The sun hasn’t yet risen on Saturday morning, rain is pounding the sidewalk, and I’m uneasily waiting for my local liquor store to open. Oh, wipe that look off your faces, I have a perfectly reasonable explanation. Or an explanation, at least.
See, Virginia is one of just two Southern states that own the liquor stores within their borders. (Alabama is the other.) Here in the Commonwealth, that means the exteriors of all 394 stores are marked by identical, red-and-blue ABC signs, standing, rather sternly, for Alcoholic Beverage Control Authority. And it means whether I stroll into a store in Richmond, Roanoke, or Rocky Mount, I find pretty much the same selection that the state has decided should suit me just fine, thank you very much.
Bourbon shelf space is dominated by old stalwarts plus a decent assortment of craft distilleries. As is the case everywhere, you’re never going to spot Pappy’s cigar-chomping face staring out at you. Such unicorns are sold via state-run lotteries won by people nobody I know has ever met. Furthermore, Virginians can’t just grab bottles that bourbon drinkers in other states might take for granted, from Buffalo Trace to the entire Willett portfolio. For that tier, the state announces periodic “special releases” wherein a list of labels goes on sale at the same hour of the same day across the state. The really super fun part (please note my sarcasm) is that they don’t disclose which stores will have which brands, and sales are strictly limited to one bottle per customer.*
That brings me to a recent announcement that, upon pinging inboxes statewide, set bourbon-coveting hearts aflutter. A mother-of-all-special-releases would commence at 10:00 a.m. the following Saturday, presenting an unusually long list of labels. Cue bourbon daydreams. But for past release events, I’ve turned up at good old ABC #202 here in Charlottesville an hour or more in advance to find prohibitively long lines. There are better ways to waste a weekend morning, I reason.
But…I’m an annoyingly early riser, and my predawn Saturday routine dictates fetching Bodo’s bagels for my still-comatose kids. That short drive routes me past the ABC store, so just out of curiosity I dip into the parking lot it shares with a supermarket. Through inky darkness, I can count just seven figures hunkered in camp chairs, braving a downpour that started hours ago. Whoa. Like a Roman general on the field of battle, I sense the opportunity to seize victory from the very jaws of defeat. (Hey, bourbon and hyperbole pair well.) I set a personal best bagel-run time, ransack the closet for rain poncho and folding stool, and hastily scribble a note that I’m off, um, running an errand and will return, um, soon. Back at the ABC store by 7:15 a.m., I claim the tenth spot from the door. By scrunching my chair under the narrow overhang, I can sort of angle my knees out of the rain.
Two guys at the front claimed their spots—respect—at 3:30 a.m. Everyone but me seems to be texting compatriots who’ve staked out other stores across the state, and reports of relative line lengths are passed along. Opening time is still hours away, so I settle in like I’m once again a teenager determined to score Van Halen floor seats. I remain the caboose on this train until another guy shows up shortly after the weak sunrise. (Shocker: The line is predominantly male.) There’s a lot of chatter about what and how many bottles might be available here, and pointless attempts to squint through the dark storeroom’s tinted glass door. When the rain slacks, fresh clusters of hopefuls arrive and there is consternation that one rascal seems to be idling near the front, compelling his pal to swear he’s just here to observe. Additional line etiquette is established: Walking to the Kroger for a quick bathroom break is acceptable, driving to the 7 Eleven across the road is not.
At 8:37 a.m., excitement ripples as a bemused clerk tapes a white sheet of paper to the inside of the front window. Phones are whipped out to document the orderly list of 146 bottles of whiskey, spread across twenty-two labels, that this store will magnanimously allow us to purchase in T minus one hour and twenty-three minutes. That’s a robust allotment, and on it I count six bottles of Woodford Reserve Batch Proof, six bottles of E.H. Taylor Jr. Small Batch, and six bottles of Weller CYPB, all highly prized.
If you’re unfamiliar with CYPB, that stands for Craft Your Perfect Bourbon, the limited-edition result of Buffalo Trace Distillery allowing Weller fans to determine mash bill, warehouse placement, age, and proof. Normally I pooh-pooh the notion of crowd-sourcing a bourbon, but I’d been treated to a jaw-droppingly good pour just a few weeks prior. The bourbon cognoscenti concur, driving prices on the resale market up to six hundred bucks. Because today’s transaction is regulated by the state of Virginia, however, the MSRP of $59 prevails. I’d been hoping to add an E.H. Taylor to my humble bourbon stash for a long time, but now I realize that I want—no, need—my very own bottle of CYPB. I strain my morning faculties with simple math: If four people in front of me make different choices, I’m golden. It is at this point that I gain a newfound appreciation for the one-bottle-per-customer policy. Then I overhear the line leaders hyping CYPB, and the nice fellow in front of me discloses that he’s torn between E.H. Taylor and CYPB. Yikes.
With thirty minutes to go, the line winds around the corner of the store; I estimate it at more than eighty. Kroger is now doing brisk business, and some departing cars roll down their windows to inquire as to what the heck we’re all doing. After the truth elicits concerned stares, the burliest among us is deputized to henceforth reply that we’re waiting for Taylor Swift tickets. Yep, that’s us, just a bunch of Swifties.
Promptly at 10:00 a.m., the door is propped open and a no-nonsense manager instructs us to form a single-file line that loops around an aisle to face the checkout counter. When a register is open, we’re to proceed to it and, Seinfeld Soup Nazi style, clearly state what bottle we want and proffer our form of payment. As hubbub ensues, I lose track of the purchases that precede me. Ushered to a register, I blurt out “CYPB, please?” and the clerk magically produces a bottle bearing the telltale white label with gold lettering.
Outside moments later, I’m brag-texting a bourbon buddy in New Jersey when the fellow behind me in line emerges with what he surmises was the last CYPB. We high-five our good fortune and part ways. Home again, my kids still aren’t awake and I seriously contemplate eating their bagels. All in all, the morning was exhausting, a bit weird…and fun. When will I actually open this hard-won bottle? No idea.
*Shortly after the events of this story, Virginia changed its allocation system…for the umpteenth time. Without announcement, rare bottles now are being placed on the shelves of random ABC stores at random times. The author stood in line at what was likely the last event of its kind.
