Is Bourbon a Whisky?

Technically? Yes. Bourbon is a whisky. Just like Scotch is a whisky. But if you’ve ever had Penang laksa and then tried to call Kuala Lumpur’s laksa “the same thing,” congratulations—you’ve just started a civil war in a food-loving country. Same family (bowls of noodles in spicy Southeast Asian broth), but completely different beasts altogether.

Growing up in a lively Malaysian Chinese household, it was impossible not to notice those shiny brown bottles lined up neatly on my father’s corner shelf. On special occasions, he’d dust them off, gather his friends, and—here’s the kicker—let the kids have a sip. I was five. We all hated it. Some gagged, the adults laughed, and we returned to our toys while they returned to their liquid courage. I’m convinced this is how all Asians were introduced to whisky.

As I got older, the bottles multiplied. My dad loved dropping serious cash on anything with a high age statement, proudly showing them off to his friends. Bring out a 25-year-old bottle and the room would erupt in applause. Not for the taste, mind you—for the price tag. And let’s be honest: anyone flooding their 25-year-old Scotch with soda isn’t exactly auditioning for the role of God’s chosen palate. Chances are, they don’t even like whisky to begin with.

My dad’s obsession meant I got to taste an insane range of Scotches, enough to understand the regions, the nuances, the differences. But here’s the thing: in Malaysia, Scotch is king. It’s everywhere. Oversaturated. Which means bourbon barely gets a foot in the door. And that’s a shame, because with all the misconceptions floating around, people here cling to rituals and half-truths that make me want to throw an empty Glencairn at the wall. Stuff like:

• “The older, the better.” (Spoiler: over-aging can ruin a whisky. Balance matters more than birthdays.)

• “I only drink Single Malt.” (Usually shouted at waiters, so that the whole room knows their esteemed choices in spirits, as if blends are some kind of crime.)

• “XO, I only drink XO.” (Brandy flexes count, presumably because of their price tag.)

• Ordering a 30-year-old bottle, then drowning it in soda. (Why even bother?)

And so, Scotch dominates the Malaysian market, while bourbon sits in the shadows. The entitled big spenders, the snobby “Single Malt Only” uncles, keep the cycle going, leaving bourbon brands fighting for scraps.

Right, this is supposed to be an article about bourbon. So why am I so butthurt about Scotch hogging the spotlight? Because bourbon is delicious and it deserves its own damn stage. And honestly, it kills me when people look at a bottle of Maker’s Mark or Jim Beam like it’s bottom-shelf trash.

I only really met bourbon when I was studying and working in the U.S. Of course, the liquor store felt like a pilgrimage. Bourbon lined the shelves like old friends I hadn’t met yet. I grabbed a bottle with a pretty label, Four Roses. The first sip was a revelation: familiar hints of fruit, like apples and pears I knew from Scotch, but then… bam. Caramel, vanilla, chewy taffy sweetness. It was like coming home to a place I’d never been.

I loved it so much I marched it back to my housemates and preached the gospel of bourbon like a man possessed. And in that haze, I finally understood why bourbon was the liquid courage of the Wild West.

What Makes Bourbon, Bourbon

So what exactly makes a bourbon… a bourbon? By law (and a little bit of common sense), there are a few non-negotiables:

1. It’s American. No exceptions. You can make corn whisky in Japan, Timbuktu, or your uncle’s backyard still in Johor, but it won’t be bourbon. The U.S. claimed that word, planted a flag in it, and never let go. Kentucky makes about 95% of it, but technically, Alaska and Hawaii are in the club too. Which means somewhere, someone could be distilling “bourbon” within spitting distance of a hula dancer. Now, before some whiskey nerd corners me at the bar—yes, Tennessee whiskey exists, and no, it’s not just bourbon with a Southern drawl. Legally, it meets all the requirements of bourbon, but with one extra step called the Lincoln County Process: the fresh spirit is filtered through thick layers of sugar maple charcoal before barreling. That charcoal mellowing gives Tennessee whiskey (think Jack Daniel’s) a slightly smoother, softer edge compared to the bolder punch of a Kentucky bourbon. And sometimes it does come across with little nuances of maple syrup to me. Same family tree, just a cousin who insists on showering before dinner.
   

2. Corn is king. At least 51% of the mash has to be corn. That’s why bourbon leans sweeter than Scotch. Rye, wheat, and malted barley usually play supporting roles.

   So, how about Rye Whiskey? You guessed it, 51% rye content. They just wanna make sure it's the majority grain being used.

   
   

3. New charred oak barrels only. Only fresh American oak, charred on the inside like a burnt marshmallow. No hand-me-down casks from sherry or port (like how some Scotch is made). So why the hell did they make that law? It wasn’t just for the flavor (though thank God for the vanilla, caramel, and toasted marshmallow notes it gives). It was also about quality control. In the 1800s and early 1900s, whiskey in America was the Wild West — literally. People were selling rotgut mixed with tobacco spit, turpentine, even iodine, and calling it “whiskey.” Requiring fresh barrels was one way to standardize the process and make sure what came out actually looked and tasted like whiskey instead of brown poison.

   Of course, there was also an economic angle: new barrels meant steady business for America’s coopers (barrel-makers). And let’s be real — Americans have a knack for turning regulations into marketing. Forcing distillers to use fresh oak gave bourbon a flavor profile that Scotch couldn’t touch, and suddenly, you’ve got a uniquely American spirit. So yes, part pride, part protection, part capitalism. Welcome to Bourbon.
   

   
   
   

4. No cheating. No artificial coloring, no flavoring, no shortcuts. What you taste in bourbon is grain, yeast, wood, and time. That’s it.

   Compare that to a lot of Scotch brands, which legally can add caramel coloring (E150a) to “fix” the look of their whisky so every bottle matches the marketing photo. Bourbon doesn’t need that trick. Fresh, charred oak barrels are basically nature’s Photoshop — they give the whiskey its deep amber, sometimes downright mahogany color. After a few Kentucky summers, the spirit soaks up so much caramelized wood sugar that it pours out of the cask looking like liquid gold without a single drop of artificial dye.

   
   

5. Aging. Technically, bourbon has no minimum aging requirement — you could, in theory, barrel it in the morning and bottle it by lunch. But if it wants to wear the label “Straight Bourbon,” it needs at least two years in the barrel (and if it’s under four, they have to put the age on the bottle). 

   Then there’s Bottled-in-Bond (BIB), which sounds like some old-timey marketing gimmick but is actually one of the earliest consumer protection laws for booze, dating back to 1897. To qualify, a bourbon has to be the product of one distillation season, from one distillery, aged at least four years, and bottled at exactly 50% ABV. Why? Because back then, people were tired of getting ripped off with fake or watered-down whiskey. So Bottled-in-Bond was the government’s guarantee that what you were drinking wouldn’t kill you or taste like floor cleaner.

In short, bourbon is whisky, but it comes with stricter rules than most people realize. Think of it like nasi lemak — plenty of people make rice with sambal, but if it doesn’t come with coconut rice, ikan bilis, cucumber, egg, and peanuts, the purists will riot. Same family, but rules matter.

By Jason Yee (Dear Hearts & Chilled Spirits)