I love the Deep South and I love the woman drinking next to me in the tasting room, which has nothing to do with the coffee-infused rum and ruby red grapefruit vodka I’ve tasted thus far this afternoon, either. Surprisingly — at least, for me — it has to do with Firefly Distillery, which is about the last place I would find myself if I could choose to tour any distillery in the South.
Too commercial. Too mass-produced. Too much a bastardization of real alcohol (I fancy myself a purist when it comes to liquor). But when CL edit staff started talking about this week’s “Sipping the South” issue and I mentioned I was taking a trip to South Carolina, I wound up with an assignment to visit Firefly, arguably SC’s most well-known distillery.
I groaned inwardly at the prospect. If I had to explore the South Carolina beverage industry, couldn't I go to High Wire Distillery with its rhum agricole? Why not Holy City Brewery and my beloved Pluff Mud Porter? These are the sorts of first-world problems that plague me, and while I don’t expect your sympathy, I hope this helps you understand why loving this place so much took me by surprise.
The two-hour venture onto Wadmalaw Island away from my de facto in-laws’ cozy condo on Hilton Head would, I hoped, reveal what made this distillery, known for its sweet tea vodka, something special.
First things first: Wadmalaw Island makes for an experience all in itself. Although you’ll see houses — and plantations, a term South Carolina developers use for everything from housing developments to tea farms — and churches and the oldest oak tree on the east coast, don’t expect creature comforts on Wadmalaw. Simply put: I’ve camped in the Everglades — and I don’t mean in the national park — and I’ve had better cell reception there. If the zombie apocalypse comes, pray you’re on this island: One way in, one way out, a distillery and a winery. Only, uh, no food, so pack a lunch.
Or, as I discovered once I’d bumped my SUV over a twisting, narrow rock path, past bare grapevines and a pond warning of gators, to the tasting rooms/petting zoo/gift shop, you can buy fried shrimp and okra (or french fries or scallops or oysters or fish) from the food-truck-without-the-truck operation in front of the tasting room. I paid for my meal and tasting ticket and watched a cow roam through the vineyard (Deep Water Winery shares the property with Firefly; both were “retirement projects” for co-founder Jim Irvin) while I ate.
A tasting at a South Carolina distillery differs from a tasting at a bar. Aside from the marked lack of gastronomically elite tapas, people bring their dogs (OK, that much reminds me of St. Pete) and also, they bring their kids (which doesn’t so much remind me of St. Pete, because as hip as we are we don’t bring our kids into the Emerald. I hope). Perhaps it’s because the property also has a petting zoo and the winery encourages families to visit, but it feels somehow wrong. As I sip Firefly’s assorted flavored vodkas, I keep waiting for ATF to burst in with guns and a battering ram.
That doesn’t happen, because in the Deep South drinking isn’t a sporting event but a low-key way to pass an afternoon — complete with wine slushes, live music and the random cow. I find myself standing next to Courtney, a sweet blond with a South Carolina drawl. She and her husband and I taste Firefly vodkas and rums while their son amuses himself on an iPhone. I stay away from the “traditional” sweet tea vodka and instead favor the Sea Island rums, falling hard and fast for Java Rum, a mahogany amalgam of morning-pick-me-up and 5-o’clock-somewhere. Courtney and I get to chatting, and she tells me about her son’s upcoming 10th birthday party and I suggest she try the Java Rum. We sip contentedly (“sip” being the operative word, as South Carolina law allows us only 1.5 ounces per tasting) until something catches my eye.
“Was that Jimmy Buffett on the TV?”
Next to the tasting counter, closed-circuit televisions show celebrities and locals enjoying the local spirits. Indeed, Mr. Margaritaville has a soft spot for South Carolina sweet tea vodka, as do Rascal Flatts, more than a few unidentified locals, and what I assume are other musicians.
The ingredients come from local sources, the company is southern hospitality at its finest, but when the king of “Why don’t we get drunk and screw?” endorses the drink in your hand, maybe it’s time to go. Bidding Courtney farewell, I make my way back to civilization. Armed, of course, with bottles of Java Rum, Mint Tea Vodka and White Lightning.
After all, if the zombie apocalypse comes, I want to be prepared.
