Has having access to better whiskey made it harder to appreciate merely good whiskey?

I hope not. But the more I think about it, the more I suspect there’s a little truth to the idea. And if we’re not careful, our pursuit of the next great bourbon might cause us to overlook some perfectly good whiskey along the way.

Think back to when you first started drinking bourbon. Maybe your introduction was Jim Beam, Evan Williams, Wild Turkey, or Maker’s Mark. You probably weren’t looking for notes of dark chocolate, toasted marshmallow, ripe cherries, or a finish that lingered longer than a visit from an unwelcome relative. You just wanted a glass of whiskey that tasted good.

And then something happened.

You discovered a bourbon that was a little better than what you’d been drinking. Maybe it cost $35 instead of $20, but there was something about it that made you sit up and take notice. So you started exploring. You discovered barrel-proof bourbon, toasted barrels, double-oaked expressions, and all sorts of interesting finishing techniques. Before long, you were discussing mash bills, proof points, and warehouse locations with the enthusiasm of a scientist who’d just discovered a new element.

Your palate developed, and that was a good thing. You started recognizing flavors you hadn’t noticed before. You learned the difference between a thin mouthfeel and a rich, viscous one. You discovered that some bourbons deliver a quick flash of flavor while others invite those flavors to stick around for an extended visit.

But something else developed along with your palate. Your expectations. And that’s where things can get a little tricky.

There’s a psychological phenomenon called hedonic adaptation. In simple terms, something that once brought us extraordinary pleasure gradually becomes familiar, and we start looking for something else to produce that same excitement.

I think bourbon enthusiasts are particularly susceptible to this. The first time you encounter a truly exceptional whiskey, it can be a revelation. But after you’ve enjoyed several exceptional bottles, your frame of reference changes. What once seemed extraordinary becomes merely good, and what once seemed good becomes ordinary.

The whiskey hasn’t changed. You have.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with developing a more discerning palate. In fact, that’s one of the things I enjoy most about this hobby. I love exploring new bottles, discovering interesting expressions, and occasionally encountering something that makes me stop in the middle of a sip and say, “Wow!”

But I wonder if there’s a danger in becoming so accustomed to exceptional bourbon that we lose our appreciation for the merely good.

I’ve certainly accumulated enough bottles to have developed some preferences. Anyone who’s followed my tasting adventures knows that my palate tends toward dessert in a glass. Give me chocolate, caramel, vanilla, cherries, a little baking spice, and a rich, decadent mouthfeel, and I’m a happy camper.

But not every bourbon is going to deliver that experience. Nor should it have to.

That’s one of the reasons I enjoy my Bourbon Cheapskate series. The premise is simple: inexpensive whiskey deserves a fair hearing. I’m not expecting a $20 bottle to compete with a carefully crafted, limited-release bourbon costing five or ten times as much. But I am interested in discovering whether that $20 bottle offers something worth enjoying.

Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t. And occasionally, an inexpensive bourbon surprises me enough to make me question why I’m spending so much money on other bottles.

Old Grand-Dad 114 is a good example. It’s not going to win every blind tasting, and it doesn’t deliver every characteristic I look for in an exceptional bourbon. But there’s plenty to enjoy in that bottle, and revisiting it reminds me that good whiskey doesn’t have to be extraordinary whiskey.

That brings up another distinction I’ve been thinking about: the difference between evaluating bourbon and enjoying bourbon.

When I’m conducting a tasting, I have a scoring system. I’m examining the nose, palate, mouthfeel, finish, and other characteristics. I’m trying to be consistent and fair, and ultimately, I’m assigning a numerical value to my experience.

But a bourbon that earns an 81 (like OGD 114), or even a 75 (like Wild Turkey 101) or 78 (like Maker’s Mark 46), on my scoring system isn’t necessarily a bourbon I don’t enjoy. It might be perfectly suited for an evening when I don’t feel like analyzing every sip. Sometimes I just want to pour a glass, sit down, and enjoy it without turning the experience into a chemistry experiment.

And sometimes the circumstances surrounding the pour matter as much as what’s in the glass.

A good bourbon shared with a good friend might be more memorable than an extraordinary bourbon enjoyed alone. A familiar whiskey on a quiet evening might bring more satisfaction than a highly allocated bottle that leaves me wondering whether it was really worth the price.

In other words, the best bourbon isn’t always the best bourbon. Sometimes it’s simply the bourbon you’re enjoying. And that brings me to a spiritual connection.

In Philippians 4:11–13, the Apostle Paul writes about something he had learned through his experiences:

“I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content.” — Philippians 4:11 (ESV)

I’ve always found the word learned interesting. Paul wasn’t suggesting that contentment came naturally to him. It was something he developed through experience. He knew what it was to have plenty, and he knew what it was to go without. But he had learned that neither abundance nor deprivation should determine his sense of peace.

Obviously, Paul wasn’t discussing the difference between a $25 bourbon and a $150 bourbon. His circumstances were considerably more serious than anything we’re likely to encounter during a whiskey tasting. But the principle is one we can apply to our own lives.

Contentment doesn’t mean we stop appreciating excellence. It means we don’t make excellence a prerequisite for satisfaction. And that’s a lesson that extends far beyond bourbon.

We live in a world that constantly encourages us to want something better. A bigger house. A newer car. A better television. A more expensive vacation. Whatever we have, somebody is ready to convince us that there’s something else we need to make life more enjoyable.

The trouble is that the finish line keeps moving. We finally get the thing we’ve been wanting, and for a little while, we’re delighted. But eventually the novelty wears off, and our attention shifts to something else.

Before long, yesterday’s dream has become today’s ordinary possession. And if we’re not careful, we spend so much time thinking about what we don’t have that we forget to be grateful for what we do.

I don’t think God expects us to reject nice things or feel guilty about enjoying them. There’s nothing inherently wrong with owning a beautiful home, driving a reliable car, taking a wonderful vacation, or occasionally pouring an exceptional bourbon. The problem arises when our appreciation for those things becomes dependent on having something better than what we already possess.

Paul understood something that our consumer culture often seems determined to make us forget: satisfaction and abundance aren’t the same thing. You can have an abundance of possessions and very little contentment. And you can have relatively little and still be grateful for what you’ve been given.

Perhaps that’s why I think there’s something spiritually healthy about learning to enjoy ordinary things. A familiar meal. A quiet evening. A conversation with someone you love. A beautiful sunset. Or, for those of us who enjoy bourbon, a perfectly good glass of whiskey that doesn’t require a lottery, a waiting list, or a second mortgage.

None of those experiences has to be extraordinary to be worth appreciating.

And maybe that’s where the real challenge lies for those of us who have spent years developing our palates and expanding our collections. Can we still appreciate the simple pleasure that attracted us to bourbon in the first place? Can we recognize the merits of a good, affordable whiskey without immediately comparing it to the finest bottles we’ve ever tasted? Can we enjoy something for what it is rather than criticizing it for what it isn’t?

I hope so.

Because perhaps the ultimate achievement of an experienced bourbon drinker isn’t developing a palate that demands more. It’s developing a palate that appreciates more.

I’ll keep searching for extraordinary bourbon. I’ll keep sampling new releases, exploring different finishes, and hoping the next bottle surprises me. But somewhere along the way, I hope I never lose the ability to pour a glass of perfectly ordinary bourbon, take a sip, lean back, and say, “That’s pretty darn good.”

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Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.