There’s something about bourbon that feels almost alchemical. It doesn’t just fill glasses; it pulls people together—strangers, friends, and unlikely companions—until a shared pour becomes a shared story. A week and a half ago, I found myself living proof of that truth.
It started innocently enough. About a month ago, my friend Brady—one half of the duo behind BRBNFNDR—texted to see if I could make it to Kentucky. I found a dirt-cheap plane ticket and booked it before I even knew where we’d sleep. (This is the point where my wife would roll her eyes and mutter, “typical,” with the kind of exasperated fondness only a spouse can deliver.)
Our “plan” was hilariously loose:
1. Hit Evergreen Liquors in Bardstown for half-price pours on Wednesday.
2. Catch the Mets/Reds game in Cinci on Friday to cheer on our friend Brooks.
3. Stop by New Era to sample some hazmat bourbons Zane had promised us.
That was it. No packed itinerary, no color-coded Google doc. Just a couple of friends, a loose roadmap, and a lot of curiosity. By the time I boarded my flight on Wednesday, I had no idea how spectacular that sketch of a plan would become.
When I landed, Brady and I had an hour’s drive to our hotel and—surprise—a meeting already lined up with Kevin from BRBN Experiences. Kevin had arranged an early-morning visit on Thursday to Whiskey Thief and casually offered to drive us around for the day. Translation: no need to keep the whiskey throttle on low. Game on.
Bardstown itself was quiet when we rolled in. Bourbon Fest hadn’t hit full stride yet, so Evergreen Liquors was still the kind of place where you could snag a stool at the bar and talk with the staff. We dove into a lineup of half-price pours, each one like a handshake welcoming us back to Kentucky.
Then came Chris, a bourbon enthusiast from Denver who recognized both Bourboneur and BRBNFNDR. One pour turned into two, then three, and before we knew it Evergreen was calling last call. The town had shuttered for the night and we still hadn’t eaten.
Chris and his crew—members of the Denver Bourbon Hunters—invited us back to their Airbnb. Pizza was ordered, more bottles appeared, and the conversation turned into that warm, rolling blend of tasting notes, inside jokes, and shared obsession that bourbon people understand instinctively. Mike from the group texted me later that night; his message still sits on my phone unanswered. By the time we looked up, it was 1 a.m., we were deep into great pours, and dinner was still somewhere en route.
Thursday began a little fuzzy—no surprise after the previous night’s marathon of pours. A quick breakfast with our friend Brooks Raley, a pitcher for the Mets, helped lay a base for what was shaping up to be an all-day bourbon sprint.
Our first stop: Whiskey Thief. I’ll admit, my expectations were modest. I’d never visited before and wasn’t sure what the experience would be like. But from the moment Hannah—our guide and a true curator—met us at the door, I knew we were in for something memorable. She led us straight into their intimate rickhouse, where barrels sat ready for sampling. Within minutes, thief in hand, we were dipping into one cask after another.
The first few barrels were good but not great—solid whiskey, but nothing that shouted take me home. Brady’s tasting note for one was literally just “NO.” We were on the hunt for bangers, and so far nothing had moved the needle. Then we decided to tap a barrel tucked off to the side, almost as an afterthought. One sip and all three of us locked eyes. Found it. A seven-year-old 90R/10MR mashbill, just shy of 130 proof but drinking far softer than its number suggested. Barrel one of three: secured.
Hannah, sensing our bliss, brought over tacos from their food stand (a must if you visit) before sending us on our way. Next stop—one we hadn’t even planned when the day began—Old Commonwealth Distillery.
Pulling up, I had no idea what we were about to walk into. Zac Joseph, the President of Operations, greeted us personally, and his passion for the brand radiated from the start. He walked us through their current space, giving a sneak peek of the tour experience they’re building. It’s going to be special.
Inside, a long table gleamed with what felt like a sea of Glencairn glasses. “There’s no way we’ll get through all of those,” I thought. We did. Zac poured generously, weaving stories of provenance and meticulous craft as we tasted. At one point he told us about a batch of bottles where the labels printed slightly crooked—he had every single one removed. That’s the level of detail he cares about.
Toward the end, Zac asked if we wanted to try something off-menu: a preview of a forthcoming release reviving an old Van Winkle label. It was stellar, in line with everything else we’d sipped. And then he upped the ante again. “Want to taste some single barrels and do a pick?” he asked casually. A barrel pick at Old Commonwealth for a brand not even public yet? Yes, please. Barrel two of three: secured.
Our final stop of the day was NULU Whiskey Co.. We arrived later than planned, so we couldn’t dive into the full experience, but we still enjoyed some standout pours—including their maple brûlée. This whiskey starts in an ex-bourbon barrel that’s held and matured maple syrup, then gets dumped and toasted so the residual maple caramelizes before the whiskey goes back in for finishing. The result is a sweet, layered dram unlike anything else I’ve tried. I couldn’t help wondering what a hazmat version might taste like.
Thursday had been Brooks’ lone day off, so Friday morning found Brady and me heading out a man down. Before the rest of the world had even poured its first coffee, we were pulling up to Pursuit United for what would turn out to be a very un-typical visit. Bourbon Fest had drawn nearly everyone offsite, which left us in the hands of one staff member with what felt like the keys to the kingdom.
Within five minutes I already had three pours in front of me—my 9 a.m. liver wasn’t quite ready to roll, but maybe that was exactly the jolt it needed. We tasted through a lot of expressions: barrels tucked into corners, earmarked for distillery-only releases, and a few mysterious samples we didn’t photograph and won’t be talking about here. It was a blast to start the day that way, even though nothing we tried was both available and screaming to be taken home.
Up to this point, our “diet” had consisted of Wendy’s, Taco Bell, the hotel’s breakfast spread, and a scattering of snacks—all washed down with bourbon, bourbon, and more bourbon. I told Brady we had to make a pact: eat a vegetable and some real food before my body staged a full revolt. We found a proper lunch spot in Louisville, refueled with something green on the plate, and pointed the car toward Cincinnati. Halfway there, I found my way to the first energy drink of my life. The tank – not the cars, but mine – was on “E” and I needed something to get me over the hump.
That evening was the payoff: Mets vs. Reds, our friend Brooks back on the mound. The weather couldn’t have been better—blue skies fading into a crisp night—and the ballpark had that special crackle of energy you only get in September, when every pitch feels like it matters. Brooks pitched a clean inning, shutting things down like a pro, and the Mets came out on top. It felt like October baseball, electric right down to the final out. Seeing Brooks do his thing in person instead of on TV was the perfect cap to the day.
Rain pattered against the windshield as we made our way to New Era for one final stop. Zane, one of the co-founders, had generously carved time out of his Saturday to host us, and he’d lined up a curated flight of pours that each carried its own gravitas.
About five samples in, I found myself staring at a 12-year Barton sample clocking in at 141 proof. Hazmat bourbons have their own kind of swagger, and while I’ve not found myself a fan of the 18-year Barton juice flooding the market currently at—let’s be honest—outrageously silly prices, this pour had me intrigued from the first nose.
Brady and I kept circling back to it, mulling over the layers, comparing notes, letting conversation drift from tasting descriptors to “all things brownwater.” We’d already secured two great barrels on this trip. This one felt like the perfect third act—a natural match for what had become a remarkable barrel-selecting tour.
With a wink and a nod, barrel three was procured. Moments later we were racing toward the airport, my bag a little heavier and my palate a lot happier, hoping to make my flight back to reality.
Somewhere between pours and ballgames in Kentucky, an idea started brewing. As Brady, Brooks, and I compared notes over the trip, Brooks mentioned something he’d been mulling on the drive down from Cincinnati. Each of us has our own brand, which makes slapping all our names on one label a little messy.
His solution was simple—and perfect: what if the barrels we select together carried their own identity? A signal to people who know us that these aren’t just another store pick, but something truly special. That’s how Mad Hatter Whiskey was born.
Think of it as our collective stamp of approval. Three palates. One nod. Carefully curated barrels that are bangers right out of the gate. Brady and I were immediately on board, and the logo is already in the works.
These first three barrels are in the bottling and labeling pipeline now—a process that takes some time—but when they’re ready, they’ll be coming straight to our members. If you’re part of BRBNFNDR or subscribed to Bourboneur, you’ll get a special code to access them. They’ll be limited, and we expect them to move quickly.
Whether we release them one by one or all at once, we’ll share details as soon as we can. We can’t wait to pour these exceptional barrels for you—our first official Mad Hatter picks.
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