ITS name from an old Gaelic term, uisge beatha, or "water of life." "Ish-kee-ba-ha" is the closest I've been able to come to a proper pronunication after several glasses, but the name that stuck is due to the bastardization of the English. While I'm no golfer, I do know that Scotch whisky and golf, both part of the Scottish soul, rely on turf to determine their quality. I'll never fully appreciate the unique qualities of grass on a Highlands fairway, but the character imparted by the Scottish peat that spices the fires of the malt kilns in scotch distilleries has never been successfully replicated. You can spend millions to make a carbon copy of a golf course, but it can take two decades from grain to glass to know if you have a potable cask of booze. The Irish and Japanese make whisky in the Scotch tradition, but sip one dram and their origins are clear. Good whisky is Scottish.

Single malts appeared all over the Bay Area as part of the drive-by connoisseurship of the 1990s, and diverse selections remain, as do the prices of that era. Many think that to sample old whisky you have to shell out tons of cash and endure bar banter from people named Tad and Buffy, but I'm here to tell you that's bunk.

To find the least expensive glass of 18-year-old scotch in the Bay Area, go out on Mission Street way past Cesar Chavez. Pass Joe's Cable Car. Hang a left on Persia and begin the climb through foreign capitals. Past Vienna and Prague, take a right on Sunnydale. You're now in McLaren Park, named for Scottish landscape gardener John McLaren, father of the better-known Golden Gate Park. McLaren Park is home to Gleneagles International Golf Course, the most affordable course in the Bay Area. To scotch lovers, the clubhouse is a destination in itself. Turn left off Sunnydale into the driveway at the rusted frame where the course's sign used to hang.

Thaddeus was working the afternoon my brother, Mike, and I stopped in for an impromptu scotch tasting. We'd just left the ball game and were lamenting the price of beer at Pac Bell Park. Growing up in Chicago, we drank $1.25 Old Style from wax-paper cups at Wrigley Field, and the cruel reality of $6.50 Pac Bell beer had left us relatively sober. We bellied up to the clubhouse for the first round: Macallan 18-year-old ($5.75) for me, Oban 14-year-old ($4.75) for Mike, with an ice-water back for both. Macallan 18-year-old is the most expensive drink on the clubhouse rack. "That'll cost you a buck a year in the city," Thaddeus offered, pointing at the generous pour of Mac 18. He wasn't exaggerating. You can find it cheaper than $18 a glass, of course, and there are a few places that get relatively close to the clubhouse. At Dalva it's $6.75 for the Macallan 12-year-old (they don't serve an 18-year-old). At Gleneagles, the Macallan 12-year-old is $4.75, but I recommend you pay an extra buck for the additional six years. Having sampled the 12-year-old on a previous visit, I found the difference between the two to be immediately noticeable. The 18-year-old is significantly more mellow, with deep caramel flavors. Its viscous quality coats your palate and diffuses slowly. Letting it soak in before a small sip of cool water reveals notes of dark chocolate, and as the warmth travels into your belly, the inside of your cranium feels like it's been lovingly packed in cotton. All that for approximately 15 percent less than a single beer at the ballpark.

Gleneagles was built in the 1960s, and the clubhouse has acquired the patina of a well-worn leather easy chair. There are several tables along with a TV on the back wall showing the game, and whoever's behind the counter is the de facto bartender, tee-time scheduler, and course manager. Memorabilia adorns the walls: pictures of golfers from the early 1920s, trophies, a bookshelf packed with various golf titles and manuals of regulations. You can buy sandwiches for $2.50, an eight-inch beef sausage for $2.25, and Twinkies for 50¢.