It was a blazing hot Sunday in Manhattan and the patio of Eleven Madison Park, one of the country’s toniest triple-Michelin-starred restaurants, felt like a hoedown, urban hipsterstyle. At one point, Julian Van Winkle, the elder of the clan that lends its name to the near-mythical bourbon, stepped in to join the roots rock band on tambourine and cow bell. His son, Preston, held court with longtime industry friends. Some revelers drank mint juleps, others dropped $95 for a spot of Pappy Van Winkle 23 year old.
Few consumable products—or consumer goods in general—drive people to a level of mania that makes Kasper Gutmans’s pursuit for the Maltese Falcon look like a trip to the mall. Except, of course, for Pappy Van Winkle, the bourbon that’s become, to quote Bogart…
