By Dathan Kazsuk | The evening begins with soft cork pops, clinking Glencairns, and stories of golf with billionaires as rare bourbon bottles start to open.
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How Rockstar Connect Turned Bourbon into the Ultimate Networking Tool
By Dathan Kazsuk
The evening starts slowly—the soft pop of corks, the catch-up chatter about spending the afternoon golfing with a billionaire, the clink of Glencairn rims on polished wood. Bottles that could pay a month’s mortgage sit like trophies: Weller, Heaven Hill, Old Forester, those rare bottles of Pappy you only whisper about. The bar’s worth? It pushes past $35,000 before anyone bothers to count.
I make a lap and greet every arrival as they set down the bourbon they brought to share, asking the same question: “How’d you get into this lifestyle?” A surprising number point back to one man—Steven David Elliot—and the network he built with his wife, Sarah, through their company, Rockstar Connect.
What began as a local meet-and-mingle in Raleigh has evolved into one of the largest networking movements in the country, with events in over 300 cities. It’s where real estate agents, business owners, and entrepreneurs meet for happy hours that blur the line between business and friendship. And if you’re wondering what fuels that kind of growth—it’s bourbon. For Elliot, the drink isn’t just a hobby; it’s a catalyst. Bourbon as social glue, deal accelerator, and icebreaker in a Glencairn glass. In a room like this, it tracks perfectly.
Scott Rutter, who runs Sky’s the Limit Lending, swears he fell into it by accident. He was a scotch guy, happier with Johnnie Walker Black than any Kentucky mash, until a hotel night and a pour of Jim Beam cracked the door open. Back when he worked in banking, the ABC store manager who banked with his branch would stop by with rare bottles you’d never see on a North Carolina shelf. One curiosity led to the next, and suddenly Scott had a collection—then a circle of friends who were just as obsessed.
As for whether nights like this happen often, he nods. Good Barrels of the Triangle hosts tastings regularly. And yes, some folks flex a little with what they haul in. “Sharing is caring,” Rutter laughs. “Most of us met through Steven’s Rockstar Connect anyway.”
That’s the tightrope here—democratic and exclusive at the same time. I ask if something as common as Buffalo Trace still gets a rise in a room full of unicorns and white whales. “It’s still a damn good bottle,” Rutter says. He still gifts it, and people still ask where he found it. Meanwhile, you hear whispers about $100, $200, even $500 pours—the $500 being the kind of thing you’d expect from a 23-year Pappy.
Elliot’s house is built for this. Upstairs, in one of three bars, sits a Johnnie Walker King George that Rutter picked up in Florida—a scotch that runs near a grand. Downstairs, where we’ve posted up, thousands of dollars in bourbon glow from a cabinet on the left of the bar while an equal fortune in scotch shines on the right. “Talk about stylin’ and profilin’,” I say, going full Ric Flair.
He doesn’t host so much as curate. “We’ll go through thousands of dollars of booze in a night,” Elliot says, grinning. This isn’t just a party—it’s an extension of Rockstar Connect itself, a living, sipping embodiment of what he and Sarah have built.
“Our events are about making genuine connections,” Sarah adds. “Bourbon just helps speed that up.” The next shindig, the Elliots are hosting Grandaddy Mimm’s from Georgia—owned by outlaw country singer Tommy Townsend—to introduce their brand to North Carolina through Rockstar Connect’s growing community. Networking with a backbone of barrel proof. Hospitality at full throttle.
Around the island, the “how” stories keep coming. Aaron Peeler, from Rockstar Connect Realty, has worked with Steven for 15 years through several ventures and landed in the latest one at just the right time. He’s 41 and jokes that he’s been an “experienced drinker” for two decades, but bourbon became the choice when he cut sugars and carbs. Straight liquor fits the keto math, which isn’t the origin story most people expect—but it stuck.
When I ask where you draw the line between a sipper and a mixer, Elliot jumps in. “We’re pretty much straight liquor—why buy these bottles and dilute them with anything but water?” Still, there’s room for utility players. Buffalo Trace can mix. When they throw parties, Evan Williams Bottled-in-Bond or 1792 go into cocktails—mid-shelf, a little more potent, built to play well with others.
Access is its own currency. “If you’re friends with bourbon tasters, you can get any bottle you want—as long as you’re willing to pay for it,” Elliot says with a grin.
David Schenker, director of onboarding and compliance for Rockstar Asset Management, nods like he’s been there. His rabbit hole opened back at UNC-Wilmington when a clerk slid him a Four Roses Private Selection and said, “This one’s special.” Someone had just cleared a case; one remained. Schenker bought it, traded it for other rarities, and then traded again. Before long, he was neck-deep in the Bull City Bourbon Club, where the hunt is half the fun and the other half is the pour you share. “That Four Roses was the opening of Pandora’s box,” he laughs.
While standing around the bar, sipping on a 19-year-old bottle of Heaven Hill—a 100-proof small batch straight wheat whiskey that goes for anywhere between $600 and $800 a bottle—Schenker and Ken Combs walk me through the intricate details behind terms like “small batch,” “single barrel,” “select,” and other key phrases that define this lifestyle. The deeper they talk, the more you realize bourbon isn’t just a drink—it’s a dialect.
I glance over at the lineup of five different bottles of Pappy Van Winkle—10, 12, 13, 15, and 23 years aged—and ask the hypothetical: “What would a one-ounce tasting of these cost?” Around the bar, heads nod in agreement that $1,000 would be a good launch pad, with the 23-year commanding about $500 itself for just one ounce.
Combs, who runs one of the largest renovation companies in the Triangle, CQC Homes, calls what he does luxury resurrection. “I take very sad houses and make them beautiful,” he says, grinning. He shares an office space in North Raleigh with Scott Rutter at Car Space, where the bourbon talk flows as easily as the pours.
He and his wife are both big bourbon fans and collect bottles along the way. Like many here tonight, he’s part of Good Barrels of the Triangle. Combs admits they have friends who travel the country, snagging high-end bottles that never hit the shelves here. “We’ll tell them what we’re looking for, and they’ll grab it for us while they’re out,” he says.
When I ask him which bottle on the bar he’d open just for himself, without sharing, he doesn’t hesitate: “Either the Rip Van Winkle 10-year or the Pappy 15-year.” His reasoning? “Maybe only 90 bottles were released in the entire country of the Pappy 15-year.” We’re very privileged to be in the same room with something like that.
Bearta Alchacar runs an event company that hosts the International Food Festival and the International Wine Festival in downtown Raleigh. She got into bourbon about a decade ago, after meeting Elliot. Back then, she was on the board of a bourbon club, learning the ropes—single barrel, double barrel, all the rabbit holes waiting to swallow you whole.
She says more women are embracing the bourbon scene now because it’s fun, classy, and the crowd is elevated. “It’s just the caliber of people you hang out with when you’re part of this lifestyle,” she says. “The men love the smell and explaining the drink, especially to someone like me who doesn’t know all that. They want to share their experience—they never look down on anyone.”
Then there’s Sarah Elliot, the heartbeat behind Rockstar Connect. “I like to drink with friends and share what we find,” she says with a smile. “It’s the thrill of the hunt for Steven and me—we’ll be out on our Rockstar or real estate tours and find ourselves stopping at ABC stores in the middle of nowhere, looking for unicorns.” Sometimes, she says, they stumble on hidden gems from small local distilleries that few outside the area will ever taste.
Back across the bar, Schenker gets into the science. “If you’re adding even just a few drops of water to bourbon,” he explains, “it can really open it up—to the point where you cut through that alcohol and recognize the notes that were masked before.” He demonstrates, letting the bourbon bloom in the glass.
By the time the night hits its stride, the room hums—laughter, clinking glass, quiet wows when a cork comes free from something old and elusive. Every bottle shows up with a story. Some are accidents, some are health pivots, some are network effects that turned into friendships and then traditions. The proof is high, the mood higher, and the line between business and pleasure blurs in the best possible way.
As I take one last sip of that Heaven Hill, rich and warm like liquid gold, I realize it’s not about the price tag or the age statement—it’s about the shared chase, the stories behind each cork, and the camaraderie built one pour at a time. In a world obsessed with status, these folks have found something better: connection, community, and a damn fine glass of bourbon to toast it with.
And because this crew doesn’t let good bourbon end the night, plans shifted from the bar to the dance floor. A few brought designated drivers, others summoned Ubers—because no one here’s stupid enough to risk missing the next pour.
After all, drinking responsibly isn’t just smart—it’s how you make sure there’s a next time.
