
This Whiskey Just Cleaned Up At The 2025 San Francisco World Spirits Competition
If there's one thing Stranahan's knows how to do—besides distill award-winning American single malt—it's keep whiskey nerds lining up in tents at high altitude every winter like it's the Great American Barrel Migration. Their ultra-limited Snowflake release has long been the stuff of cultish devotion. This year? The devotion paid off.
At the 2025 San Francisco World Spirits Competition, Stranahan's raked in seven Gold and Double Gold medals, including top honors for Snowflake Redcloud Peak, which was named a Best of Class finalist in the American Single Malt category. Not to be outdone, Mountain Angel 12-Year also earned a Double Gold and finalist status. Basically: if this were whiskey summer camp, Stranahan's just won all the merit badges.
'We stand in elite single malt territory, with a floor of Gold at SFWSC,' said Head Blender Justin Aden, who's been quietly blending up a storm inside a former Denver theater-turned-barrel room called Rackhouse 215. 'It's all a testament to our 21 years of toil, perfecting one recipe and one recipe only.'
Let's pause there. One recipe. Twenty-one years. Multiple awards. And an entire rickhouse dedicated to barrels finished in everything from Sauternes to mezcal. No big deal.
Red Cloud Peak
Stranahan's Snowflake is an annual release that hardcore fans camp out for, sometimes days in advance, with lawn chairs, whiskey-fueled optimism, and a collective tolerance for Colorado winter. Redcloud Peak, this year's edition, is a high-wire blend of sherry, port, Sauternes, and other fortified wines that—somehow—doesn't tip into sticky sweetness.
During a tasting when the whiskey was released, Aden described the process of creating Snowflake sort of like a whiskey séance. 'It starts to reveal itself to you,' he says. 'Some barrels you think you'll use for sure don't make the cut. Others surprise you.' He tasted through hundreds of barrels to build the final blend, composed of about a dozen casks.
Stranahans
Aden, who joined Stranahan's in May 2022, dove headfirst into the distillery's extensive barrel inventory to shape Red Cloud Peak. 'You have all year to work on it. You keep sampling and sampling and trying things mixed together, and it starts to reveal itself to you,' Aden explained during a tasting of the components that went into the whiskey.
Unlike the previous year's Snowflake, which leaned heavily into smoky, mezcal-cask influences, Aden knew he wanted this year's blend to steer clear of peat and smoke. Instead, he focused on fruit-forward barrels and an array of fortified wine finishes, including Sherry, Sauternes, and Madera.
'All I knew for certain was there'd be no smoke, no peat in this year's version,' Aden said. 'But other than that, you come in completely unencumbered.'
Stranahan's
Snowflake releases are built from what Aden calls 'miniature blends' — smaller coupes that each showcase a specific flavor style. Red Cloud Peak's final composition includes:
'Building the blend is like building a house — you start with a cornerstone,' Aden said. 'Sometimes you think you're going one way, and the barrels lead you somewhere completely different.'
The process is painstaking. Aden and his team tasted hundreds of barrels over the course of the year (tough work, I know), narrowing them down to about 12 to 16 for the final blend — a manageable number that allows the character of each cask to still be felt.
Stranahan's
Stranahan's Colorado location gives its whiskey a distinctive aging profile. Unlike the humid rickhouses of Kentucky, Denver's dry climate pulls more water than alcohol from the barrels, gradually concentrating the proof over time.
'We fill our barrels at 110 proof, which is a big departure from the industry standard,' Aden explained. 'It enables the fact that our whiskey proof goes up as it ages to be very gradual.'
This slow and steady evaporation results in spirits that maintain bright fruit and vibrant structure — characteristics that shine through in Red Cloud Peak's lush, layered palate.
Barrels at Stranahan's
Snowflake isn't just about rare barrels and special finishes. For Aden, it's also about carrying forward a pioneering craft whiskey legacy.
'Twenty years ago, if you didn't have a little nepotism in Kentucky or Tennessee, you just weren't breaking in. Craft distilling changed that,' Aden said. 'Stranahan's deserves to be recognized at the top of that list.'
As craft distilling in America boomed from just a handful of operations to more than 2,000 today, Stranahan's stayed the course: refusing to source whiskey, focusing exclusively on American single malt, and pushing creative boundaries year after year.
Snowflake's continued success — and the dedicated fans who camp out to get a bottle — are proof that Stranahan's spirit of innovation and adventure is alive and well under Aden's leadership.
'We have people who haven't missed one in ten years,' Aden said. 'That kind of loyalty — that's rare. That's something you have to earn every single time.'
Stranahan's Lineup
Snowflake may get the Instagram buzz, but Stranahan's other bottles are no slackers. Here's how the rest of the lineup performed:
'It's easy for me to wax about this part of the job,' Aden says. 'To take the culmination of so much hard work, put it together, and have it sing—there's nothing like it.'
He's talking about blending, of course—but it's also a fair way to describe what Stranahan's is up to more broadly. In a still-emerging category, the distillery isn't chasing trends so much as quietly refining its voice – and winning some awards in the process.
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A vibrant social scene has burgeoned on Saturday nights along Route 66 in Glendora — a sleepy suburb in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains — at Glendora Continental, a nostalgic time capsule of the local Basque community for nearly half a century. But now the 45-year-old, family-run restaurant might be nearing its end. Earlier this year, the second- and third-generation owners put it up for sale, and are now considering offers from potential operators and developers. A cornerstone of the community, it's a reminder of fading connections to the Basque diaspora in California. In the last decade several Basque restaurants — tied to a culture centered around sheepherding and preserving traditions through social clubs and festivals — have closed. Cafe Basque in downtown L.A., Santa Monica's Bar Pinxtos and Pasadena's Ración have all shuttered. 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'Everybody looks out for everyone here.' The paraphernalia on the walls near the entrance of Glendora Continental paint a Basque immigrant story. Black-and-white photos include a 1966 wedding snapshot of the late owners, Elisabeth and Jean-Baptiste Sabarots. A painting of the Basque coat of arms, called Zazpiak Bat, symbolizes the seven provinces that make up one of Europe's oldest ethnic groups, straddling France and Spain in the western Pyrenees Mountains. A decorated wood carving depicts a man playing jai alai, the Basque handball game using a curved basket. 'The whole style — including that old-school diner look — was really my parents,' said co-owner Antoinette Sabarots, 56, of the nearly 7,000-square-foot Glendora Continental. Her father, Jean, who hailed from the French town of Osses, came to California in 1955 and worked as a sheepherder, like many other Basques who migrated to the United States. He eventually landed a bartending job at the now-closed Can Can Club in Covina in 1962. It seemed like a better fit for him. 'We never liked to camp with him because he hated being outside,' said Antoinette. 'I can only imagine he herded sheep as minimally as he could.' On a trip back home in 1964, Jean met Elisabeth Larralde, who had worked at the Hotel Arcé in Saint-Étienne-de-Baïgorry for over a decade, starting at 12. 'She cultivated and developed a sense of taste and grace and how to cook like a chef there,' said Antoinette. In 1966, Jean and Elisabeth traveled to the U.S. and got married in Chino. Next door to the Can Can Club, they worked at the Little Inn Lounge and Smorgasbord in Covina before eventually owning it. When they saved enough money, they opened Glendora Continental in 1980 and simultaneously ran both restaurants, until Little Inn closed in 1989. At Glendora Continental, Jean was in charge of the bar and Elisabeth hosted and managed the kitchen. She crafted French Basque dishes like slow-braised lamb in a Burgundy demi-glace, bouchée à la reine, pickled tongue and escargots à la bourguignonne — items that remain on the menu as an homage to the family's culture. 'These are dishes that are more popular with French Basque people, not so much the general public,' said Antoinette, who noted that over time her family incorporated more American dishes like crab cakes, grilled steaks and salads. 'I would say it's Basque with a sprinkle of American, or vice versa.' The bar displays its Basque influences: French and Californian wines, apéritifs from Ricard to Dubonnet, and classic cocktails, including a traditional Basque drink called Picon Punch. Elisabeth and Jean's three daughters — Antoinette, Bernadette and Marguerite Sabarots (who died last November from brain cancer at 57) — grew up working at the restaurant, cleaning dishes, whipping up chocolate mousse and folding napkins. When they left for college, they would come back to help their parents cater events. The sisters forged their own paths. But when Elisabeth died in 2005 from colon cancer, and Jean, who had his own health issues — he had become a double-amputee years earlier — was alone managing the restaurant, Bernadtte stepped in to help. She moved back to Glendora and worked alongside her father until he passed away in 2012. 'I wasn't planning on working at the restaurant, but we didn't realize my parents were going to pass away so early,' said Bernadette. 'Obviously, things change as you get older.' Bernadtte has found family among her longstanding employees. Lunchtime chef Marcelino Espinoza, 63, trained under Elisabeth and has been at the restaurant since it first opened; Kathy Gutierrez, 64, has been a bartender for 15 years; and Victor Hernandez, 50, a dishwasher and busboy for 12 years. Marguerite Jaureguy, 78, was Jean's girlfriend in the last years of his life and continues to come in once a week to do administrative and bookkeeping work. 'It's our second home,' said Hernandez. Customers have similar sentiments. For 25 years, Paul and Jan Collett, 81 and 77, have dined at Glendora Continental nearly every day. 'It has really good food,' said Jan. 'We've got several friends that we meet down there all the time, so it's just like home.' Kirk and Elloise Warner, 75 and 74, have been frequenting Glendora Continental since the 1990s. They have a tradition to stop by the bar for shots whenever UCLA wins a game. 'We're not Basque, but we're kind of related,' said Kirk. 'Both of our families raised sheep for years.' Multigenerational families have been among the most loyal customers. Stella Arambel's Basque parents were friends with Elisabeth and Jean, and Glendora Continental catered her family's birthdays, anniversaries and most recently, her daughter's bridal shower in June. 'It has this vintage charm … and the food is great and it's at an affordable price,' said Arambel, 56. 'It holds a special place in my heart and I'll be sad to see it go.' An influx of Basque immigrants arrived in California around the Gold Rush in the mid-1800s, when sheepherding became a growing industry as demand for its meat and wool rose. Nancy Zubiri, author of the book 'A Travel Guide to Basque America,' has long studied local Basque history and changing demographics. In the late 1800s, Basques populated downtown L.A. before moving east to Chino, where there were ranches and dairy farms. 'There were Basque hotels, but they were actually boarding houses where the men would have a room and the owners would cook meals for them,' said Zubiri. 'They would all eat in the dining room together and that eventually developed into the Basque restaurant business.' However, Basque immigration to the U.S. slowed in the 1960s as France's and Spain's economies improved, Zubiri said. Eventually, the Basque community in Chino also changed. 'A lot of Basques used to live in Chino until the land got bought up and people started building — and then a lot of the dairy farms moved to Bakersfield,' said Bernadette. 'We don't see as many Basques anymore … they're just not around.' Even the culture in Bakersfield, 150 miles north in the southern Central Valley, is shifting as many locals there are also descendants of an aging immigrant generation and fewer folks are emigrating from the Basque Country. As for the dwindling number of Basque restaurants in Southern California, a lot of it has to do with a generational divide. 'Most of the restaurants were started by the immigrant generation and they were so willing to work hard and spend all day in the restaurant and give up their life to that,' said Zubiri. 'The younger generation are not as interested in it.' 'I think we all sort of knew it was a matter of time,' said Antoinette. 'My family doesn't live close by, and we never really imagined our kids would like to take it over.' Decisions about the restaurant's future are being made through its board, which includes Antoinette, Bernadette and Marguerite's children. Bernadette had originally wanted to keep the restaurant going, but has recently agreed with the board to put it on the market. 'I'm not getting any younger,' said Bernadette. 'I realized, 'You know what? Life is too short. I'm not going to continue to fight the fight.' ' As for the remaining Basque restaurants in Southern California, diners can still visit Centro Basco in Chino. Others are Basque adjacent: While Xuntos in Santa Monica primarily focuses on Northern Spanish tapas, some of its dishes are influenced by the Basque Country, and Taylor's Cafe in Chino offers Basque sausage on its Mexican and American breakfast menu. While Glendora Continental is drawing to an end, Jaureguy is reminded of Jean in his influence on his children. 'He used to say in Basque, 'Goatzen aitzina,' which means 'Let's move forward' — and now Bernie says the same thing,' said Jaureguy. 'She talks the same way as her dad.'