Espionage, immigration reform, and whiskey (9/40)

“Let’s go to the Trump Hotel,” my friend suggested when deciding where to take our clients while we were in D.C.

I felt dirty just thinking about it. I’d be betraying my team. My team of Hispanics, that is. My work team is comprised of many Republicans. But in my private life, I’m Hispanic through and through.

I’m also somewhat progressive. I don’t qualify as woke because I am not committed enough to the cause, and I still use pronouns — a side effect of a native language where pronouns are linguistically relevant.

The Trump Hotel did not feel right for someone progressiv-ish like me. But curiosity took the best of me, and I assuaged my mind by telling myself I was researching the other team’s playbook.

When we got there, I was surprised at the diversity… of the staff.

The clientele was as white as Canada in its darkest winter. I also spotted two ten-gallon hats. That’s an impressive ten-gallon hat per capita for any room.

That’s not to say I didn’t feel welcomed.

One of the four TVs at the bar was set to Univision.

Univision!

I don’t even watch Univision.

I mean, talk about a welcoming atmosphere.

Even though I didn’t see it on the menu, I’m sure I could’ve asked for a can of Goya’s black beans and gotten one.

The whiskey list was impressive, a plus when you feel dirty for compromising your principles. There was Macallan 25, which is not as good as the 18, which they also had. They also had a great collection of Glenmorangies, which is important because I like Glenmorangie’s house more than I like Macallan.

There, I said it.

Hit me with your fake and made-up whiskey terms, trying to school me on color, weight, taste, syrupiness, and the whiskey’s upbringing and psychological trauma. My palate knows what it likes. And it likes Glenmorangie, especially Glenmorangie Lasanta.

While looking at the Macallan section, my eyes kept rolling down the list more than ever before until my eyes stopped at the Macallan 50-year-old.

I didn’t even know they had a 50-year-old.

The price for an ounce of that baby boomer whiskey, you may wonder?

I’m glad you are wondering.

It was $10,000.

Probably enough to cover the year’s rent of many Americans.

After a few drinks of liquid courage, I asked our waiter, “Can I get a little taste of the Macallan 50?”

I debated making this joke.

I didn’t want my waiter mistakenly thinking I was asking for an ounce. And as afraid I was of dropping ten grand on a sip, I was more afraid of the possibility of having to tell my wife we would have to move from our townhouse in Petaluma and live the rest of the year somewhere in rural Alabama so we could make ends meet.

The waiter understood what I said because he laughed it off and said he couldn’t do that. So I asked him if I could at least sniff it instead.

I mean, you didn’t think I would drop it like that. I’m in sales, and salespeople are very much like Sam-I-Am from Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham.

The waiter was a good sport; I’m sure he is used to dealing with obnoxious people. Let’s not forget: I was at a Trump establishment.

He later came back to explain the reason I couldn’t sniff it.

“We don’t sell that whiskey by the ounce even though it is listed that way. The whiskey is so rare we only sell the bottle. And tonight, someone already bought it.”

“How much does it cost?” I asked.

“$160,000.”

“$160,000?!!!!”

“Yes.”

You read that right.

That’s a house down payment. It might even be an entire house if you don’t care about school districts.

And someone has enough to drop it on liquor.

That’s some expensive pee right there. When you pee that whiskey, you might even have pee that rivals the Macallan 25.

The waiter returned with the bottles of the 30 and 40.

Here it was.

As a salesman, I knew asking and asking and then asking some more is the secret to the trade, and it would pay in spades tonight. I would get a whiff of these Gen X and Gen Y whiskeys.

The waiter ceremoniously says, “$2,500 for the 30 and $3,500 for the 40.”

“For a sniff???!!!” I indignantly shouted at the waiter.

It broke the tension of the negotiation. The bartender laughed, probably not wanting to, and walked away with the two bottles.

I didn’t have that kind of dough.

I have two college funds waiting for me at home and a Chihuahua who only eats ground grass-fed beef.

I left with very little research about how Trump does what he does. But at least now I know Macallan has a whiskey aged 50 years, and even more surprising, some people can afford it.

I also made Trump a little bit richer. If he wins in the next presidential election, it is all my fault.