The Whisky Affair (Raymond Armstrong Series) Read Online Free Page B

batch would be bottled and ready to drink.
    “Very good,” remarked Willy, admiring Raymond’s enthusiasm as he moved the lever.
    “Are you still using the slow trickle distillation process, Willy – now when you are so busy?”
    As part of his studying to understand more about single malts, Raymond had explored this distillation process. The trickle technique still baffled him. But he had grasped that the busier a distillery became, the less time was likely taken to distill slowly. He wondered if a distillery would start changing their techniques and identity if demand for their whiskies increased?
    “Of course we are. Trickling is what makes Bute whiskies so creamy and clean – with no impurities. We bottle all our whisky, non-chill filtered and free of any artificial coloring. We can’t hide anything.”
    “So it’s your long necks that are giving you so much copper contact?” asked Raymond, looking toward the roof at the long, thin copper necks winding upward to the arm. They rose toward the ceiling, almost to the roof and then took a slight turn in a downward direction. It reminded him of a swan just beginning to bend her neck toward the water. Finally, he focused on the large condensers where the hot vapors were turned into liquid.
    Willy nodded. “Imagine a trout farm. You’ve hardly fed the thousands of small fish in the pond. A large pond with copper walls. The trout are all swimming around, coming into contact ever so gently with copper walls. Then, you make an opening into the wall with a long, copper pipe, just wide enough for the fish. Put a bag full of food at the other side of the pipe, and what happens?”
    “I get it. A ton of fish trying to get through the pipe at once. They obviously all can’t and while they are trying to get through – lots of copper contact.”
    “That would be like our spirit vapors in our unique Bute stills, with the vapors trying to get to the condensers, through the swan neck and arm,” Willy said, indicating the huge units above their heads.
    Raymond was beginning to understand the process in a new way. Of all the variations in what made a great single malt so different, he was most fascinated by the different production tools each distillery used. Some were subtle and other totally outrageous. But they all worked and together with process, gave each distillery their special identity with the whiskies they produced.
    Knowing each distillery’s special identity was the only way to appreciate their mysterious art and appreciate the nuances found when you nosed and tasted their unique expressions… Unless, of course, it was whisky produced in a big factory-style distillery, churning out thousands of gallons per day.
    It was the regular single pot distillation, the one batch at a time, that intrigued Raymond.
    “Ready for lunch, guys. I am buying,” came Gordon’s booming voice from across the distillery floor.

 
     
     
CHAPTER 6
     
     
    Mitch Farrell was on board the British Airways flight from London to Las Vegas and watched the tall, attractive redhead with the seductive British accent announce the mandatory seat belt sign was now off. Ten hours sitting on a plane was torture to Mitch. He stood for a few seconds to stretch and smiled at the flight attendant.
    He gave her his best flirtatious look, the one he had perfected all those years ago in Tulsa. She smiled back far too weakly for his liking.
    Damn, I’m losing my touch.
    Mitch was just under six feet tall, with dark hair that looked like as if it were slicked back in place with gel. The look was, in fact natural and required no work. He’d worked hard to develop his toned muscular body – a work in progress that involved hours at the gym every day... He was handsome, most women had told him, but with a rugged edge. His piercing green eyes and Roman nose were partially responsible for that impression.
    British women were far too pompous for his style anyway, he decided. In only ten hours he would