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I’ve never actually been to France. I’ve been to all of the countries around it, but I’ve never stepped foot over its border.

I’ll admit that for a guy of German descent, that’s a bit awkward. But I assure you that it’s purely coincidental. I haven’t been circling the country with shady intentions of eventually staking a claim in its soil. I’ve just never been there.

Love it or hate it, France has a depth of culture and history that few other countries can assert. I mean, which other country is as thrifty as France, considering sex a national pastime in order to save money on other forms of personal enjoyment? And which other country can literally boast seven hundred ways to serve eggs, or claim itself as the source of over two hundred and fifty different cheeses? It takes a very special country to be that devoted to cheese. Forget the nation of Wisconsin. France has this one hands down.

A country filled with such creative individualism and bold originality is bound to have a few revolutions here and there, too, wouldn’t you say? Thus, the namesake for this whiskey.

Hold on a second, Thoma? Where are you going with this? Why are you talking about France in relation to this whiskey?

Did you miss what I just wrote? The whiskey’s name is 1792. It’s obviously named in memory of the French Revolution and the year King Louis and Mary-Antoinette were imprisoned. And it makes sense to name a Bourbon after something in France’s history. As I’ve noted in other places, the word “Bourbon” is French. The Bourbons were that extended branch of the French royals who supplied the sitting monarchs with their booze.

Add to that the historical work accomplished by Michael Veach, the one who finally shed light on the fact that Bourbon didn’t get its name from Bourbon County, Kentucky, as so many among us have believed for so long. Its birthplace was Louisville. Two Frenchmen from Cognac, France, began selling their homemade recipes along the shores of the Ohio River—popularizing it all the way to New Orleans as something like Cognac, which was hugely popular at that time. Over the course of several years, it became known as Bourbon.

Knowing all of this, it makes perfect sense that someone would make and market a whiskey with a deliberate nod to France.

That’s not what 1792 means at all, Thoma.

It isn’t?

No. It’s the year Kentucky became a state.

Oh. Really?


Hmm. Okay, then. Let’s see…


I’ve never actually been to Kentucky. I’ve been to all of the states around it, but I’ve never stepped foot over its border.

Okay, that’s not true. I’ve been to Kentucky many times, and each time was as wonderfully memorable as the first. I suppose that’s the better tie-in to this whiskey. I liked it, each sip being as enjoyable as the one before it.

With a nose of whipped cream atop overly-spiced raspberries, this dram is a thrifty deliverance of something exceptionally sensual.

The palate continues the raspberry affair, but invites along a warmed cheesecake of sorts sprinkled with bread crumbs and peppery oak. A second sip is as the first, except more appreciated now that you know it actually met the edges of its promises.

The finish is nearly long. It strains away with the cream and spice, but the last sensation offered is a surprising turn to buttered corn bread.

I suppose I should end with gladness that my mistake was corrected. Pearl S. Buck said that every blunder has its half-way moment when it can be remedied. Looking back over what I’ve written, mine looks to be a little past the half-way mark.

But you gotta admit, the name fits either way—and of the two, mine was the better reasoning.