By Richard Thomas
Bourbon is chock full of poorly defined terms, and I think the wrong ones receive far too much of attention. Take, for example, small batch. For a couple of decades, croakers have made a cottage industry complaining about the use of small batch. Although that term has no official definition and should get one, despite what the croakers say it has rarely been abused. Moreover, for all the scorn heaped on it, the foundations of the Bourbon Boom were laid in the Small Batch Era of the 1990s. It’s hard to imagine American Whiskey today if the term small batch had not captured public attention.
This is, in part, why I drew a parallel between high rye and small batch in January.
Yet the bourbon term that is just as poorly defined and certainly more abused than small batch is “high rye.” So much so, in fact, that I wish to make two modest proposals. First, start griping more about how “high rye” needs stronger definition. Second, set one and start applying it, because this really is up to us whiskey bloggers, podcasters and writers. There is no one else who will fix the problem.
The problem originates in the traditional bourbon mash bill, which contains a majority of corn, enough rye to give the whiskey some spicy flavor, and enough malted barley to kick off the conversion of starch to sugar (although many modern mash bills combine barley with fabricated enzymes). “High rye” refers to a bourbon with more rye than the traditional range, usually at the expense of the corn proportion. These bourbons are often noted for their spicier, drier character.
But how much rye do you need to make it “high rye?” While everyone can agree a bourbon with rye content above 30% is undoubtedly a high rye bourbon, there are plenty of brands claiming their bourbon is high rye with a content in the lower 20s. And plenty of bloggers and journalists who repeat that claim, giving it their stamp of approval. Yet is 22% rye really high rye? Does it produce the flavor associated with the name?
I recall Jim Beam Master Distiller Fred Noe once declared that “there are really only two bourbon mash bills, rye and wheated” while sitting on a panel. Noe is known for making such curmudgeonly statements, but in the context of the panel discussion, what I took him to mean was that small adjustments to a grain recipe make so little difference that even talented experts would struggle to pick it out. The blunter point being, if the barrel aging accounts for the majority or overwhelming majority of what you taste in the bottle, no human can spot a mere 3% adjustment in a grain recipe, all other variables being the same. It really is an infinitesimal difference, one that barely stands out in new make whiskey.
In fact, I would argue the use of non-traditional grains (heirloom varietals and the like) produce a more noticeable impact on flavor than very small adjustments in grain proportion, and the impact of yeast choice is a matter of laboratory fact. By contrast, while the difference between 18% and 21% rye is negligible, the difference between 33% and 20% should be obvious. The same can be said of the 15-20% common in Kentucky versus the 8-10% common in Tennessee. The point being the difference needs to be substantial.
(Credit: Richard Thomas)
Having established this point, many brands put the label “high rye” on a bourbon that has as little as 20% rye content, which is too close to the traditional bourbon mash bill benchmark. The high rye concept is best associated with and illustrated by Old Grandad/Basil Hayden (27% rye) and Bulleit (which used stock from Four Roses’ 35% rye mash). These bourbons were dry and spicy or dry and spicier. If a bourbon is down in the lower 20s, it’s really just traditional bourbon by comparison.
My humble suggestion is to set the bar for this higher than 25%. It has been my editorial policy for 15 years that nothing below 25% counts as high rye. So, if a brand calls it high rye and it’s 21%, I ignore the claim and do not repeat it. I wish others would do the same. I would be thrilled to come to a gentleman’s agreement with some of my peers to draw any line–25, 28 or 30%? Fine! Just get me a line–that really makes a categorical distinction an enthusiast can taste.
And make no mistake, this is up to my peers: authors, bloggers, influencers, journalists, podcasters. This idea could never take on the force of law in America; the TTB does not do anything so specific and there is no American equivalent to the Scotch Whisky Association. But it could take on the force of culture, if only people could be persuaded to croak about something that matters in a small, but real way as opposed to croaking about something that does not matter at all.
