Nea Fane – Un Biet Român Pripășit în America / A Hapless Romanian Stuck in The US

I decided, at some point in my life, like three days ago, that I should become an influencer. But not any kind of influencer, but one who tastes bourbon, whiskey, gin, and other liquors.

Not drinks it. Not pours it into a glass, drinks it all, and then contemplates poor life decisions. Nooo, tastes it. The kind of person who says things like “notes of caramel” with a serious face, and “a long, warm finish” without sounding like they’re describing an electric blanket.

So I grabbed a bottle from my closet, my secret stash place. A serious, classic-looking bottle, with a very interesting label. The label had cursive writing, a great design, and told a story spanning three centuries of hate. I also got a proper glass, a crystal glencairn, the funny shaped one, because apparently the glass matters. The glass always matters.

I sat down, alone, and poured a modest amount. You don’t pour a lot when you taste. You respect it. You nod at it slightly. You take a photo, for bragging rights.

Then I began.

First step: observe the color.
I held the glass up to the light and squinted, as if I were about to discover something profound.

“Ah yes,” I thought. “Brown.”

A light brown, though. Maybe a brown wannabe. But still, unmistakably, brown.

Second step: swirl.
I swirled it gently, like I’d seen in videos. The liquid clung to the sides of the glass.

“These are the legs,” I remembered reading. I hope I was reading about the liquor.

Legs of what, I don’t know. Bourbon does not, to my knowledge, walk anywhere. But there they were. Legs. Very leggy. Good for it. Hmmm. Pretty sure it wasn’t about the bourbon.

Third step: nose.
This is where things got serious.

I brought the glass to my nose and inhaled carefully, as instructed, trying not to look like I was smelling it too hard. You don’t want to spook the bourbon.

And then… nothing.

Well, not nothing. There was definitely a smell. It smelled like… bourbon. A bit sharp. A bit like something that would clean a wound or start a small engine.

But I persisted. I closed my eyes.

“Caramel,” I whispered to myself, because that’s what people always say.
“Vanilla… maybe?”
“Oak,” I added confidently, because it sounded like something a responsible adult would detect.

Did I actually smell any of these things? No. Not in any meaningful way. If you had blindfolded me and told me it was caramel, I would have believed you. If you had told me it was a chair, I might have hesitated, but only briefly.

Fourth step: taste.

I took a small sip, held it in my mouth, and waited for the orchestra to begin.

People describe this moment like a revelation. Layers unfolding. Complexity. A journey.

What I got was… heat.

Just… heat.

It was like my tongue had accidentally licked a philosophical question. It burned, politely but firmly, as if reminding me that I am not, in fact, a connoisseur.

I tried again.

This time I concentrated.

“Okay, what am I tasting?” I asked myself.

“Bourbon,” I answered.

“Yes, but what kind of bourbon?”

“The kind that burns.”

I rolled it around my mouth like a professional. I swallowed thoughtfully. I waited for the “finish.”

The finish, I learned, is the part where you continue to feel it after it’s gone. In my case, the finish was a slow, warming sensation that made me reconsider my life choices and briefly contemplate drinking water.

Still, I pressed on. This was a process. A discipline.

I took notes.

• Color: Brown
• Nose: Yes
• Taste: Strong
• Finish: Continues

I sat there for a while, sipping, analyzing, pretending that at any moment I would unlock the secret language of bourbon. That suddenly I would gasp and declare, “Ah! A hint of dried cherry, with a whisper of tobacco and regret!”

But no such revelation came.

Instead, after a few more sips, something else happened.

I relaxed.

The burning softened into warmth. The sharpness became… less sharp. The whole experience stopped feeling like a test I was failing and more like something I was… having.

And I realized something important.

I may never taste caramel, or vanilla, or oak, or the ghost of a 200-year-old barrel maker named Elijah who whispers through the finish.

But I can answer the only question that actually matters.

I took another sip. Thought about it. Nodded, slightly more confidently this time.

Do I like it… or not?

And that, it turns out, is the entire tasting.