One chilly evening more than a decade ago, my Glasgow-born-and-bred friend Angus Robertson greeted me at his Brooklyn Heights doorway in his kilt and sporran and welcomed me to my first Burns supper, the Scottish celebration on Jan. 25 that honors the poet Robert Burns. About 20 of us gathered around the haggis (nothing to be afraid of, basically a big mealy sausage), neeps and tatties (that’s turnips and potatoes) and whisky-fortified gravy. Then the time arrived for dessert, poetry, song and whisky. Lots of Scotch whisky, selected with care by our hosts.

Up to that night, I had nostalgic associations with the blended Scotches favored by my grandfather — Dewar’s especially — but I attached a little latent class rage to single malts. Scotch, I thought, was a rich man’s game: the sort of thing that might be found in a still life, in a cut-crystal glass beside a leatherbound book that might never be read. Burns night, then, created some cognitive dissonance. If any writer can be regarded as a poet of the people, it’s Burns — “the Ploughman Poet,” a farmer’s son — who taught us that freedom and whisky go together. The best Burns suppers “are the home kind, without any pomp or pretension whatsoever,” says another Glaswegian and an artist, Lex Braes, who always includes a group reading of Burns’s “Tam O’Shanter,” which, he says, is “a great cautionary tale of the demon drink.” (Braes’s and Burns’s tongues were at least partly in cheek.)

Burns night is the perfect opportunity to consider Scotch’s tremendous variety, from mellow and gentle to vegetal and even barnyardy, and up through to the big, peaty, smoky numbers that many people think of first when they think Scotch (see below for a range of recommendations). While the evening highlights whisky served neat — but with a pitcher of water alongside it, which often helps to open up its flavors — there’s no reason not to kick the festivities off with a Rabbie Burns cocktail, which adds vermouth, Bénédictine and a bit of citrus. A Rob Roy (a variation on the Manhattan, with Scotch) is also a fine choice. It’s worth noting, however, that the Rob Roy was created not on a windswept Hebridean isle but at the Waldorf Hotel in New York City in 1894.

What’s not to love about a holiday that celebrates a poet? Or one that demands generous quantities of whisky? Burns might have answered the latter question long ago: “O thou, my muse!/guid auld Scotch drink!/Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink,/Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink.” Got that? Me, neither. But that won’t stop me from raising a glass this week.