Sorry for the delay, folk. It’s been a long, not very eventful, but reasonably boozy weekend, and I’ve been busy effecting some probably ill-advised... ummm, “renovations” to the fireplaces in my house, so I’ve not had time to update the Daily Belch, here.

My friend (online anyway, I’ve never met the man in person except unwittingly as he drove me downtown) and faithful car operator, Adam Paul, maintains a great website of “Baltimore Ghosts” — not the things that go bump in the night, but the things that go bump in midday. Wonderful remnants of what the city used to be that peep out when you’re not looking for them. Bits of wooden-block paving (!), carved marble street signs, painted ads for ten-cent matinee shows and the like. (If, by the way, you don’t know what a “car operator” is, park your damned SUV and “ride the cars” with the rest of us — you’ll have a nice and informative ride and you’ll save a lot of gas money.)

I’d had the “Ghost” disease long before I encountered Adam’s website. I’ve long prided myself on my knowledge of Baltimorea Obscura and Richmondia Anachronia. However, the validation of your own obsession in someone else’s website is too much to resist, and after I discovered his site I’ve become ever more possessed by the idea of finding that one sign in a ruined and forgotten neighborhood that no one has paid any mind for the last forty years.

Imagine my glee when I remembered that right in my own neighborhood (well, almost, it’s around 26th and Greenmount) there’s a giant painted advertisement for Pikesville Rye Whiskey.

Which, for the record, I am consuming at this very moment.

I take the decline of rye comsumption personally.

When you grow up in Maryland — at least, pre-WW2 Maryland, which held on for all intents and purposes until 1982 — “whiskey” meant rye whiskey. Virginians and Kentuckians drink bourbon whiskey, which is delightful and without which I do not open my doors to guests. Yankees drink Scotch whiskey, which is unpalatable, tastes like dirt and should tell anyone about the lack of taste suffered by the populace of the British Isles. Remember, those people think the ultimate form of cuisine is to boil meat until it turns white; why should they be trusted with perfectly good alcohol?

The delights of Bourbon whiskey aside, rye is a similar, but different breed entirely. Most obvious is its source — Bourbon is composed of a sour corn mash; Rye comes from its eponymous grain. It was a big deal in Maryland primarily because in decades — centuries — past, a lot of rye was grown in Maryland.

And what’s so special about the stuff, you ask? Well — not much, really. It has just the same intoxicating effect as Bourbon — maybe a little stronger, but not much. It’s a bit sweeter but also a bit more biting.

The mystery, to me, is why Rye went away. As recently as the ’50s everyone in the States could identify Rye Whiskey with Old Maryland gentility, horse races and high-stakes card games on the Old Bay line. Somehow, after the vodka-and-wine-cooler nightmare of the ’80s, the new cocktail era emerged innocent of rye.

What a pity. No rye is made at all (well, at least not that Uncle Sam knows about) in the Maryland Free State (here we declare our kinship to the Bayrische Freistadt). The only ones left, Old Overholt and Pikesville, formerly made within sniffing distance of this house, are now made in Kentucky’s capable but sterile hands. Gone forever are Evergreen, Mount Vernon, Lord Baltimore, Maryland Club and — God save us all, Drumquhazel.

It was not uncommon in the halcyon days of the last century... er, century before last, for Gentlemen of Business And Means to take a snort of rye after breakfast before continuing downtown to their offices in the mornings. I think this had much to do with Baltimore’s great business prowess in those days.

Then again, conventional wisdom held that nothing would kill a man more quickly than the consumption of a dozen Bay oysters followed by a jigger of good rye. It was long the boast of the tough boys along the waterfront that they’d sent a hinterland salesman to his grave with just that pairing of local delicacies. Since I’ve always been intent on proving my cast-iron stomach, I decided to do just that at a party not long ago. Twelve, big fat oysters right down the hatch, and a double jigger of rye to follow. (Never mind, of course, I’d had three Manhattans before anyway.) No ill effects whatsoever, though the libido was indeed sparked; no blond was safe for miles around for three days after. (No help either that the host of the party had also elected to serve asparagus — all good Germans know what that does to you, and the oysters...)

When my father heard what I’d done, he blew his top. To his mind the conventional wisdom holds, and he now seems to think that his apparently milquetoast son is a real boilermaker after all. (Hell, I could always hold my whiskey better than he could! — but oysters and rye!)

Rye makes a delightful julep but I say the best way to drink it is either straight (it will surely help you catch your breath) or with plain seltzer-water. That’ll help you find a use for that nifty seltzer bottle you got because it was so delightfully retro, but for which you’ve not yet found purpose. Really, though, rye is sweet enough on its own that you won’t need to pollute it with too much other stuff.

And, y’know it’s not as bad after some oysters as we all thought. Only problem is... well, if I’m going to go after the stuff, brunette ladies, blond gentlemen and all redheads should probably flee town immediately.