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From the Sonoran desert to the Ozarks, craft distillers are creating distinct, delicious new categories.
Susannah Skiver Barton · Jul 02, 2024
Twenty years ago, Kentucky and, to a lesser extent, Tennessee were America’s only states with any claim to specific whiskey styles. But as craft distilleries have proliferated—there are now more than 2,700—trying out non-traditional production methods and innovating unique flavors, new categories are emerging for American regional whiskey.
“We’ve seen an emerging regionality in American whiskey,” says Adam Polonski, co-founder with his wife, Nora Ganley-Roper, of independent bottler Lost Lantern. The pair have tasted thousands of whiskies from across the country in the past six years, and have begun releasing bottles grouped around specific regions.
Recently, Lost Lantern released a Midwest collection that featured whiskies from six distilleries in Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Ohio, and Wisconsin. “Midwest distilleries are close to the grain, both literally and figuratively. It's the breadbasket of the country,” Ganley-Roper says. “But also there's so much thought that goes into the different grains that go into the whiskey. We see that in other places, but the level of consistency, distillery to distillery, is really unique to the Midwest.”
The other common thread: long, cold maturations. “It's a really cold environment, and it's consistently cold for longer than most other areas of the country,” Ganley-Roper explains. “That does something really interesting to the whiskey because you're not getting as much extraction— you're getting maturity that comes from a longer interaction with oxygen.” It’s more similar to Scotland than Kentucky, she adds, though not an exact parallel.
One thing to keep in mind: the umbrella of regional style is often as much about production similarities as it is about comparable flavors. Creating unique whiskies is a cornerstone for most craft distillers, so even if they opt into an organized movement, their flavor profiles aren’t all going to be identical—and sometimes not even terribly similar. This happens in Scotland too, despite its heavy emphasis on regionality. A whisky’s origin is no guarantee of typicity. Just look at Islay, where single malts include heavily peated bruisers like Ardbeg and Laphroaig and smoke-free, fruit-forward whiskies from the likes of Bunnahabhain and Bruichladdich.
Scotland’s regional designations serve marketing and, to some extent, education functions, and they’re cemented into law. There’s less emphasis on making regional styles official in the U.S., although a handful of distillers have organized around specific standards. Here, too, the goal is to more effectively market the whiskies as a group, and to help drinkers better understand what they’re buying. After all, the “Kentucky” that’s placed before “bourbon” often acts as a shorthand for quality. Why not, eventually, “Pennsylvania” before “rye” or “Missouri” before “bourbon”?
Right now, there are five identifiable emerging regions of craft whiskey. As the movement continues to evolve, expect more to follow.
The process of making whiskey looks an awful lot like that of making beer, right up to the point when the grain enters the still. That means brewers who move into distilling tend to be really, really good at it. Washington and Oregon have an awful lot of breweries—and now, quite a few distilleries as well.
In particular, those making single malt have coalesced into an unofficial style, partly because of that concentrated brewing expertise. Let’s get technical for a minute. When making beer, you cook the grain—almost always malted barley—to release the sugars, and then strain it to create a clear liquid called wort, which is boiled with hops. Yeast is added to the wort, and generates alcohol as it consumes all the sugars. Add carbonation, and that’s basically where you stop for beer. For whiskey, skip the boiled hops and carbonation and head for the still, which boosts alcohol levels before the spirit goes into a barrel to age.
Most American whiskey, composed primarily with corn and rye, is not made this way; there’s no straining before fermentation, so the wort is cloudy and full of grain solids. But clear, malted-barley wort, strained of particles, ferments more slowly, which tends to create more complex flavors that compound during the distillation and maturation stages. Brewers-turned-distillers also often use specialty malts, more commonly employed for beer, to showcase different grain flavors from standard distillers’ malt. And they favor beer yeasts, which give their whiskies atypical flavors compared to others made with traditional distilling yeasts: many highlight citrus fruit, floral esters, and tropical notes.
In this region, distilleries also favor working with local ingredients, and collaborating–even swapping casks—with nearby wineries and breweries. Westward Whiskey, in Portland, regularly matures its single malt in barrels from Willamette Valley wineries. Seattle’s Westland Distillery offers a hyper-regional trio of whiskies that showcase Washington grain, peat, and native oak.
Although it’s the birthplace of American single malt (Clear Creek Distillery, in Hood River, Oregon, released McCarthy’s in the 1990s), the Pacific Northwest isn’t the only area of the country generating this micro-style driven by brewing practices. Stranahan’s in Colorado was another early mover, and St. George Spirits and Charbay Distillery, both in California, are two notable, longstanding examples south of the region.
Bottles to know: Westland Outpost Range (Colere, Garryana, and Solum); Westward Pinot Noir Cask; Copperworks American single malt; McCarthy’s 3-Year-Old Oregon single malt
Scotch whiskies often taste of peat smoke because that was the country’s most common fuel for centuries. Here in the U.S., hardwood forests are the source of our smoke culture, with oak, hickory, apple, and other woods flavoring bacon, barbecue, fish, and ham—and, now, whiskey.
Among grain, malted barley most easily takes on smoke flavors, so the majority of American smoked whiskey is single malt. And there’s a lot of it being made in the desert Southwest—Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas—where mesquite has become a signature flavor.
It started at Whiskey Del Bac, in Tucson, when Stephen Paul and his co-founder, daughter Amanda Paul, built their own malting floor to infuse barley with what they call the flavor of the Sonoran desert. A few hundred miles away, Colin Keegan at Santa Fe Spirits began making mesquite-tinged single malt that he matured in the distillery’s apple brandy barrels. And Andalusia Whiskey Co. in Texas created Stryker, a single malt smoked with oak, applewood, and mesquite. Beyond mesquite, distilleries are smoking with Texas scrub oak (Balcones Brimstone), and a bizarre peat-inspired fuel made from corn stalks and milling leftovers (Frey Ranch’s 2023 American single malt).
Smoke source isn’t the only thing that sets Southwest whiskies apart. The maturation conditions are crucial. A dry climate, often with huge temperature swings both seasonally and between night and day, promotes interaction between spirit and wood. Southwest smoked whiskies reach maturity quickly, and take on prominent flavors and texture from the barrel, which is usually—though not always—new charred oak.
Bottles to know: Whiskey Del Bac Dorado single malt, Santa Fe Spirits Colkegan single malt, Andalusia Stryker single malt, Balcones Brimstone corn whiskey
Pennsylvania’s Monongahela rye was once the most well-known whiskey in America. But that was well over a century ago. The style withered during Prohibition and died out in the 1970s. Famous examples, like Old Overholt, survived in name only, and are largely now made in Kentucky, using entirely different methods and ingredients from their original iterations.
But Pennsylvanians never forgot their homegrown whiskey. For the past decade or so, craft distillers have begun developing a new style of rye—one that’s Monongahela-esque, but more an homage than a replica. Certain elements of the original Monongahela style, like the use of a three-chamber still, are nearly impossible to reproduce (there’s only one three-chamber still in existence, and it’s in Denver). Others, like artificially heated warehousing, would be expensive, and not climate friendly.
What today’s distillers can do, and are doing: distilling locally grown, heirloom rye varieties that would have been used in centuries past. Working with majority rye mashbills—sometimes 100 percent rye—to spotlight the grain’s flavor without the smudging effect of corn. Trying to re-integrate farming with whiskey making, to bolster both industries’ success. Several distilleries are engaged in these efforts, some with the support of the SeedSpark Project, which promotes heritage grain restoration in the state.
The new Pennsylvania rye whiskey isn’t uniform in flavor; grain variety, plus the usual decisions about fermentation, distilling practices, and maturation, all contribute to a range of flavor profiles, from floral and vibrant to zesty and herbaceous to oak-forward and savory. But there’s enough commonality to place an umbrella over this style. And there’s a lot more to come.
Bottles to know: Dad’s Hat Pre-Prohibition Style, Stoll & Wolfe Rosen Rye, Wigle Reserve, Liberty Pole Old Monongahela Full Proof
In 2019, Missouri’s legislature passed a measure creating an official designation for Missouri Straight Bourbon. In addition to meeting bourbon’s federal standards of identity, whiskies in the new category must be made in Missouri, with all the corn used in the mashbill grown in the state, and matured only in Missouri oak barrels.
The latter requirement is surprisingly easy to meet; the lion’s share of oak for traditional bourbon barrels comes from Missouri’s vast forests. But apparently finding enough in-state corn is proving a challenge for one of the state’s largest distilleries, J. Rieger & Co., which makes a bottled-in-bond bourbon that nevertheless cannot be called “Missouri bourbon.” Clearly, It’s taking time for Missouri’s agricultural infrastructure to catch up to the new law.
In addition to the Missouri bourbon designation, a subregion called the Ozark Highlands was officially recognized in legislation in 2022. (All hail the lobbyist who pushed these bills through!) The area has a centuries-old legacy of distilling and is home to just over half of Missouri’s craft distilleries.
Distillers of any kind of spirit—not just whiskey—can apply for regional certification from the Ozark Highlands guild if they meet a few standards, including production within the region; use of Missouri oak; and use of water which “shall be untreated or natural, such as from natural springs or deep wells, in the Ozark Highlands, and shall be without chlorination or added chemicals such as fluoride.” Notably, Ozark Highlands whiskies must also be aged for at least four years, which is not a requirement for any other American whiskey.
Given its parallels with bourbon writ large, Missouri bourbon tastes . . . like bourbon: expect all the familiar flavors of vanilla, caramel, and such, with variation among individual producers. Though bottles are still scarce outside of the Show Me State's borders, making these guidelines official may prove to be a winning strategy over time.
Bottles to know: Ben Holladay Bottled-in-Bond, StilL 630 Single Barrel, Copper Mule
When New York’s legislature passed the Farm Distillery Act in 2007—which made it relatively easy for small distilleries to get up and running—it set off a boom in craft spirits in the state. Hundreds of small producers have since established themselves, all using at least 75 percent New York ingredients, as required by the law. A synergistic relationship between the craft spirits industry and the state’s farmers also developed.
Over time, some trends emerged, including a preponderance of rye whiskies being made. In 2015, six distillers gathered to hash out benchmarks for what they hoped would become a new, recognized whiskey style, which they dubbed Empire Rye. The criteria include producing the spirit in the state; distilling from 75 percent New York-grown rye grain—significantly higher than the 51 percent minimum for standard American rye—and maturing for at least two years in new charred oak.
Empire Rye also must go into barrels at 115 proof or lower, whereas the federal standards for rye dictate a maximum barrel entry proof of 125. This was a purposeful deviation, according to the Empire Rye website, to differentiate the style. “Low barrel entry proof was a standard practice in the pre-Prohibition Northeast ryes. In fact, 100° proof was the norm for barreling. It made a very different and—we believe—more flavorful whiskey.”
How it all translates to the glass: the emphasis on high rye content yields whiskies that are often grain-forward, with vivid spice, herb, and floral notes. The lower barrel entry proof means a cask strength that's less aggressive than many others, for Empire Ryes bottled without dilution. But there is plenty of flavor diversity even within the parameters, especially given the state's vast and varied territory. Nearly 30 distilleries have released an Empire Rye or plan to, ranging from New York Distilling Company and Kings County Distillery in Brooklyn to Niagara Craft Spirits, way up on Lake Ontario.
Bottles to know: New York Distilling Co. Ragtime Rye, McKenzie Straight Rye, Kings County Empire Rye, Black Button Empire Straight Rye
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