One of the many perks of Key West is the island wonder of rum. It's everywhere, and not just bottles of Bacardi and Captain Morgan. Head into any decent bar, and you're sure to spot a sea of the spirit -- the pricey and the cheap, the flavored and the pure. When I was trying to decide which new label to try, the bartender suggested an aged rum, believe it or not, from Guatemala. Ron Zacapa Centenario, 23 Anos. (The middle rum, above.)
This rum is gentle, liquid wonder. Having been aged, it's slightly thicker than your average rum, with a sweeter, chocolatey taste that slides down easily. Straight up, this rum has that nice bite of alcohol, and on the rocks, it's so gentle and sweet that you might think it's a mixed drink. Aged in white oak barrels, drinking the rum is almost like drinking a scotch or wine -- you can make out that subtle flavor and scent of wood.
It's not terribly surprising that this spirit slides down so well -- the Beverage Tasting Institute gave it an "exceptional" rating -- 95 points. As Rumdood's highly detailed review states, that's the highest score for a rum. In fact, there's a bit of a legend making the rounds that it's banned from spirit competitions because it's just that good. Made from real sugar cane rather than molasses, it's practically in a world of its own.
But beware, it might make you quite picky with the ever-present rums we've grown accustomed to!
If there is a more evocative spirit available behind the bar than that of rum, I'm not aware of it. Pour me a glass of rum and within the vapors rises a raucous and even romantic history of joy, tragedy and debauchery: tippling houses in Barbados in the early 1600's, where British settlers supped the earliest permutation of rum, which they referred to as "kill-devil"; jug wielding pirates careening through the streets of Port Royal in Jamaica, wildly spending their pieces of eight plundered from the Spanish and British empires; independence-minded American revolutionaries huddled in taverns drinking rum Flips and plotting their resistance against the heavy taxes imposed upon them by the British; Americans fleeing Prohibition downing Daiquiris and Swizzles in the jammed bars of Havana; opulent tiki palaces serving Mai Tais, flaming Scorpion bowls, Hurricanes and Fog Cutters to lei-festooned business-men and June Cleaveresque housewives. I think of Piña Coladas at the pool, mojitos in a sweaty nightclub, an authentic Daiquiri while laying on a Caribbean beach with the tropical sun dipping into the sea at the horizon line.



