Ornoth

Apparently I’ve never related this story here. With the Santa Speedo Run making its frostbitten-hamhock trudge up Newbury Street in 16° snow flurries as I type, it might be a good time to reminisce and share this classic holiday tale.

Friday December First of 2000. I went in to work as usual at Sapient’s Cambridge office. At the time, I was one of several frontend developers embedded within a huge team working on an online stock brokerage system for JP Morgan Chase and Brown & Company.

That morning we had a guest in our daily team meeting: Jerry Greenberg, one of Sapient’s two founders and CEOs. He gave us the usual little pep talk and then—since the company’s holiday party was that evening— asked for a show of hands of who would be going. Just about everybody raised their hands… except Ornoth.

It will surprise no one that I dread corporate holiday parties. The period from Halloween to New Years has always been a stressful and unpleasant time for me, and I’ve never been a fan of the party scene. So I had hoped to quietly let the event pass, in hopes that no one would mark my absence.

Fat chance! Jerry’s eyes scanned the team and he muttered his pleasure at the team’s response. Then they landed directly on me and my hands, which rested uneasily at my sides. “Ornoth? You’re not coming?” O fuck.

Before we go any further, let’s add a little bit of context. By this time, I’d been with Sapient for six years, participating in four dozen projects; helping grow it from a 100-person company to over 3,000; going through its IPO; and seeing it named to the S&P 500. Of course, Jerry had known me all that time. He and Stuart had actually discussed my hiring back in 1994, since I was the first guy they hired who had long hair! So Jerry felt pretty comfortable that he knew me.

All that matters because out of that 120-person team, I had more tenure than anyone else on the project and a longer relationship with Jerry. They viewed me as the grizzled veteran of old-school Sapient. But here I was, being confronted by Jerry about not attending the holiday party!

“Well, uh… It’s really not my thing…”

That might have gotten past my peers, but not the CEO. “Naw, Ornoth. Come on…”

We went back and forth a bit, with him trying to pressure me into committing while I danced around the fact that I didn’t want to go, even if the CEO was publicly asking me to in front of all my coworkers.

Then it hit me. There was one shining, simple, graceful way out that would enable me to save face and still avoid that inane party!

Since Sapient had grown so big, they had actually issued tickets for the party. No ticket: no entry. And the deadline for requesting tickets from HR had passed the previous week! Slammida!

“But Jerry, I can’t go… I don’t have a ticket.” Jerry (and everyone else in the room) knew I was reaching, but what could he do about it?

It was then that our eyes met, and I saw the sharklike look of a salesman who had just cornered a reluctant mark. With calculated slowness, he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out… his ticket to the holiday party, then walked over and placed it in my hand. I was out of options and dumbstruck.

As he walked back to his place in the circle, he defused any tension by joking that now he might have a difficult time getting into the party himself. Everyone laughed while I surely turned beet red. He’d called my bluff and beaten me, winning the amusement of the whole team in the process. Even I admired the panache with which he’d shown me who was boss.

And there was nothing else for me but to show up at the goddamned corporate holiday party. Worst of all, there was no way I could quietly not make an appearance, because now it would be marked by more than a hundred people!

Sheesh!

Some friends of mine have been running occasional scotch whisky tastings for about a year now. Last night was my first opportunity to attend. I brought along the Highland Park 12 that I think is both very approachable for new folks and quite possibly the best all-around scotch.

Unfortunately, I didn’t take tasting notes, but it was still educational. The only time I’ve ever had the opportunity to sample such a number of different brands was at a tasting in Austin with Rhonda, and that was all Islays, which aren’t my favorite style.

I started out the evening with a bit of the Highland Park 12, just to get my palate adjusted to scotch and set a baseline against which all others were to be compared.

Next I moved on to the familiar Glenmorangie. As expected, it had a bit more sting to it, but was an acceptable product nonetheless.

I wanted to spend the evening progressing from lighter whiskies to darker, more robust ones, so the next item on the list was Benriach, a spirit from Elgin that I’d never tasted before. Word was that it was very light, and I definitely found it so. It was curious. It had very little flavor at all, just a mild alcohol sting. Very drinkable, but not much to write home about.

Frankly, I don’t recall whether the Glenlivet was my next step or not. The Livet’s a fine scotch, whether I had it or not! It’s really about the best of the Speysiders, as far as I’m concerned.

But my next dram was eminently memorable. Bowmore puts out a huge variety of unique treatments, and Fallik had picked up a really dark Bowmore with a sherry finish. It was really robust, with a strong smoky aroma. Of course, like most Islays, it was accompanied by the iodine tang of peat, so I wasn’t as thrilled with it as I’ve been with the Talisker, but it was a strong character, nonetheless.

I approached the Lagavulin 16 last and with the most caution. One of the peatiest Islays, it was a bit of a slog to get through. Really, the only Islay I have any affinity for is the Bruichladdich, which I’ll probably bring along to the next gathering.

Naturally, I closed the evening by clearing my palate with another slug of my beloved Highland Park. It really is head and shoulders above anything else on the market, and it went over extremely well with the group, none of whom had tried it before. Sadly, the drawback of knowing how to pick a good scotch means your bottle might not last more than one session, whereas my friend who brought the Benriach got teased because it had survived no less than three scotch nights, with enough left for at least one more curtain call!

Other scotches I didn’t sample included the Glenfiddich, which I’ve never been a real fan of. Amusingly, I find I’m not attracted to either of the two major styles of scotch—Speyside and Islay—despite their comprising probably 80 percent of the market. I’ll stick to my islands: Orkney and Skye.

But overall it was an interesting and fun evening, and it retained a good balance, being neither too stodgy nor too debauched. I felt very little party-awkwardness, and met a lot of interesting people that I’d like to get to know better.

The next question is how much the stock of scotch changes from session to session. As I say, I’ll probably bring a Bruichladdich next, but I’m curious to see what others bring, although one can presume there’ll always be a stable of the regulars.