“And Copper Summit is nothing if not a quality bourbon.”
“Damn right. It’s more than a name; it’s our legacy.”
The room didn’t fascinate me just for the equipment. Or how it was a thriving environment with many moving parts left alone to do their job. It was the family history in this place. The tradition. The love.
As sentimental as it sounded, love, respect, and adoration were baked into every surface of this place. It was a clean room, and it had to be, but it was well cared for. The distillery didn’t have a high turnover, and not because so many of the employees were family.
What was it like to be part of this sort of legacy?
Teller scratched the back of his head. “What do you think? It’s okay if you call it boring. Some of the tourists are real frank with their opinions.”
They hadn’t gotten a personal tour from Teller Bailey. “I always thought brewing was fascinating. And distilling is really just an additional step. I like the science behind it.”
“It’s a lot of chemistry with biology.” He hooked his fingers through mine. “Now to go to my favorite spot.”
He led me back out, passing the tall stills and weaving through the large mash tanks. Once we were in the lobby, he unlocked the tasting room.
The quiet in here was more insulated than the lobby. I ran my fingers over the smooth top of a table. For a simple bar, it had a lot of character. On one wall hung a neon Copper Summit sign, next to it, an old black-and-white image of the distillery.
“When’s that from?” I asked.
“Right after my dad’s grandpa first opened the place. Rhys—you know, Junie’s husband? His ex is a photographer and she had some recommendations about getting the picture blown up. I was tempted to do an aluminum print, but the frame fits the vibe in here.”
The bar did have a small-town, last-century vibe to it. “It’s more like Flatlanders than I would’ve ever thought.”
His brows popped up.
I poked him in the side. “That’s not a bad thing.”
“No, I mean...” He gave me a sheepish smile. “I didn’t mean to have that reaction. The two places always seemed like polar opposites, but I can see what you mean. This bar is a lot smaller, but it has a lot of wood and old-downtown ambience. That’s intentional, keeping it that way.”
“Part of the rugged Montana brand.”
“A lot of our clientele are regulars and we want them to feel comfortable.” He pulled out a stool for me. “Have a seat and pick a cocktail.” He went behind the bar and slid a laminated menu in front of me.
“You have a drink list. Now this is fancy.”
He barked out a laugh and leaned across the bar top. “We change our lineup, but again, with the regulars, we’ll always carry what they drink. We’ll always offer the blackberry bourbon smash. Jason loves that.”
Jason was a rancher I’d often seen Teller talking to in town before I’d beelined in another direction. I read through the list of cocktails. Now I was humbled.
Flatlanders carried spirits and soda. Most of the time, Scott hadn’t bothered stocking lemons or limes. Our patrons wanted alcohol and they weren’t that fussy about how it was served.
Copper Summit gave them an experience. From the bold but welcoming lobby to the tasting room that was as comforting as an old quilt. Then there were the cocktails. The descriptions alone were an adventure. “Local huckleberries?”
“Autumn’s property has a ton of bushes.”
“All your grains are Montana sourced?” I couldn’t keep the awe out of my voice.
“Usually we don’t have an issue. It’s not unusual. A lot of in-state distilleries try to source their grain from a popular Montana supplier.”
I read another description of a blackberry bourbon lemonade. “Hand-picked lemons from Arizona? Seriously?”
“One of my aunts lives there, so she picks them from her backyard.”
I pointed to another description. A bourbon-and-grapefruit slush. “She has a grapefruit tree too?”
“And an orange tree.” He slid the menu close to him and read it upside down. “It’s in our old-fashioned. Wynter candies them. She’ll candy the peels with bourbon too.”
