“She’s not very attractive. Look at her face. It’s not even symmetrical.”

So said the loud, unkempt, and grossly overweight 30-something man in the theater row before us wearing a ratted hat in the actual shape of the Disney character “Stitch” (ears, nose, and all) while shoveling massive handfuls of popcorn into his mouth, some falling to and collecting on a well-worn Pokémon shirt adorning his rotund frame.

The film trailers had not yet begun. We were watching the pre-movie advertising meant to promote local businesses. The woman on the screen—a well-dressed and relatively youthful blonde—was marketing her new real estate business and doing so eloquently. By contrast, moments before the commercials began, the man before us had complained to an accompanying friend how he’d have worn his “Deadpool” t-shirt if only his mom had washed it. Mere minutes before that, the same friend asked him what the two should do after the film, to which he replied nasally, “I don’t know. You’re driving.”

The irony—the embodied contradiction—was palpable. A sloven, overweight man apparently living with his mom, wearing cartoonish clothing, and having no car was quick to criticize a woman who, by all objective measures, appeared polished, professional, and accomplished. Attractive or not, when all the finer details are considered honestly, compared to the man in row F, seat 6, the woman on the screen was a rock star.

I’m not a psychologist, but my guess is that this was a classic case of projection. This man’s life is a mess, and for a moment’s relief, he deflected to someone else, projecting his own insufficiencies upon someone who was clearly outpacing him in the game of life. Unfortunately, these unwanted qualities and insecurities blind him to his or anyone else’s deeper value and potential, thereby trapping him in a surface-level life. If he never gets past this, he’ll be forever hitching rides from friends and living in his mother’s basement.

Of course, I could be completely wrong about him. He could be some eccentric billionaire who owns half the city, and the guy in the Ironman shirt beside him is his chauffeur. After twenty-five minutes of listening to him through the commercials and previews, I seriously doubt that scenario. Nevertheless, anything is possible.

Either way, the encounter served as a two-fold reminder. First, our unprotected self’s behaviors toward others are often descriptors of our inner world. In other words, the way we feel inside inevitably becomes visible through human interaction. Second, superficial judgments can be supreme inhibitors. It’s essential to investigate beyond one’s initial perceptions. For all that man knows, had he met the onscreen woman in person, he might have fallen in love and discovered, through the relationship, a motivation toward self-betterment that would lead to a hopeful future.

These principles apply to whiskey, too. My former self—a snob who limited himself to Scotch only—often protected an inner ignorance of the broader spirits world by ridiculing Bourbon. I just couldn’t get past its seemingly lesser nature. I also couldn’t have been more wrong. That said, once I eventually emerged from this basement, I encountered some less prominent but finely crafted drams I’d been missing. Brothers of the Leaf’s Straight Bourbon edition toasted in French oak casks is an example.

A kindly gift from my longtime friend Tony, this particular whiskey is quite sturdy. A swirl easily coats the glass with tenacious amber. The nose is just as determined. Inhalation isn’t required. It climbs from the glass, ready to serve. And it does, bringing strict spices—black pepper and cloves stirred into a cup of charred coffee.

A waterless sip, while biting, is quite delightful. The aforementioned spices nip and endure among sweeter hints. A few drops of water and spices are tamed, which allows the typical caramel and vanilla sweets a good Bourbon might deliver to arrive.

With or without water, the finish is long, leaving different spices—cinnamon and, perhaps, even ginger—in its wake.

Like the man in the theater row before us, if you encounter this relatively obscure edition, don’t make the mistake of projecting anything foreign upon it. Give it a chance, being sure not to dismiss it superficially. It has layers worth discovering. Beneath its initially robust exterior lies a complexity that rewards those willing to meet, greet, and explore it. At a bare minimum, it’s classy enough to ask Mom for a clean shirt and a friend for a ride to the liquor store to acquire it. I’m betting that the first sip may even prompt the desire to trade your Stitch hat for a fedora and your Pokémon shirt for a button-up and tie.