The Bourbon Man & the Bourbon Woman, the Quest, and “Tater” — truth, lies, and damn lies.
The term “Tater” emerged amid the most recent whiskey boom, around 2015–2017, when Taters were derided on r/bourbon and in the back rooms of Bourbon Junkies. By 2018–2019 it was a recognized buzzword, bandied about by enthusiasts, bloggers, journalists, and insiders watching the whiskey world explode.
We’ve got the battle scars: Pappy vigils ’til dawn, shelves buckling under unopened Blanton’s we’ll crack when the stars align, and phones bursting with bottle selfies.
We’re not just hype-drunk goons — we’ve got a chef’s nose, a historian’s flame, and a Tater’s roaring soul, and we’re damn proud of it. The Tater Creed
The bourbon crowd has mixed views. Some sneer, calling us “bottle chasers” and “hype beasts” — “Taters out here paying $1,000 for Blanton’s; drink it, don’t hoard it!” They say we jack up prices and snatch allocated juice. Others peg us as novices who pretend to be experts. And yeah, we’ve hyped untasted bottles. Shoot us.
Some don’t swing the axe. Steve Coomes says, “Be kind to the Tater, not a Tater hater,” and “Taters don’t ruin whiskey for me; they’re just part of the scene.” Clay Risen skips the label but nods to our chaos — collectors sparking a “golden age” with a twist of madness. We’re the storm’s heartbeat, not its debris. Here’s to us. Salud.
A field study of the species in its natural habitat: the overnight line for an allocated drop.
Attire: layers, at least one flannel, for the swing from late night to early morning. Drinkware: an insulated cup, coffee-ready. Field gear: a folding chair — to sit, and to hold his place (but see: Line Ethics). The overnight bag holds snacks, charging cables, and bungs. So many bungs.
Attire: comfort is key — layers, warm boots. Drinkware: a highball. Field gear: a survival kit in the SUV — blankets, gloves, heat packs, rain gear, food and drink, generously shared with fellow Hunters. Morale gear: tasting notes and a phone full of San Francisco Double Gold winners.
Taters aren’t all trophy hunters — many of us just want a pour that punches above the mundane. We want character: high proof to wake up the palate, layered flavors from a thoughtful mash bill or longer aging, a barrel-proof kick that lingers. Trouble is, “good” has morphed into “scarce” and “pricey,” even for non-unicorns.
Knob Creek 120 Proof or Elijah Craig Barrel Proof — damn fine, not mythical — used to hover around $40–$50 a few years ago. Now? You’re lucky to snag them under $70–$80, if they’re even in stock.
Why the spike? It’s not just inflation. It’s a mash-up of forces — demand, production limits on the good stuff, cost creep, and a distribution maze as tangled as a rickhouse full of barrels. Quality is the new rarity, and distribution is the hidden hand making us pay. So go ahead: snag that flavorful pour, savor it, and laugh at our obsession. Good whiskey’s worth it, even if our wallets whimper.