What to do without Scotch on Pesach

Welcome to the Kosher Teruah. I'm Simon Jacob, your host for this episode from Jerusalem. Before we get started, no matter where you are, please take a moment to pray for the safe return home of all our soldiers, If you are driving in your car, please focus on the road ahead. If you are relaxing at home, please open a delicious bottle of kosher wine and pour a glass, sit back and relax. Welcome back to the Kosher Terroir. I am your host, Simon Jacob, welcoming you from Jerusalem. We are at that time of year again. If you walk through the streets of my neighborhood right now, you can smell it in the air. The scent of spring cleaning, the burning of chametz, and that frantic, beautiful energy that precedes Passover. For many of us, this is the season of profound transition. We change our dishes, we change our diets, and for the discerning drinkers, we change our cabinets. Now, if you've listened to this show before, you know my palate. On a quiet Shabbat afternoon or on a festive holiday lunch, my hand instinctively reaches for a bottle of scotch. I love the peat, the malt, the story of the Highlands. But as the sun sets on the eve of the 14th of Nisan, That cabinet is locked. The whiskies, born of grain and yeast, become chameitz, forbidden for us for the duration of the holiday. For years, I'll admit, I felt that loss. When we come home from synagogue on Passover morning, or when we sit down for a long celebratory Yom Tov lunch, I miss that contemplative slow-sipping spirit. You can't have your dessert after the afikomen at the seder, of course, but the daytime meals, that's when we look for something truly special to mark the occasion. And that is when I look back at the very thing this podcast is built upon: the grape. Today we are talking about brandy. To some, brandy is just the Passover substitute, the thing you drink because you can't have a Macallan or a Lagavulin. But that is a profound misunderstanding of one of the world's most complex spirits. Brandy isn't just a backup plan, it is the ultimate evolution of the wine we love. It is the burnt wine, or as the 16th century Dutch traders called it, brandewijn. Think of it for a moment— brandewijn, fire and wine. In this episode, which I've designed to dig a little bit deeper into the spirit of the vine, we are going to explore how the terroir of a vineyard the soil, the rain, the sun—survives the violence of a copper still. We are going to look at why brandy is the king of the Passover bar, not just by default but by its very nature. We'll move from the chalky hills of Cognac to the sandy soils of Armagnac, and finally right here to our own backyard in the Judean Hills where a new generation of Israeli distillers is reclaiming a history that goes back over a century. So put away the grain, pour yourself a glass of something derived from the vine, and let's talk about the soul of the grape concentrated by fire. Now that we've set the scene, the transition from the grain of the highlands to the fruit of the vine We need to clear up a bit of a geographic identity crisis. If you walk into a liquor store looking for a Passover spirit, the labels can be dizzying. You see brandy, you see cognac, you see Armagnac, and perhaps even some grappa or metaxa. I remember a conversation I had a few years ago at a kiddush in London, a friend of mine, a real enthusiast, held up a bottle of VSOP and asked me, Simon, I know this is great, but why is it a cognac and not just a brandy? It's the most common question in the world of spirits, and the answer is the very heart of what we talk about on this show: place. The simplest way to remember is an analogy we often use with sparkling wine. All cognac is brandy, but not all brandy is cognac. Brandy is the vast wild territory. It's a global category. You can make brandy in California, South Africa, or even in Spain, or right here in Israel. If you take a fruit, you usually grapes, but it can be apples, pears, peaches, whatever, fermented into wine and then distill that wine into a concentrated alcohol, you have made brandy. It is the burnt wine of the world. But when you talk about cognac, we're talking about a very specific, very protected, and very French piece of land. Imagine you are standing about 300 miles southwest of Paris, just north of Bordeaux. This is the Cognac region. This is the land of rolling hills and, mostly important, a very specific type of soil. They call the best areas Champagne. Not to be confused with the sparkling wine region in the north. In France, champ means field, and these fields are white. They are packed with chalk and limestone. Why does this matter for a spirit? Because vines grown in chalky soil produce grapes with incredibly high acidity and very low sugar. If you tried to drink the base wine made for cognac at your Shabbat table, you'd probably spit it out. It's thin, it's sour, and it's only about 8 or 9% alcohol. It's ugly wine, but for distillation, it's pure gold. That acidity is what protects the wine during the long wait for the still, and it provides the floral skeleton the alcohol will eventually cling to. To be called cognac, the rules are ironclad. You must use specific grapes, mostly Haut-en-Blanc. You must use a copper pot still of a very specific shape, and you must age it in French oak. It is a spirit defined by bureaucracy as much as by biology. But then we have to talk about the wild cousin to the south, Armagnac. I have a soft spot for Armagnac. If cognac is the elegant, tuxedo-wearing aristocrat of the brandy world, Armagnac is the rugged farmer with dirt under his fingernails and a heart of gold. Located in the Gascony region, Armagnac was actually being distilled 200 years before cognac. The terroir here is different— it's sandier with more iron— and the process is different too. While cognac is distilled twice in a pot still to a very pure refined spirit, Armagnac is usually distilled only once in a continuous column still. This leaves more of the impurities, the oils, and the esters in the liquid. The result: a spirit that is earthier, more robust, and more grapey. So as you stand there choosing your bottle for the holiday, ask yourself, are you looking for the polished floral precision of cognac, or Do you want the rustic, spicy, and full-bodied soul of Gascony Armagnac? Both are actually masterpieces of the vine, and both carry the fingerprint of their soil through the fire of the still. But before we can get that liquid into our glasses, we have to address the kosher hurdle, and that is where the story gets truly technical. And truly fascinating. We've mapped out the rolling hills of Cognac and the sandy soils of Gascony, but now we have to talk about the reality of getting that spirit from the French countryside to your table in Jerusalem, New York, or London, or anywhere for that matter. Because if the geography of brandy is complex, the The halacha, the Jewish law surrounding it, is a master class in logistics. If you're a whiskey drinker, you're used to a certain level of ease. You check a list, you look for a specific cask finish, and generally you're good to go. But brandy, brandy is a different beast entirely. It's the only major spirit that is governed by the laws of stam yinam, the prohibition concerning grape products handled by those who are not Jewish. Think about the implications for a moment. In the standard distillery, the winemaker, or master distiller, is touching the valves, testing the tanks, and monitoring the fermentation. But for a kosher brandy, The moment those grapes are crushed, the entire facility essentially goes into a lockdown. I want you to imagine a scene. It's a crisp autumn morning in the small village in France, a historic cognac house. Let's say it's a house like Louis Royer or Dupuy. And has agreed to a kosher run. Suddenly, a team of mashgichim, rabbinic supervisors, arrives. For the next few weeks, the French master distiller, who might be the 5th generation of his family to run these stills, has to hand over his keys. He can't turn a valve. He can't open a tank to smell the fermenting must. He can't even restart the boiler if it trips. Every physical action involving the liquid must be performed by a Jew. I've spoken to distillers who found this incredibly frustrating at first. This is their baby, their art form, and they are told they can't even touch it. But then a beautiful thing happens. They start to see the mashkikhim not as intruders, but as partners in the sacred choreograph. There is a precision to the kosher process that actually mirrors the precision of high-end distillation. But then we hit the mevushal debate. This is one for my fellow wine nerds. We know that mevushal wine—wine that has been flash-pasteurized—is often used in catering or restaurants to avoid the issue of handling. Now, distillation involves heating a wine way past the boil. So you might ask, Simon, doesn't that act of distilling wine automatically make it mevushal? It's a fascinating question. Most halachic authorities actually say no. Distillation is a process of separation, not just cooking. The goal is to extract the alcohol, not boil the wine in the culinary sense. Therefore, the spirit that comes out of the still, that clear heart, is usually considered non-mefushal. This means after all that heat, the laws of carefully handling by a Jewish team must continue until the bottle is fully corked and sealed with a hashkacha. And then there's the cask conundrum. As a Scotch drinker, you know that the sherry cask is the holy grail of flavor, but in the brandy world, aging is typically done in new French oak or seasoned casks. If a distillery wants to finish a brandy in a cask that previously held non-kosher sherry or port, which is a common practice in the non-kosher world to add sweetness, we have a massive problem. For kosher brandy, the providence of the barrel is as important as the providence of the grape. If the barrel isn't new or hasn't been specifically prepared under supervision, the spirit can't be certified. This is why when you see a Kosher for Passover logo on a bottle of XO cognac, you aren't just paying for the liquid. You are paying for a multi-year, multi-continental operation of constant supervision, dedicated casks, and a physical guarding of the spirit that is almost unparalleled in the food world. It's a labor of love. It ensures that when you pour that glass at Kiddush, the purity of the spirit isn't just chemical, it's spiritual. We've discussed the geography and we've walked through the complex halachic choreography that ensures our brandy is fit for the Passover table. But now I want to take you into the very heart of the mystery, the science and the soul of the distillation process itself. I often get asked a very skeptical question by wine purists. Simon, if you take a delicate, nuanced wine and boil it at nearly 100 degrees Celsius, Aren't you just killing the terroir? Doesn't the heat destroy everything the soil works so hard to create? And it's a fair question. On the surface, distillation seems violent. You are literally tearing the alcohol away from the water and the solids of the wine. But I want to offer a different perspective. I want you to think of distillation not as destructive, but as a revelation. Think of it like a sculptor working on a block of marble. The terroir, the soil, the climate, the vine struggle is the marble. The distillation process is the chisel. It strips away the excess water and the bulk of the liquid to reveal the skeleton of the fruit. When we talk about brandy, we are talking about congeners. These are the chemical compounds, the esters, the tannins, the minerals that carry the flavor and the aroma. When a master distiller looks at his copper still, his job isn't to create pure alcohol. If he wanted to do that, he'd make vodka. His job is to carefully capture the specific congeners that say, "I grew up in the chalky hills of the Grand Champagne," or, "I'm a product of the Judean sun." The hero of this story is the copper still, specifically the alambic Chartenaise. If you've ever seen one, they're a work of art— giant, glowing copper onions with long, elegant swan necks. Why copper? It's not just for the aesthetic. Copper is a catalyst. It physically reacts with the wine vapors, stripping away the harsh sulfur compounds and unpleasant aromas that would otherwise mask the beauty of the fruit. Without that copper, the terroir would be buried under a wall of industrial funk. I remember standing in the distillery in the north of Israel one cold morning. The air was thick with a scent of biscuit and warm grapes. I watched the distiller as the spirit started to trickle out of the condenser. This is the moment of truth as he makes the cuts. First comes the heads. Too high in alcohol, spelling of nail polish remover. Those are discarded. Then finally comes the heart. This is the clear, crystalline liquid that carries the soul of the vineyard. The distiller has to use his nose, literally sticking his face into the stream, to decide exactly when the floral, fruity notes are are at their peak. If he waits too long, he hits the tails— the heavy, oily cardboard flavor that ruin a fine spirit. So does terroir survive? Absolutely, but it survives as a concentration. When you sip a high-quality kosher brandy, you aren't just tasting alcohol and oak. You are tasting the mineral skeleton of the Uniblanc or Colombard grape. You are tasting the specific vintage year's rainfall concentrated into a single glowing drop. Distillation is the ultimate act of listening to what the land has to say, even when it has to speak through the medium of fire. And as we'll see in our next segment, This conversation between the fire and the fruit has a very long, very storied history right here in the land of Israel, a history that predates many of our modern wineries. We've spent a lot of time in France so far, and for good reason. Cognac is the benchmark. But I want to bring our focus back home to the land of Israel. If you look at the modern Israeli wine landscape, you see world-class Cabernets, elegant Syrah, and ancient indigenous varieties. But if you'd walked into a Jewish home in Jerusalem or Tel Aviv 70 or 80 years ago and asked for the pride of the local industry, they wouldn't have handed you a bottle of wine. They would have handed you a bottle of brandy. To understand why, we have to go back to the very beginning, to the 1880s. Imagine the pioneers of the first aliyah struggling in the heat of the coastal plain. They had the support of Baron Edmund de Rothschild, who brought over French cuttings and French expertise to establish the Carmel Wineries in Rishon L'Tsion and Zichron Yaakov. The Baron's dream was high-end French-style table wine, but the land of Israel is a generous, sometimes overwhelming mother. Within a decade, the vineyards were producing far more grapes than the fledgling market could consume as wine. The cellars were literally overflowing, and in 1898 The Baron's administrators faced a crisis. What do you do with thousands of tons of surplus grapes that are about to spoil? The answer was found in the ancient alchemy tradition. You distill it. They imported massive copper stills from Europe and established the first commercial distillery in the Middle East, right there in Richon Lezion. This wasn't just a side project, it was an economic lifeline. Brandy was easier to transport, it didn't spoil in the heat, and it found an immediate market among the Jewish diaspora who wanted a taste of the Holy Land that could survive the long sea voyage. I remember talking to an older gentleman in a synagogue here in Jerusalem. Who grew up in the 1950s. He told me that for his father, a kiddush wasn't complete without a small glass of Carmel 777. Ah, the Triple Seven. It's a legend in the kosher world. There are so many stories about that name. Some say it refers to the 7 years of plenty, but the most popular story, the one I like the best, is that it represents the triple luck of Jewish history: the seventh day of creation, the seven species of the land, and the year the state was born. For decades, Carmel 777 and its older, more refined brother Carmel 100 were the gold standard. Carmel 100 was aged for at least 8 years in small oak barrels, and in its prime It was winning gold medals in international competition in London and Paris, beating out established French houses. But then the world changed. In the late 1970s and '80s, Israel's economy opened up. Suddenly, imported Scotch whiskey, that chamaït spirit we talked about earlier, became cheaper and more accessible. Brandy, began to be seen as your grandfather's drink. It felt old-fashioned, a relic of the socialist pioneer era. Production slowed. The great copper stills in Rishon were eventually silenced, and many of the vineyards were pulled up to make room for Cabernet. For a long time, the spirit of the vine in Israel went dormant, but history has a way of coming full circle. The terroir didn't go anywhere. The sun still shines on the Judean hills, and the grapes still have an incredible concentrated sugar. In our next segment, I want to introduce you to the alchemists of today, the people who looked at those silent stills and decided that it was time to bring the fire back to the Israeli grape. We've walked through the dusty archives of Rishon L'Tzion, but history isn't something that just happened. It's something that repeats, often with a more refined accent. For a few decades, Israeli brandy was the sleeping giant of our industry. We had the grapes and we had the sun, but the passion had shifted elsewhere. That changed when a few alchemists Men and women who grew up in the vineyards decided that the Israeli grape deserved a second chance in the copper still. And if we're going to talk about the modern soul of Israeli brandy, we have to talk about a family name that is synonymous with the Zichron Yaakov region: Tishbi. I want to take you to Benyamina, to the Tishbi estate. If you walk into their distillery today, you'll see something that looks like it was transported through a wormhole from 19th century France. It's a massive, glowing, hand-hammered copper Charentise alambic still. The story of how it got to Israel is one of my favorites. Decades ago, Jonathan Tishby, the patriarch of the winery, petivision. He didn't want to just make a local spirit. He wanted to create an Israeli brandy that could stand toe-to-toe with the finest cognacs in the world. But to do that, you can't use industrial column stills. You need to use the old soul of the copper pot. He traveled to the cognac region of France and found an antique still a double distillation beast that had been used by legendary French houses. He bought it and had it meticulously disassembled and shipped across the Mediterranean. Can you imagine the logistics? Shipping tons of antique copper piece by piece and then rebuilding it in the heat of the Israeli coastal plain. It was an act of total madness. Or perhaps an act of supreme confidence in the land. I remember visiting the distillery on a day when the still was running. There's a specific sound to a copper still, a low rhythmic thrumming like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant. And the smell— it's not just alcohol, it's the scent of caramelized sunshine. Jonathan and his team understood something crucial about terroir that we often forget: the best brandy grapes are actually the worst table wine grapes. They used Colombard and Chenin Blanc grown in the cooler microclimes of the Judean hills and the slopes of Mount Carmel. These grapes were picked early to keep the acidity high and the sugar low. When that thin, tart wine enters that French copper still, a transformation occurs. Because the Tishby still is a pot still, it requires two separate distillations. The first produces the brûlis, a cloudy liquid. When it goes back in for a second burn, this is where the artistry happens. They wait for years, sometimes 10, 12, or even 16 years, for the spirit to age in French oak barrels that previously held their own high-end wines. The result is the Tishbe Special Reserve. When you pour that at a Passover kiddush, you aren't just drinking a spirit, you are drinking a bridge. You're tasting French engineering meeting Israeli soil. It has these incredible notes of dried apricots, roasted nuts, and a hint of that Mediterranean sea breeze. But Tishbe isn't alone anymore. We're seeing a boutique explosion. You look at The Cave, which is a collaboration between Binyamina and some of the best viticultural minds in the country. They've been aging brandy in an actual 16th century Ottoman era cave where the constant cool temperature and high humidity creates a slow breath aging process that mimics the cellars of cognac. Then there are the newcomers like Golani and Pelter who are experimenting with different fruit bases and unique cask finishes. They are the rebels of the spirit world, pushing the boundaries of what an Israeli spirit can be. This is the new golden age, and we aren't just making brandy because we have extra grapes. We are making it because we realize that our terroir, our specific combination of sun, soil, and spirit, has something unique to say. It's saying it loud enough for the whole world to hear. But before we get too caught up in the grape, I want to take a brief detour, because as any good Jewish home knows, when the whiskey goes away for Passover, the cousins of the brandy world often come out to play. We have spent a lot of time talking about the grape, the queen of the vineyard, but as You have wandered the aisles of kosher liquor stores lately. No, the word brandy is a very big tent. When the whiskey goes under lock and key for Passover, the whole cast of fruit cousins comes out of the shadows. In the trade, we call these eau de vie, waters of life. If grape brandy is the soul of the vine, —then these are the souls of the orchard. Now, I can't talk about Passover spirits without mentioning the elephant—or perhaps the plum in the room—Slivovitz. For many of a certain generation, Slivovitz is a word that triggers a physical reaction. You might remember a dusty bottle with a blue label on your grandfather's table, a spirit so potent It could strip the varnish off a dresser. It was the firewater of the Ashkenazi shtetl. But why plums? In Eastern Europe, grain was often taxed or restricted, and grapes struggled in the cold. But the damson plum, it was everywhere. It was hardy, it was sweet, and when fermented and distilled, it produced a spirit that could warm the cold Polish night. But I want to challenge your memory of Śliwówicze. Just as we've seen a boutique revolution in wine, we are seeing it in plum brandy. There are producers now, especially out of Serbia, and even some craft distillers in the States who are treating the plum with the same reverence as a cognac distiller treats the grape. They are using specific heirloom plum varieties, aging the spirits in mulberry wood and toasted oak, and producing something that is floral, nutty, and incredibly sophisticated. When you taste a high-end aged slivovitz at your Passover kiddush, you realize it's not just strong It's a deep aromatic expression of the orchard. Then we head south of the Mediterranean. If you have roots in Tunisia or Morocco, your Passover brandy isn't made from plums, it's made from figs. I'm talking about bucha. The story of bucha is inextricably linked to the Bakobza family. In the late 19th century in Tunisia, They perfected a way to take the humble sun-drenched fig and turn it into a clear, crisp spirit. Unlike the heavily oaky grape brandies, bucha is usually unaged. It's white. It tastes like the essence of the Mediterranean summer— clean, slightly herbaceous, with a whisper of sweetness. For a Sephardic Jew, a a glass of bucha with a plate of spicy nuts or dried fruit is the taste of the holiday. It's a spirit that doesn't try to be whiskey. It celebrates being exactly what it is. And we can't forget the apple calvados, the famous apple brandy from Normandy. While the kosher calvados is rarer than its grape-based cousins, When you find a bottle like one from the House of Bula, it is a revelation. It is like drinking baked apples, vanilla, and spice. Now, from a halachic perspective, these fruit brandies offer a different kind of relief because they aren't made from grapes. The strict laws of stam yainan don't apply in the same way. You don't necessarily need a Jewish team to turn the valves for the plum or the fig. However, this is a big however, for my listeners, for Passover, they must still be certified kosher for Passover. Why? Because the yeast used for fermentation or the enzymes used to break down the fruit could be derived from grain. In the world of industrial spirits, You never know where those hidden ingredients come from. So even with the fruit cousins, we look for that seal of approval. Whether it's the fire of a plum, the sunshine of a fig, or the spice of an apple, these spirits remind us that the terroir of the world is vast. Passover is a time when we reconnect with our roots, and sometimes these roots lead us right to the heart of the orchard. But now, my friends, the table is set, the history is told. We have a bottle in front of us. It's our final segment. I want to talk about the art of the sip, how to actually taste these masterpieces so you get every ounce of value out of the bottle you just bought for the holiday. We have traveled across continents, we've climbed through the chalky hills of France and stood besides the glowing copper stills of the Galilee. We've navigated the intricacies of halacha and the weight of history. Now the moment has arrived. It's a sunny Passover afternoon. The morning services are over, the lunch table is set, and it's time to actually taste what we've been discussing. But I have to start with a bit of tough love. Moments for my fellow spirit enthusiasts. To truly appreciate the terroir of brandy, we have to talk about the glass. If you look at an old Hollywood movie, think of those scenes with leather armchairs and roaring fireplaces, and you see brandy sniffers. It's the massive round fishbowl of the glass with a short stem. The tradition, we are told, is to cup the bowl in your palm, swirled the liquid vigorously to warm it up. I'm telling you here as a friend, put the snifter away. The snifter was designed in an era when French châteaux were drafty and freezing. People needed the heat of our hands just to get the aromatic molecules to move. But in our modern heated homes, Warming of 40% or 45% ABV spirits in your hand does something very unfortunate. It causes ethanol, the raw alcohol, to evaporate much faster than the delicate fruit and floral notes. When you stick your nose into a snifter that's been warmed by your hand, you get hit with a burn that numbs the olfactory senses before you can ever taste the grapes. Instead, I want you to reach for a tulip glass, or if you have one of those Scotch glasses, that's perfect. If not, a high-quality white wine glass with a narrow rim works beautifully. The goal is to allow the spirit to breathe while focusing the elegant aromas of apricot, vanilla, and old oak towards your nose without the alcohol overpowering them. And as for temperature, please resist the urge to heat it. Serve your brandy at a cool room temperature around 18°C or 64°F. It keeps the spirit tight and elegant. Now let's walk through the tasting. First, look at the color. Unlike wine, which can tell you about the grape variety, a brandy's color tells you about its patience. A pale straw color suggests a younger VS or VSOP, while a deep mahogany amber tells you that the spirit has spent decades breathing through the pores of a French oak barrel. When you go to smell it Don't dive right into it like you would a glass of Chardonnay. Start with your nose at the rim of the glass. This is the first nose. You'll get floral notes, jasmine, vine blossoms, perhaps a hint of lime. Then tilt the glass and move closer. This is where the terroir reveals itself. You might smell dried figs, toasted walnuts, or what the French call rancio. Rancio is the Holy Grail of brandy. It's the hard-to-describe aroma that only develops after decades of aging. It's earthy, a bit like mushrooms or old leather or damp forest floor. It's the sound of the barrel finally finishing its conversation with the spirit. When you finally take that first sip, remember This isn't whiskey. Whiskey is about grain, malt, and often smoke. Brandy is about fruit and texture. Let the liquid coat your tongue. Do you feel that slight oiliness? That is the concentration of the grape. For your Passover lunch, think about pairings. A rich, nutty XO cognac or an aged tishbe Special Reserve is a masterpiece alongside dark chocolate or a plate of roasted almonds and dates. If you're drinking a crisp, clear Bucha or a younger, vibrant Armagnac, it actually pairs beautifully with the savory elements of the meal. Think of the richness of slow-cooked brisket or the spice of a Sephardic lamb dish. Drinking brandy is an act of mindfulness. It took years in the barrel and hours in the still to get to this moment. It deserves 20 minutes of your time in the glass. As you sit with your family this holiday, let the spirit open up, let it breathe, and let it tell you the story of the vine. As we bring this journey to a close, I find myself thinking about the word terroir one more time. Usually on this show, we think of it as something purely physical— the lime in the soil of Cognac, or the iron in the sands of Gascony. It's the intense sun hitting the slopes of the Judean hills. But as we've seen today, especially when it comes to the complex world of kosher brandy, Terroir is more than just geology. It's the human terroir. It is the patience of the grower who waits for the perfect level of acidity in the grape that no one else wants to eat. It's the dedication of the mashgiach who stays up through the night in the cold French distillery to ensure that every valve turn is a sanctified act. It's the vision of the people like Jonathan Tishby who saw the future of Israeli spirits in a heap of antique copper. And ultimately, it's you, the listener. When you choose to bring an elevated, thoughtful bottle to your table, you are the final ingredient in the terroir of that spirit. You are the reason it's made. Passover is the holiday of our freedom, but it is also the holiday of our continuity. Especially in these days of war and what's going on with antisemitism around the world, it's more important than ever. When we lock away our beloved single malts for the week and reach for the brandy, we aren't just making a halachic substitution. We are reconnecting with a Jewish tradition of viticulture and distillation that stretches back over a century in our modern land and over centuries more in the diaspora. We are drinking the spirit of the vine. We are drinking the concentrated essence of place, people, and a promise. As you sit at your table this coming week, Look out for the spring bloom of Jerusalem, or wherever you might be in the world. I hope you take a moment to appreciate the alchemy in your glass. From the humble sour grape to the glowing golden spirit, it is a reminder that even the most burnt or tested things can emerge refined, concentrated, and beautiful. Thank you for joining me for this deep dive. It's been an honor to share these stories and these glasses with you. I hope this episode helps you navigate the liquor store shelves with a bit more confidence and a lot more curiosity. I'm Simon Jacob. This has been The Kosher Terroir. Please support the makers who put so much heart into these bottles. May your Passover be filled with meaningful conversation, deep connection, and of course, truly exceptional spirits. Hag kasher vesameach l'chaim. This is Simon Jacob again, your host of today's episode of The Kosher Teruah. Please subscribe via your podcast provider to be informed of our new episodes as they are released. If you are new to the Kosher Terroir, please check out our many past episodes.