Jason's Scotch Whisky Reviews

Review: The Dalmore 12 year old Single Malt Scotch Whisky

2011-10-14T00:41:00.004-03:00

When I was recently in Vancouver, I picked up a bottle of The Dalmore 12 years, which is the subject of today's post. I also purchased a bottle of Chivas Regal 12 judging by the above photo, but that is not the subject of discussion today. I just happen to like the photo, and Chivas just happens to be in it. Confused? That's ok. It is a state of being for me. Bear with me.

How's this pic? The Chivas bottle is gone. Is that better? Hope so. Ok, let's deal with the matter at hand. Is The Dalmore a worthwhile purchase?

Nose (undiluted)
Damp leaves, moist earth, like a walk through the forest after rainfall.

Palate (undiluted)
Initially, sweet taste of Oloroso sherry is delivered. Taste of orange zest and pomegranate soon follow. While this single malt is sweet, it still manages to have a slightly dry, crisp mouth feel by the time of the finish.

Finish (undiluted)
Drying across the palate with a nice flourish of spice. Great warmth, as it disappears from the palate leaving in its wake: subtle Virginia tobacco smoke and dusty oak.

General Impressions
When I first opened the bottle of The Dalmore, poured a measure and took a sip, I was blown away by the crisp flavors of sherry and dark fruit held in perfect balance between the opposing forces of sweet and dry. In the following days, when I would revisit the bottle, it had settled down a little and was less complex. The initial crispness upon the palate had dissipated a great deal. So, initially the malt was damn incredible, but settled after exposure to the air to a much more gentle, easy-going sherry dominated highland malt. It is still a nice malt, just not leaving me God-smacked (probably not a real word, but oh whatever) like that first tasting.

Price Point
The price of this scotch is reasonable. Good value for money. This is especially true in the continental United States where great deals can be had.

The Dalmore 12 represents a worthwhile entry point into the realm of sherried Highland malts. Want to know what sherry in scotch tastes like? The Dalmore 12 is a good place to start. It is gentle, refined, and not revealing any cheapness on the palate that I suffered with in my review of Aberlour 12 (see my previous post). I recommend it!

Peer Review
The Dalmore 12, to my mind, is competing with other sherried single malts like Aberlour 12, Aberfeldy 12, GlenDronach, Balvenie 12 yrs Doublewood and Macallan 12. It holds forth well in such company.

Conclusion
The Dalmore 12 year old is an unpretentious whisky that delivers nice, balanced sweet sherry flavors with the dry oak and spices that make it a logical choice for the newbie. At the same time, this scotch does have some limitations. The lack of great complexity prevents it from making any lists of 'must-have' single malts. This is comfort scotch when you have a craving for some sherried whisky, balanced out by some nice oak from the American bourbon casks that it spent time in prior to bottling. It is not in the league of the truly great 12 year old single malts like: Highland Park 12 years, Cragganmore 12 and others.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved. Any and all use is prohibited without permission.

. . .

Scotch & a Good Story
This novella of mine that I started posting began in the summer. It was hot and I thought there is nothing better than a refreshing dram, sit out in the backyard and read some trashy novel. You know, real brain candy. With that in mind, I started posting chunks of my hack novel.

Well, summer is over and there are still a few chapters to post before we are done. This week is chapter nine and our crusty main character is going to do some mountain climbing . . .

THE ADJUSTER

Chapter Nine

I couldn't help but stare back at Mario's vehicle as it disappeared behind a billowing cloud of dust leaving the three of us standing there. We had been driven as close to the bottom of the mountain range as possible. I turned away from the disappearing Suburban, and looked upon the task at hand. As expected, what I and my fellow climbers were confronted with were not towering snow capped peaks, but rather the rounded, barren, hills upon hills of rock, scoured by the passing of innumerable ancient glaciers. The lower ranges had a few trees which disappeared at the higher elevations. Nevertheless, the mountain posed a daunting hike because of its sheer size.

Diaz had managed to delay the meeting scheduled with the Syrian for today in Beirut. Mario's last instructions were that we had to retrieve Sandra Diaz from Ghattas' compound by tomorrow night at the latest, as the deadline was now the following morning. Up until the deadline, Diaz would try to negotiate the release of his daughter over the telephone without relinquishing the deed concerning the tract of land in the Bekaa Valley. He was going to offer more money forhis daughter, as opposed to handing over the deed, and hope that such negotiations would possibly extend the deadline some more. It sounded like a very risky delay tactic, but Mario said that Ghattas would interpret it as a sign of weakness and desperation on Diaz's part. He added that it was an Arab cultural thing beyond my limited Western comprehension. I hoped the bartering would distract Ghattas, and give us the element of surprise that was needed to pull off the rescue.

We had been left with our gear at our feet on the dusty ground. There was a thick bundle of rope, spikes, expansion bolts and hammers, tied together by some sturdy blue nylon cord. Underneath the rope and spikes were three thick leather belts similar to what a weight lifter might wear. A hand held drill hung from only one of the belts. I pointed at it quizzically and Magid said we may need it where the rock surface would not permit a hammer driven piton to be secured. Beside that pile of equipment was a canvas bag, and three backpacks. Samir kicked one of the backpacks and said, "What's in there my friend?" Magid withdrew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and read out loud from it.

"Each of these contains the following: Twelve four-ounce water packets, one full water bottle, one candle, one flashlight, one signal light, one compass, waterproof matches, ten water purification tablets, one sleeping bag, a lighter, a signal mirror, whistle, tea bags and ten four hundred calorie food bars, and two days worth of food stuffs."

Obviously, my list of supplies that I had given to Mario had been ignored, which was probably a good thing. Magid's input was impressive. I was quickly gaining confidence in him while I listened to him recite the list of supplies. Samir was tying one of his black military issue boots, which made me think about my own footwear. My black leather Nikes, although fashionable, were not the ideal article of clothing to be shod in, but would nevertheless have to do. Magid gave each of us one of the thick leather belts to put on, which also had loops for each of our legs to step into. It had all sorts of metal hoops on them. Once they were on, he came around and inspected the fit, and in my case made me tighten the belt by two notches.

"These harnesses may be needed later because there is a minor cliff face to climb", he said nonchalantly. "If we wear them, then it will be one less thing to be carried on our backs."

Hanging from my harness was a pair of what appeared to be ballet shoes. Magid explained that they were rock climbing shoes constructed of a soft polyurethane sole and canvas uppers. He didn't know our sizes so he got size tens for all of us. He added that the shoes would be needed when climbing any sort of cliff face as all available toe holds would have to be utilized. The other article of clothing hanging from each of our harnesses was a helmet. He said that we didn't need to put them on until we encountered a cliff or other similar obstacle. The helmets were of a fibre glass or hard plastic construction similar to what a bicycle helmet looks like.

Samir was armed to the teeth. Slung on his right shoulder was the compact rocket launcher. On his left shoulder an AK‑47 was suspended from a leather strap attached at its body. The machine gun was new. The shiny black metal was not scratched or faded from any apparent use. Every zippered compartment of his army green jump suit bulged with unidentifiable objects that were no doubt lethal. Over the harness provided by Magid, was a belt equipped with a holster holding a gun on his right hip, and a holster on the left that stored a large hunting knife. Maybe he was a seasoned mercenary. I couldn't tell for sure even though I had encountered a few in my past when I was a war correspondent.

Magid retrieved from a canvas bag a Mac‑10 and a Colt .45, and held them out to us. "I don't know how to use these, but Mario said one of you guys would show me." He then added that he hadn't used a gun in his life. I was somewhat surprised by the comment, but then quickly realized that this was my prejudice surfacing. Not every Lebanese youth was a terrorist just as not every Belfast boy was a gun toting IRA or Prod enforcer.

"Bring them over here," Samir beckoned from where he sat on a small boulder. He then explained the various parts of the machine gun, and hand gun to Magid. He emphasized the safety switches, and then gave some instruction in proper loading and handling of the weapons. He showed him a couple of stances, and then slid a clip home, and demonstrated first with the Mac‑10.

"At close range it is fairly easy to hit your target, so long as you have a steady hand." He then passed the machine gun to Magid, and told him to aim at a nearby tree and fire at will. The college boy gripped the fire arm tightly and fired. Not one bullet hit the tree, but he did manage to tear up a lot of sand and rock around it. The steady kick back from the weapon had been far greater than he probably had expected. It nearly lifted right out of his hands, and probably would have if he had not spent the entire clip. Samir took the Mac‑10 from him, and provided some more instruction on maintaining a proper stance and grip. A fresh clip was rammed into place, and with the safety flicked off, he proceeded to shred the tree with short bursts of ammo.

"As the target moves farther away you will find your machine gun's accuracy will worsen." Samir finished his tutorial on the Mac‑10, and then excitedly discussed the Colt .45 and its relative merits. After watching the lesson in fire arms I was convinced that Samir had considerable military training in the past.

"How about you?", the soldier asked.

"I'm well acquainted with firearms," I replied.

"Are you armed or do you want one of these?"

I produced my Glock and made sure that the safety was on before I handed it to him. Samir looked it over, nodded approvingly, and then passed it back. Magid glanced at his watch and said, "We are going to have to move very quickly if we are going to get to Ajantoun by tomorrow evening." He unfolded a map and invited with a wave of his hand for Samir and I to have a look.

"Have you hiked in this area before?", I asked after having remembered Mario's comment that Magid grew up in this mountain top village.

"Well, as a boy, I and my friends would sometimes stray a bit from the village. We would play hide and seek in these hills. But, ever since going to college, in Germany, I have been introduced to the sport of mountaineering, and now I am sure I can lead a hike through the Haddad."

I stared at the map while the young mountaineer pointed out possible obstructions in our path, like gorges and mountain walls. Afterwards, we strapped the backpacks on and started the hike. Magid was loaded up the most. He also carried most of the rope, cables, spikes and other mountaineering equipment on his back. The young man led the way as we walked at a brisk pace over the rough and uneven terrain. The first hour of the hike was quite uneventful, but passed quickly while we talked.

"I'm Maguire", I said as I offered a hand out to Samir. Mario had not told either of the men my name, and Samir and I had kind of stared each other down when Mario had been doing the introductions. I felt that it was important to try and establish so some sort of a friendly rapport. He grasped it firmly, but did not try to crush it. I have always had this theory that men who shake hands, and in the process try to pulverize the hand of who ever they meet are insecure. This guy was not insecure.

"I was asked by Mario to help out", he said with a friendly nod. I figured asked was a diplomatic way of saying that he was hired, and help out was another way of indicating that he would do the necessary by any means possible.

"You do much of this?", I asked.

"A bit", he replied with a knowing smile. He reached into a pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes and offered one. I accepted. What the hell? I thought to myself. I'll quit if and when I get out of this country.

"You know this Ghattas guy at all?", I said while we trudged along side by side with Magid a few feet ahead.

"Oh, yes. He is a jackal. He will eat his children, betray his parents, and surrender his country all for the sake of money. Money is his God." He eyed me for a moment, and then lit his Lucky Strike with the blue flame of the brass Zippo. "Ghattas, I am ashamed to say was born Lebanese, but betrayed his country to Syria."

"How's that?"

"He is just a dog", the mercenary said with some finality, as if that answered my question.

"I thought he was a Syrian not Lebanese."

Without turning around, Magid entered the conversation. "Maybe I can explain it a little better. Do you know how the Lebanese civil war started?" I didn't answer and after a pause he continued. "As a result of the establishment of the state of Israel, a great number of Palestinians ended up in the south of Lebanon in refugee camps. These people no longer had a country. Palestine had become Israel, and the Lebanese did not want them either. The only reason they were in this country was because it happened to be next to Israel. But, the Palestinians were getting a lot of sympathy from other Arab countries like Saudi Arabia, who in fact paid our government to tolerate the Palestinian presence. It was the PLO who collected the money from supportive Moslem countries and in turn bought arms. Over time, the PLO became very well financed, and as a result, heavily armed. They continued to cross the border into Israel, and would carry out attacks in an attempt to oust the Israelis. The Israelis, in turn, would fly over southern Lebanon and bomb the PLO positions. Meanwhile, we became furious with the PLO because they were destroying our country. This manner of conflict went on for years until they started retreating further north to Beirut. In Beirut, they had more arms than the Lebanese army. Fights erupted between the Christian Lebanese whose city was gradually becoming destroyed by Israeli war planes. The Christian community demanded the government get the PLO out of the country."

"They did nothing!", Samir interjected.

"The government was basically afraid to do anything because roughly fifty percent of the army was Moslem, and the government knew that they would not shoot on their Moslem brothers, the Palestinians. However, the other half of the army was Maronite Christian, and they were desperate to put a stop to the growing PLO power."

Samir flicked away his cigarette and jumped into the discussion once more. "We were prisoners in our own country. They set up road blocks, and would make us pay a toll for their cause against Israel. But, we endured all of this until 1975. Right Magid?"

"What happened in '75?", I asked.

"On April 13th of that year, a leader of our community, Pierre Gemayel, was in church with his family when they came and tried to kill him. Can you imagine? A man cannot even go to church safely? They did not succeed in assassinating him, but they killed other parishioners."

"The war started that day. We retaliated and then they did. The army split in two. On one side were the Moslem soldiers aligned with the PLO, and on the other side were the Maronite Christian militias and the Christian soldiers remaining from the government army."

"Where was the government during all this?"

"You are British? Right? You know what the rule of law is? We don't. We never had a central government? The army was never as strong as the weakest Palestinian militia group." Samir slipped his machine gun from his right shoulder and clutched it in his hand, and then continued. "It was not funded by Saudi Arabia and Syria. Our government just stepped aside as we attacked each other for fifteen years."

"What does Ghattas have to do with all this?"

"As we fought, our neighbor, Syria, saw a good opportunity to take Lebanon for herself and that is what she did. Syria supported the PLO in order to defeat us, but she couldn't beat us . . . that is until Ghattas betrayed us."

Magid leapt over a small ditch peppered with short thorny bushes, and said, "Ghattas was the leader of the second most powerful Christian militia, the Lebanese Forces. The other more powerful Christian force was led by the former general of the Lebanese army, Michel Aoun. Together they fought against the combined forces of the PLO, and Syria. It was a stalemate. We couldn't beat them and they couldn't beat us. So, Syria secretly approached Ghattas and invited him to join them and fight Aoun. If they won, he would be made a member of the new government as well as unbelievably rich."

"I take it, he joined them?", I asked.

"Yes, he did, causing us to lose. Aoun had to flee the country after many more battles which he lost. Samir lost three brothers after Ghattas switched sides. I lost many family members too. Now, you can appreciate why we no longer regard him as one of our country man, but a Syrian . . . a traitor," he said as he spat out the final words.

"The war is over now, and has been for several years. Syria has rewarded Ghattas handsomely. He enjoys the profits of many Syrian controlled business interests in Lebanon."

"I never thought Lebanon had any oil wells, so what other business could there be? Are you sure Syria isn't just in Lebanon as part of an expansionist policy?"

"Actually that may be their foreign policy too, but more importantly it is the illicit crop of the Bekaa Valley combined with control of the nation's casinos, and import taxes which generate untold billions of dollars each year. Without Lebanon, Syria could not exist. Syria’s economy is a joke. No western investment. Nothing. Their chief crop is watermelon."

"Ghattas is their bagman. You either sell out to him or die. To sell to him is to betray your country. Raul's brother‑in‑law would not sell out, so they killed him. Raul is not even Lebanese, but he will not sell out, and we will do everything we can for him. He is a patriot."

I thought this was a rather odd comment since Diaz was still a trafficker after all. No, he did not kidnap women, but his crime was still insidious. He sold the drugs that men and women across the United States became addicted to, causing the eventual destruction of their lives and the lives of their families. Diaz was no patriot, Lebanese or otherwise. He was another form of human garbage like Ghattas. The only difference was that he was a victim for a change. But, I guess that didn't alter the fact that his daughter was an innocent party.

Magid and Samir speculated that Ghattas was in Los Angeles sewing up all sorts of Syrian/Lebanese investments. They believed that kidnaping Sandra may have been little more than an inspired after‑thought to force Diaz to sell. Magid spoke in the impassioned tones of the college kid that he was. It came as know surprise to me that he was majoring in political science.

Samir stopped and turned to me and said, "If you are so smart like Raul and Mario say, maybe after this is all over you might be interested in capturing Ghattas with us."

"Listen guys, kidnaping and international diplomacy is not my bag. I've seen enough of this shit for one life time." I then explained to them that I had worked as a war correspondent in Africa having covered every coup, every outbreak of the Ebola virus, and every self‑righteous leader butcher their own people to the point that I was through with that type of work in any shape or form.

"Africa? Where did you work?" Samir asked.

"Everywhere."

"Zaire or . . . Democratic Republic of Congo or whatever it is called now?"

"Yeah, Zaire or that was what it was called back then. I covered Mobutu's vile kleptocracy."

"Oh, yes. The Leopard needed men like me to establish order. His armies were an undisciplined bunch of fools."

I didn't say anything else. Samir obviously worked for anyone willing to pay his price. He probably would not have been employed directly by Mobutu, but rather by international mercenary companies based out of South Africa, Brussels, Switzerland and elsewhere in Europe. These companies were often hired by dictators to oppress their own people in order to stay in power. A good mercenary could earn up to $2,500.00 a day. If these mercenaries were not hired by dictators, then they were often employed by mining conglomerates to protect their quarries in many African nations in the throes of anarchy.

The people may starve, slaughter each other, die of disease, but so long as the gold, zinc and copper could be raped from the land then it was okay. Mining companies would pay obscene amounts of money to dictators. These bribes were called mining rights. Once they were paid, the company would not have to worry about any sort of governmental interference like environmental or tax considerations, so long as there was not another coup. Hence, the mercenaries were sometimes brought in to maintain stability, so that the mine could operate without interruption.

Eventually, the conversation subsided, so I amused myself by paying close attention to the scenery. After about two hours I was breathing a bit more heavily than the others, but I was not about to say anything. What really bothered me were my calf muscles, which were beginning to ache a bit. Magid may have noticed my fatigue and called for a break. He took a swig of water from a bottle, and passed it to Samir and me, warning us not to drink too much because it might invite stomach cramps. When the water was passed to me, I drank deeply in spite of the advice.

"Will we be able to walk most of it?", I asked while squinting in the sunlight.

"Probably, except near the top where I will lead the climb. I think I have enough rope and pitons to get us over the top", Magid replied confidently.

Samir and I looked up above and the mountain was gradually getting steeper. Up until this point we had been zig zagging up the mountain side with relative ease as it was basically a series of steep hills. Each hill led to another one slightly higher. Magid had remarked that this area was geologically very old judging by the rounded topography. A millennium of weather had eroded these parts from once towering peaks down to rounded stone shoulders.

I was just starting to relax when Magid put his back pack on again. Samir never took his back pack off nor did he sit down. I grudgingly picked myself up off the hard and unforgiving ground, and strapped the Godamn thing back on and resumed the hike. It was heavy enough even though the hollow aluminum tubing had to be a lot lighter when compared with the solid steel frame I remembered they used to be constructed out of when I was a kid. It didn't help matters that the air was getting noticeably thinner as we progressed.

Gradually without me noticing at first, the hike started to turn into a climb. I found myself trying to pull myself over boulders, and then jumping from one to another. Magid estimated that so far our ascent was roughly fifteen hundred feet. We were making good progress, and because of that he decided to capitalize on it by skipping supper. No one was much of a conversationalist probably because all our energy had to be directed at the climb. The sparse vegetation, had become more rare and smaller as the ascent progressed.

Eventually, the trek came to a stop when we came up against the bottom of a steep rock face beyond which we could see nothing but sky. It was comprised of large sheets of rock peppered occasionally with outcrops of stone protruding almost defiantly from the mountain. Up until this point, we had made our way up the mountain on roughly a forty five degree slant. Now, we were confronted by a wall of rock at ninety degrees. Magid pulled out a map and stared at it intently. Occasionally, he would glance away from it to his watch or other parts of the soaring mountain wall in front of us. I asked if we could back track and try another route up the mountain, but no sooner had I made the suggestion than he had dismissed it.

"We have roughly forty feet to scale. It's not as bad as it looks. There are no overhangs, and there are enough outcrops for us to use for foot and hand holds."

I looked at Samir for a reaction, but he was gazing at the top of the steep rock face. There was nothing intelligent for me to say so I remained silent. Magid put a helmet on, which was not very reassuring. I was croaking for a cigarette, but my shortness of breath cautioned me against hitting Samir up for another one.

Magid dropped the bundle of rope to the ground which had been slung over his shoulder. He carefully fastened it to his belt, and knotted it with deft hand movements. A hammer hung from one of his belt loops, and there was a zippered leather pouch which he opened. It contained spikes which he counted silently. Standing there against the waning blue sky I got my first and only lecture in mountain climbing.

"What I will do is free climb this next stretch, hammering these pitons in as I go, which will be used as footholds and handholds. When I get over the top, I will secure the line and drop it down to you two. Knot the line to your belts, and then climb up using the spikes for hand and footholds. As you climb higher, tighten the line on your belt so that there is no slack. If you slip, you will only fall according to the amount of slack in the line." He paused with a pensive expression and then asked, "You guys ever do this before?"

Samir nodded while I shook my head. There was a slight breeze, which brought a chill with it as dusk approached. My empty stomach growled and my veins cried for nicotine. Following the example of the other two, I untied my helmet which had dangled from my harness and put it on. I then took my sneakers off, tied the laces together, and stuffed them in my backpack. The climbing shoes looked and probably felt like ballet shoes. All of my toes were squished together rather uncomfortably, and when I pointed this out to Magid he said that was okay. The shoes were designed purely for the purpose of maximizing getting any sort of grip or footing into any crevice which the mountain afforded.

"Samir, you go last so that you can coach him." Magid glanced at his watch again. "Oh yeah, you", he said pointing at me, "Whatever you do, don't look down. Any questions?"

"Do you have enough spikes to make it to the top?", Samir asked.

"I think so, but where the mountain provides obvious foot or hand holds, I am not going to use them so that I don't run out. You guys should watch what I do and use common sense."

"Is there anyway we can go around this thing?" I asked. I felt totally overwhelmed by the proposed climb. My stomach fluttered with butterflies. I had no idea if I could do it. Never had I done anything like that before. It was unknown territory.

"No. It's not as difficult as it may appear. All a person needs is a supple upper body and good strong legs. If you didn't have that you wouldn't have gotten this far. Just remember that anyone who is moderately fit can do this climb. I'm a certified mountain guide, and the president of my college rock climbing club. Trust me, I know what we are doing."

"A woman could do this . . . right?" Samir added.

"Yes. Women do as well as men, except in extreme conditions where there may be a rock over hang to negotiate. The only reason women sometimes run into difficulty is that they often lack the necessary upper body strength, needed in very challenging climbs."

"So, what you are saying is that this is not a very challenging climb, and that if a woman can do it then I should be able to?"

"Yes, but it takes more than brute strength to do this climb. What is needed is technique. Take your time. I know you have the stamina because you have kept with us for the most part quite well."

Magid didn't waste anytime driving spikes into the stone. It was comforting to see that he hammered them in deep, and then would pull on them with his gloved hand probably to make sure that they could support our weight. With his body slung tight against the weathered rock he slowly pulled himself up by fitting his hands into every nook and crevice. His movements were like that of a strange avant garde ballet performer. I tried to memorize his movements, the grips, the crevices, and even the way he pulled himself up higher and higher. Samir watched too and would try to predict crevices and outcrops of rock which would be used next by Magid. I listened and watched very carefully. There were some places where the rock would crumble at the mere touch of his hand sending shards of stone cascading downward. When that happened, he would use the drill on the stone. Once a hole was made in the rock, he would hammer the piton in deep.

About an hour later he disappeared over top leaving a trail of spikes behind. He had completed the lead climb and now it was my turn. The azure sky had darkened more to the point that long shadows were forming. The quarter moon was dimly visible in the sky, and I had not even started my ascent. Eventually, Magid lowered the rope. Samir secured it to my harness and I began the climb. Samir explained that Magid would gather up the line secured to my harness slowly as I made my ascent, but that I should still use the belt loops to remove as much slack from the line as possible. Magid would also have secured his end of the line to a tree trunk or the base of a boulder.

Samir gave me a hand when I stepped up and reached for the first spike. I didn't think too much about what I was doing because I suspected that any serious consideration would paralyze me with fear. I was up about ten feet when I reached for the next spike and pulled it out of the rock. A second later, I was reeling backwards falling until the rope snapped taut at my waist. With all my limbs flailing, I slapped against the mountain a couple of times before I could stop spinning. In spite of having worn the helmet, I had somehow managed to get a cut on my forehead. After that experience, I learned the importance of tightening any slack line to my belt.

Samir called out after I stopped a steady stream of curses. "Let us try again", he said. "Only this time, go slower. You are moving too fast." I didn't think I was, but I couldn't be bothered to argue the point. Blood oozed from a nasty abrasion on the top of my right hand. It stung more when a breeze swept by a little more briskly than earlier.

This time I moved more slowly, painstakingly slow. Every muscle in my body ached as I pulled and tugged at the spikes, crevices and any outcropping of rock that I could use for support. The climbing shoes did help as they seemed to provide the much needed traction of every step. I was near the top when the gentle evening breeze hardened into a cursed wind, which arrived without warning, and nearly ripped me off the face of the precipice. I hung on for dear life while the wind whipped past me. I knew that Magid was bellowing something to me from up above, but the sound of my leather jacket flapping along with the shrill howl of the wind drowned out his words.

I don't know how long I clung to that God forsaken rock as time ceased to exist. Suddenly, the wind died down and disappeared. I still did not move for a while until I was sure the wind was gone. My cheek was up against the smooth rock still warm from the sun’s rays of earlier that day. I wondered if any other human being had rested their cheek against this section of ancient rock. Eventually, I resumed the climb once I was rested and convinced that the wind would not return.

The last part of the climb was the hardest. The spikes were farther apart than at the bottom, and I was near exhaustion. I was breathing very hard, but I dared not rest again for fear of not having the will to finish. Besides my near physical exhaustion, I had encountered a considerable section of bald rock face which yielded no hand grips. The last spike driven in the stone by Magid seemed too far from the top. I didn't know what to do, but I was close enough to the top such that Magid could yell down instructions. I scanned the bare section of rock and could not see any crevices, outcropping, nothing within reach, which I could use to get past this final stretch to the top. I didn't understand how Magid had managed to overcome this part to the summit.

"You have to jump off the final piton and grab the ledge, and then I can pull you over!"

I stared at the outcropping of rock which formed the edge of the summit. It was well beyond my reach. It was at least three and maybe four feet above me. There was no way I could reach it by standing on the last piton. I thought that even if I was on the ground I couldn't jump four feet high in the air. So, it was going to be impossible to leap off the last piton and grab the edge.

"I did it! You can do it!"

"I can't! Its gotta be at least four feet above me. I can't jump that high!" The wind had picked up a bit, and its high-pitched sound was making it more difficult to be heard.

"It's not four feet above you. It only appears that way. Leap off with your right foot, and then push up with your left foot!"

I looked again at the mountain and noticed that the section of rock I was hanging onto jutted inward a few inches. A minute or so passed during which I recognized that if I leaped off the piton with my right foot, and then made a great stride with my left leg I might be able to get some sort of support from the section of rock jutting inward in order to launch myself higher and grab the edge.

"Do it now!" Magid screamed and I hesitated for a moment, and then I made my attempt. I leapt off the highest piton as planned with my right leg and with my left I pushed myself somehow higher as it glanced against the side of the mountain. I grabbed the summit's edge with both hands, and hung there for a second until I saw Magid reach down and grab me by my harness and pull me over the crest of the mountain.

Afterwards, I remained collapsed at his feet unable to move. With both of my arms extended I hugged the dry flat earth savoring every aspect of its flatness, thanking God that I was alive. I laid there, covered in sweat, panting while he suggested that I was not responding well to the thinning air at that high altitude. He made some remark about me being a smoker, and I wanted to punch him, but all I could do was gasp for air. Eventually, I got to my feet and assisted with Samir’s treacherous climb in near darkness. The sun had dipped below the horizon sometime ago, when the mercenary was up the cliff face three quarters of the way. Magid stood over the edge pulling in the line while I trained two flashlights on the rock face in a meager effort to improve visibility. The only other light source was moonlight. Samir was perspiring heavily and sounded hoarse when we pulled him over the edge, and into the relative safety of a little spot of earth.

On my own little plot of land, I unrolled the sleeping bag, crawled into it, and stared up at the black velvet sky. It had been a very long time since I had looked into such an evening sky, not scarred by city lights or violated by sky scrapers and airplanes. But, more beautiful than the glittering heavens above was the silence. It was absolute. Never had I been witness to such stillness except maybe in my mother's garden. Naturally sleep came quickly.

In the morning, I awoke to the smoke and crackle of a little fire, which Magid was tending to with a handful of dry branches. Some flaming barbecue briquettes served as fuel over which he held a copper pot with a long handle. He heated the pot until the black liquid began to froth and boil over the pot's rim. As soon as it started to boil over he would lift the pot away from the fire. He did this three times before he poured. He poured the steaming Arabic coffee into three little ceramic cups. I took a sip of the bitter black liquid which immediately warmed me up. The stuff must have been loaded with caffeine because my morning grogginess lifted quickly, and was replaced by a good healthy feeling of alertness. The coffee also made me keenly aware of every ache in my body. Muscles I never knew I had were sore.

Breakfast consisted of strips of chicken breast, slices of tomato and a bit of parsley wrapped in pita bread. During breakfast Magid explained that he had scouted around a bit, and said that we did not have to climb any higher and now could circle around the mountain to the other side. Samir asked what time it was, and I checked my watch only to discover that the lens was smashed and the arms frozen at nine o'clock. Closer inspection of myself revealed that my jeans were torn and my leather jacket had a big tear in the sleeve. I was missing one of my climbing shoes. I looked around for it, but it was nowhere to be found. Fitting my swollen feet into my sneakers proved to be a painful experience.

We walked along a natural path way of sorts, which Magid said had likely been formed by rain and melting snow running off the mountain. The ground of the narrow path way was smooth and even the rocks were more rounded. On the other side of the mountain, Samir leaned up against a massive cedar tree. The mammoth tree's trunk had a diameter of about twelve feet and its immense branches spread outward a span of twenty five feet. I was astounded by its' sheer size. Samir noticed my amazement.

"Big! eh?" He patted the trunk and added, "Did you know in ancient times, the Phoenicians made boats of cedar wood from trees just like this one. They didn't need to be painted or anything for the wood of the Lebanese cedar could be in the waters of the Mediterranean for a hundred years without rotting."

"Unfortunately, our entrepreneurial forefathers cut most of the trees like this one down, and sold them to the Egyptians, and anyone else in the market for a boat. Today, only a few like this one remain in the national park", Magid said.

Samir nodded glumly and produced a pair of binoculars. He scanned the region ahead. Below the countless series of rocky hills, boulders and slopes of broken stone was a rock strewn plain that stretched out an indeterminate distance to some lights that twinkled in the early morning mist. The plain was remarkably flat and there were no trees that afforded any cover. After Magid had a thorough look, he passed Samir's binoculars to me, and said that Ghattas' property would be found amongst those twinkling lights at the far edge of the plain.

"We should be at the foot of this mountain by mid‑day", Magid said while he referred to his tattered map. "We can then can cross that plain to the rear of the residence in the afternoon, and arrive at our destination by nightfall."

The descent was not as difficult, when compared with the previous day's climb. There were no cliffs to be scaled, but the rocky hills, great slabs of shale and sand stone still made our trek an intimidating task. Great shards of gray rock were cracked in places opening up deep, treacherous crevices. The terrain was alive with the ever present buzz of unseen crickets. Lizards hopped nervously away from us. Their color blended so perfectly with the rock that sometimes it looked as if individual rocks would sprout legs and then scurry out of sight.

My feet had blisters and my calves ached constantly with every foot step. Samir would grunt occasionally when he leaped through the unyielding land, but otherwise showed no outward sign of exertion. Magid seemed to stride painlessly and with minimal effort. Close to the bottom, I slipped when I leaped over a four foot fissure. I stumbled as I landed and fell heavily on my right knee. I had to stop for a moment until the sharp pulsing pain wore off to a dull ache. I was starting to fall behind, and the others would have to frequently wait while I caught up.

The air became easier to breathe as the descent continued while at the same time the morning mist was burnt off quickly by the rising sun. The sun bore down on us with a relentless intensity after we finally arrived at the bottom leaving only the dusty plain to cross. We stopped at that point, and for lunch our meal consisted of bottled water, grapes, tangy goat cheese, and more strips of chicken all once again wrapped in pita bread. It was good and hit the spot well. We rested for maybe twenty minutes during which I could feel my limbs starting to stiffen up like those a recently expired corpse. Samir leaned against a boulder, smoked a cigarette and swatted away a lizard that hopped on to his thigh. The lizard raced to another boulder from which he eyed a crust of bread lying on the hard packed earth.

The hike across the plain was easier and less exhausting than climbing, but nevertheless proved to be very challenging because of Magid's insistence on moving quickly. He feared that we were a bit behind schedule. We made pretty good time crossing the plain, and sure enough by nightfall we sat up behind a cluster of rocks and waited. In front of us was a chain link fence that ran the length of the rear of the property.

"Is this the place?", I whispered to no one in particular.

Magid nodded as he peered over a boulder to the court yard below. Barb wire was strung along the top of a fence, which spanned the length of the rear of the property. Samir took Magid's binoculars and scanned the area.

"Anybody think to bring wire cutters?", the mercenary asked. No one answered and then he added, "I guess we will have to improvise." After carefully examining the fence with the binoculars, Samir pointed out a spot where the fence stretched over a slight depression in the soil. It looked like a dried up mud puddle. He instructed Magid and I to use our hands and a knife to dig a crawl space for us while he provided cover. The earth was mostly sand that we easily moved. We dug down about fifteen inches under the fence. We crawled under the fence and moved to the cover of some wild ferns. Samir followed us a minute or so later.

The rear of the enormous villa was dominated by a kidney shaped pool. Around it were a couple of wrought iron patio chairs and tables. Between two enormous pillars was the rear double door entry. At Samir's suggestion, we spent the rest of the evening until about midnight just watching the property looking for video cameras, guards, dogs or anything which might alert the occupants to our presence. We also monitored the windows for any movement but saw nothing. Near midnight the double doors opened and a soldier emerged. He walked passed the doors which slowly closed behind him and leaned against one of the massive white, Doric pillars in the moonlight. He lit a cigarette and stared at the pool. The Mac‑10 was slung over his right shoulder and pointed at the ground. His dark figure reflected eerily in the pool. He appeared to be alone. Above him there were numerous windows and they were all dark. The last light had gone out half an hour ago. Magid whispered to no one in particular that it was one o'clock in the morning.

Roughly forty five minutes passed while we waited for the soldier to go back inside the mansion. He disappointed us by lingering by the pool. Eventually, he moved away from the pillar and sat down in one of the wrought iron chairs. He pulled out his wallet and seemed to be going through it while we debated what to do next.

"We are running out of time. He could sit there all night," Magid whispered nervously. "What are we going to do?"

"Kill him?" I asked. I was sure it was on everyone's mind.

"No, I have a better idea," Samir said. "It would be better if we disable him, and find what he knows of Ms. Diaz."

"Disabled?", Magid asked nervously. He was a good kid I thought that was about to see something very ugly, which he might carry for the rest of his life.

Samir did not answer. Instead, he retrieved a small black case from his knapsack. Inside were the pieces to a rifle which he pieced together expertly. The scope and the silencer were the finishing touches. He took careful aim, and I watched in the semi darkness as the first bullet tore into the guards left thigh which he clutched in agony. He fell unnaturally out of the chair to the tiled floor, and his machine gun which had been leaning against the patio table clattered to a rest just out of his reach. Without warning, Samir hopped over the ferns and charged towards the guard who cried out in pain. In mere seconds he was upon him with a hand firmly over the guard's mouth. Above the buzz of crickets, were the hushed tones of Samir, and the muffled protestations of the guard. The guard yelled again followed by silence as Samir's knife hand held high flashed in the moonlight and then descended downward.

Magid seemed shaken by what we had just seen, and said that he would go no farther. He told me that he was only supposed to be a guide and nothing more. I nodded reassuringly and told him to sit tight and guard Samir's rocket launcher, which he had left behind. He agreed to watch the windows of the grand villa, and if he saw any movement he could warn me by whistling. As I crossed the court yard, I scanned the grounds for any movement, but there was nothing. Samir turned away from the motionless guard who lay lifeless on the red tile. He dragged the body to the pool and gently rolled it into the water. It promptly sank in a spreading ink of dark blood.

"She's here," he said grimly while wiping his blade clean on his pant leg.

"Where?"

"He would not say."

I shook my head in disbelief at what I had just witnessed. We walked towards the rear entrance of what I had earlier estimated was maybe a six thousand square foot, two story, mansion. It could be a long night just searching every room especially if they were occupied by unfriendlies.

The eight foot arched double doors were made of wrought iron and shaded glass panels. We listened for several minutes before I tried the handle. The door creaked open revealing a dim hall. On the left, I saw two massive urns which flanked a spiral staircase. Samir and I split up with him searching the ground level while I made my way up the staircase.

Just before the second floor landing I paused for a moment. Hearing nothing I ventured into the hallway. It was a wide corridor paved in large blocks of dark green ceramic tile. The grouting was still light, which was indicative of some unknown mason's recent work. The walls were cement and adorned with canvasses depicting Arab markets, desert, and rural scenes. The passage was illuminated by an oil lamp which rested on a little Victorian table at the far end beyond which I could just make out the hall turned to the right.

The first door was on my left. The rough hewn wood hung unevenly in the doorway. I turned the brass handle after hearing nothing. The door squeaked as I pulled it open revealing a broom closet. It was cluttered with a mop and pail.

Across from the closet was a bathroom. There was only one other room in this hallway to investigate. I listened at the door for sometime before trying it. It was locked. I listened some more and could faintly hear the steady drone of snoring. The rumbling was definitely male in quality. I would pass on this room having reminded myself to return to it if I failed to locate Sandra Diaz elsewhere.

My Nikes made hardly made a sound as I tread carefully towards the end of the hall. The oil lamp flickered in the gloom casting long shadows. At the corner, I listened some more and could hear voices. There were at least two parties to the dialogue, which was carried on in Arabic. One voice was deep and rumbled through the conversation. Maybe with some training the guy could have been a half decent baritone. The other voice was higher pitched and squeaked like a rusty alto sax player. I spent a few minutes just listening to the sporadic conversation. One did not have to understand Arabic to figure out what they were doing. They were just shootin' the shit as Egan would say.

I lowered myself to a crouch and peered around the corner. The fortyish baritone was leaning backwards in a chrome chair with the two front legs up in the air. He appeared unarmed in a white dress shirt opened at the neck. He sat with his massive arms folded across his chest, staring pensively at the floor, and listened to his late night associate. The alto was a younger, medium build man, wearing paramilitary fatigues. He had a Klashnikoff at his side. The butt rested on the floor.

I eased the safety off my Glock, and decided not to bother with the silencer. I counted to three, took a deep breath and turned the corner. They didn't see me at first. I was about half way down the corridor with the Glock held firmly in my left hand, arm extended straight at shoulder height when the baritone looked up from the floor. He was startled and leaned forward causing the two front chair legs to snap to the floor with a metallic sound. Although he was no doubt surprised at the sight of me, he did not show it. However, the alto appeared to be certifiably shocked as he scrambled for the for the machine gun. I shook my head, and was about to shoot when the baritone slapped the Klashnikoff down out of his colleague's hands. The machine gun rattled noisily on the tile floor. I stood about five feet from them and let them stare down the barrel for a moment.

"Ghattas would not have you two gentlemen sitting here in front of this door at two in the morning for nothing." They stared back saying nothing. Maybe tough guys I thought.

"Still don't understand me? Maybe you'll understand this." I shifted my aim to the baritone's chest in the precise vicinity where his heart pumped and within a second he spoke up.

"Please . . . ah . . . sir . . . don't", he rumbled.

"Both of you on your feet", I ordered. They slowly stood up.

"Open the door." The lad in army fatigues produced a key and turned it in the door. It slowly swung inward revealing a dark room. The light from the hallway was dim but provided sufficient illumination that I could see a light switch on the wall. I waved the guards into the room with my gun and I followed. I flicked the light switch and then reached back and pulled the door shut.

She stood wild eyed in the far corner of the room with a brass curtain rod white knuckled in her hands. She was wearing the same happy face T‑shirt and the jeans with the tear in the knee that the mall security guard had described to Roger and I. I couldn't believe my luck at having found her so quickly.

"Stay away from me!" The pupils of her eyes were huge and I hoped that was a result of adjusting to the bright light of the room when I turned the lights on and not caused by smack.

"Eh! Mister you heard the lady!", the guard in army fatigues exclaimed. He was standing in front of me a couple of feet with his back to me.

Without any hesitation I kicked him hard in the small of his back which sent him sprawling forward on to all fours. I then swung my Glock to his obese counterpart's head. "Lay face down now!" Surprisingly, he slowly turned his head towards me and stared me down. Maybe I had offended his dignity. Maybe my tone of voice was a tad rude. I didn't give a fuck and I transmitted my demeanor quite succinctly I thought as I pressed the end of the barrel firmly against his forehead and said, "Either you get down now or I'm going to put a neat pink dot in your forehead. The hollow point bullet will tumble through your skull before exiting messily leaving a gaping hole the size of a ripe grape fruit.” He laid down. His friend was breathing heavily, but no longer volunteering any cheeky remarks.

With both of the guards staring at the floor I padded them down to make sure they were unarmed, and then turned to Sandra. She still clenched the curtain rod, but somewhat less menacingly. Her eyes darted from me to her guards and back. She was not stoned. She was terrified.

I scanned the room for something to tie up the thugs. I grabbed a lamp off an end table by the bed, and tore the electrical cord out. It was only about four feet long but would be adequate. I then walked over to the window where the curtain was collapsed in a heap on the floor. I tore the draw string out of it. It was a gold thread of sorts, and not the sturdiest twine, but would have to do. I moved back towards my prisoners and called Sandra over.

"Tie their hands behind their backs", I commanded. She shook her head. Sweat had made large wet patches underneath both of her arms and on her chest. Her eyes still continued to dart around the room from me to her guards to the window. I had to get through to her somehow, but I didn't know how when suddenly she spoke.

"I remember you . . . " she said in a whisper. "Why didn't you shoot him?" The curtain rod lowered in her hands a bit.

I presumed she was referring to my encounter with her and Ghattas in Long Beach.

"I didn't want to risk getting you hurt", I replied.

"Oh."

"Please, Sandra I am begging you . . . we don't have much time." I gave her my warmest look of concern that I genuinely felt and it worked. There was a God after all I thought as she tied up both of them starting with the hands and then the feet. The fat man remained motionless as she bound him with the electrical cord. The alto mumbled something unintelligible when she secured him with the curtain's draw string. I asked him to speak up, but he prudently remained silent.

I locked the door with the key and led her out into the hallway. I collected the Klashnikoff off the floor where the guard had dropped it, and slid the Glock back into my chest pocket. Clasping her hand tightly, we ran down the corridor towards the staircase when the building rocked violently followed by a short burst of automatic gun fire. I had forgotten about Samir, but apparently others had not. Sandra and I continued to dash for the stairwell when a door way on our right opened up. A shirtless man in army fatigues peered out. I swung the Russian machine gun at him and he jumped back inside slamming the door. The building shuddered once more as Sandra and I made it to the stairs.

In the confusion, Sandra had broke free of my grip and had bolted ahead. She was hard to see in the smoke, which had started to billow up from the ground level. I leapt after her taking two and three steps of the stairs in a stride. At the bottom, I saw the unmistakable silhouette of Samir with his back to me raking the smoky interior with intermittent bursts from his machine gun. In his other hand he held a grenade. I yelled at him and he glanced back at us. I pointed to the staircase and hoped he could see the figure I saw descending the stairs. Samir nodded very matter of factly and pulled the pin of the grenade out with his teeth. He hurled it at the staircase which was in our direction. Sandra was no longer in sight and I ran through the rear patio doors praying that she was ahead of me when I caught a glimpse of her tall figure running towards the fence and the rock strewn darkness from which I had emerged earlier in the evening. I could see Magid running towards her.

The explosive force of the grenade lifted me up in the air and sent me crashing into the pool. I landed in the shallow end, which I became keenly aware when my right knee slammed into the bottom of the pool. It was the same knee I had banged up in the morning. Now, it failed me completely as I tried to straighten it out. My backpack was now soaked and felt like a Steinway. So, I peeled it off and flung it on the pool deck behind me. It was then that I saw Sandra looking back at me. She was near the perimeter of the property. Samir caught up to her grabbed a hold of her hand, and pulled her back towards the fence. Magid was already underneath it.

I glanced back in order to view the carnage and saw that the spiral staircase was no longer recognizable. In its place was a blackened and twisted heap of metal being licked by bright yellow flames. Broken sections of concrete were strewn across the patio. The rear wrought iron patio doors were now missing. The air was tart with the stench of sulfur and thick with black smoke. The smoke billowed out of where once the patio doors had been. I heaved myself out of the pool and onto the deck and tried once more to stand up only to be greeted with burning, white hot pain in my knee. I glanced around for something to use as support and saw the dark out line of the Klashnikoff lying on the bottom of the pool. I thought about retrieving it, but my throbbing knee rejected that idea. I padded myself down and felt the Glock still secure in my chest pocket. I knew it was only a matter of time before they stepped out of the debris.

The yelling gradually got closer. Samir must have knocked out the power because the mansion was in darkness. One of them stumbled out suddenly on to the patio. The gash to the left side of his head was nasty. The blood ran thickly down his cheek, but he did not seem to notice it. He was too busy gasping for air between sputtering coughs. I sat on the edge of the pool silently watching, and keenly aware of my 9 mm still in my coat.

The footsteps behind made me shudder in fear when they squeaked closer. In horror, I turned to see Sandra, and not some gun toting mercenary ready to end my miserable life. I tried to wave her away, but she kept running towards me. I whipped my head around to see the soldier. He had seen her too, and had reached for his side arm.

The initial thunder clap of gun fire was followed by a steady cacophony of bullets sending up little spouts in the pool. The first few shots were a total miss, but as the slugs crossed the pool, it did not take them long to find their mark. He danced an animated jig of death as he struggled to remain standing, and did so until the machine gun clip was spent. It was as if the soldier's body was allowed to crumple to the patio tile once the shooting stopped. Sandra stared at the motionless soldier and started to shriek. Samir rammed home another clip with a loud clicking noise.

"She's crazy!", he said. Samir went on to explain Sandra had returned for me. "She's crazy", he muttered again. Sandra was falling apart. The tears ran silently down her face. There was no sniffling, no wailing, just tears.

"Sandra! Help me up!", I said. She continued to stare blankly at the soldier.

"My knee is pretty bad." I tried to bend it, and winced in genuine pain. I then tried to get to my feet and failed falling heavily. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her turn to me. I tried to look as pathetic as possible, which was no great stretch at that point. However, the clincher I think was when I reached out to her. She stared blankly at me for a few seconds and then suddenly grasped my hand and pulled me up. Samir stood guard while Sandra and I hobbled off into the night.

-to be continued-

Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved. Any and all use is prohibited without permission.

Review: Aberlour 12 years Double Cask Matured Single Malt Scotch Whisky

2011-10-06T00:15:00.004-03:00

Fall, Dark and Handsome
Well, it's that time of year again. Summer is over, leaves are changing color, sunrise is later than usual, and sunset is earlier than I would like it. The air is much cooler in the morning, crisp, if you will. Your linen sport coat is traded for winter weight wool and damn, you know what is coming: winter!

At this time of year, I crave sherried scotch. I put away those light tasting malts like Cragganmore, Johnnie Walker Green Label, and Glenfiddich 15yrs. Light honey taste must give way to something more warming. Heavy, brooding malts that are warming with lashes of sherry, dark fruits and wood smoke that is not to be trifled with. Balvenie Doublewood 12yrs, The Macallan 12yrs and maybe a real heavy weight will make an appearance like Highland Park 12 or 18yrs.

To that end, I reached for a bottle of Aberlour 12 years, a highland malt that undergoes aging in oak and sherry casks. The result is predominantly sherried.

Nose (undiluted)
Cloves, nutmeg and cinnamon sticks.

Palate (undiluted)
Initial spiced dark currants, cherry, over-ripe black grapes, transitions mid-palate to a teensy weensy bit raw, unadulterated alcohol. Brackish water comes to mind.

Finish (undiluted)
Some smoke. A little green and a tinge of bitterness accompanies the taste of sherry and oak at the end.

General Impressions
What I do like about this malt is how it starts sweet, but nicely transitions to a dry feel by the time of the finish. That is to be commended at the low price point this malt occupies. What I don't like about this scotch is the taste of alcohol mid-palate. The sign of a good scotch is the ability to mask the underlying alcohol content such that the drinker forgets what a strong drink he holds. A good blender of malts will achieve this.

Let me put it another way. If this was a no-age-statement single malt, I wouldn't be complaining or frankly expecting as much of it. But, for a 12 year old single malt, I am expecting a certain level of refinement which means no unpleasant surprises on the palate. Aberlour 12 is a decent single malt, a go-to comfort scotch I suppose for some people, but not by any means an exceptional malt.

This malt also lacks complexity of flavor. Buy this and you are getting a straight forward delivery of sherry, oak, a little heat and raw alcohol. Oh yeah, there is some smoke, some spice, but not great smoke. No Cohiba or H. Upmann here. More like Vantage or Virginia Slims.

Some people are fans of this, but I suspect their affection has more to do with the reasonable price, as opposed to the actual taste. Yes, it is quaffable, but so is Coca-Cola.

Add Water?
Add some water. Some people think it will improve. I am not so sure. Might take a little of the green and bitter elements away leaving in its place the brackish water I mentioned above. You will have to experiment.

Conclusion
In all honesty, I can't recommend Aberlour 12 years Double Cask Matured. When I want a sherried scotch and I do not want to spend a lot of money, I will reach for GlenDronach 12 years every time. Another alternative for a little more money is The Balvenie Doublewood. No green tinge or young alcohol to contend with on the finish with these two suggestions.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Why I like Whisky . . .

2011-09-30T01:12:00.003-03:00

I was thinking this evening why I like whisky. I guess I liken it to great art. Huh? Yeah, great art, in all its forms, whether it be writing, film, dance or music. There is a link. Now, just bear with me.

I can tell you every great whisky I have had. I can tell you where I was, what I was doing (or shouldn't have been doing), the color of the carpet, the angle the sunlight poured in through the window, and what we were talking about.

Great whisky, whether it be American, Canadian, Scotch, Japanese and Indian too, has the ability to crystalize a moment in time. At times, it makes me pensive. I think ever so briefly about the profound issues of life. For a moment, I realize my materialism is wrong, my career ambitions are not important, and what is important is time with family and friends, whether it be a barbecue, playing cards, sinking a long putt, and of course enjoying great whisky or even a cheap one. Someone once said, "you will be dead a long time."

Great art can do the same. Certain songs frame a moment in your life, make you reflect on the past, maybe something you don't want to do, but know at times it is important to do. Have you been there? I have. Don't believe me? Listen to Suspicious Minds, Bridge over Troubled Waters, Killing Me Softly or Wild Horses.

Why I drink whisky is not for the intoxication. Nor is it exclusively for the taste. It's something else, that intangible, the hard to express, maybe a catalyst for the occasionally needed melancholic introspection.

Jason Debly

Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved except for photo of Aberlour A'bunadh which belongs to David S. Bloom. Video of Killing Me Softly by the Fugees is presented solely for entertainment and nostalgia purposes. The song copyright belongs to Charlse Fox and Norman Gimbel.

First We Take Manhattan!

2011-09-24T08:45:00.016-03:00

"Big Apple Manhattan" at the Yew Bar - Four Season Hotel, Vancouver

Ahh, well not exactly, and I sure as hell don't take Berlin next, as Leonard Cohen mysteriously once crooned in the late '80's.

I'm taking Vancouver instead! I had to come here for work. Got up this morning at 4 a.m., caught a flight out of Fredericton at 6:10 a.m., flew to Montreal, got delayed, eventually got on a plane to Vancouver, only to arrive at 11:15 am! Ouch! Jet lag! By evening, I had been up like way too many hours to even do the math. Hadn't eaten all day, other than those stale pretzels served by tireless stewardesses. Anyway, I felt quite foggy before sipping that beautiful doll pictured above and below!

Just a little more whisky cocktail porn! I couldn't resist!

Knowing that I had to come to Vancouver, I thought I would take the opportunity to develop a nice post for this blog. I just had a general idea. You see I am not big on structure, to-do lists, strategic plans, action plans, change management and all that MBA mumbo-jumbo. I'd rather just wing-it. So, I landed in this fantastic city thinking, I dunno what I am going to write about, but I am going to write something.

The first thought that came into my head was that I am not going to sip new single malts and review them. That just seemed to damn obvious. The second thought (I don't have a lot, so I can count them!) that just came out of nowhere, was to check-out some cocktails, and so here we are at the Four Seasons Hotel.

Maybe not splitting the atom, but damn, it's important work!

The Manhattan has been around a long time, like back to the late 19th century, and probably originated at the Manhattan Club in New York city. It's has endured as classic cocktail because it makes rye whisky or American bourbon palatable for the non-aficionado consumer of spirits. It's smooth, with a playful little bit and sometimes dry. This cocktail takes the bourbon or Canadian whisky and showcases the black cherry and oak flavors with a great battle of sweet and dry vermouth for dominance. Caramel and dark fruit are there too. A supremely satisfying drink.

Various Recipes
Surf the web, pick up a book, and you will get variations on a common theme.

Ingredients

2 oz Canadian whisky (Alberta Premium is what they used at the Four Seasons);
1/2 oz of sweet vermouth;
add a dash or two of dry vermouth;
marashino cherry
3 or 4 dashes of Angostura bitters;

The barman making my Manhattan.

Mixing Instructions

stir all the above ingredients in your mixing glass with lots of ice;
let it sit for a moment so the flavors can meld well;
pour into tumbler, garnish with the maraschino cherry.

I like my Manhattans a little on the dry side and with some spiced bite of the whisky. So, dry vermouth dashed on is a must as well as using good quality whisky. Some Manhattans are made with bourbon. Maker's Mark is what they used at a very hip and swank Vancouver eatery: Blue Water Cafe + Raw Bar.

Blue Water Cafe + Raw Bar - Vancouver

This is a fantastic restaurant for those seeking the finest seafood and sushi. The sushi chef is Japanese (very rare in Canada) and makes his own soya sauce. It's to die for. Have a couple of tuna or eel rolls with a fine beer or light whisky, and after that you can shoot me because I just entered Heaven.

Besides the world class dining on sushi, this establishment takes great pride in relation to its 100+ single malts. Sushi? whisky? great ambience, my life's work is complete.

Blu Water Cafe Bar - Vancouver

The Manhattan was good, but a little sweet. I forgot to pipe up to the barman while he was making it that I like it more on the dry side, which would have meant just the addition of dry vermouth.
. . .

The Manhattan is a drink that show cases Canadian rye whisky or bourbon. Done well, it will be a little tart, a little sweet, but then becoming dry on the finish. Every bartender has his/her own twist on this classic. For example, at the Yew bar, the finishing touch of the barman was to place my drink in front of me, then light a wedge of orange on fire and drop it in my drink! The carmelized and slightly burnt orange wedge imparted great flavors that intermingled with the black cherry flavors of the rye whisky very well. Unique and flavorful!

Back at the hotel, following dinner I decided to have a final night cap. After much deliberation, "The Elizabeth Taylor Cocktail" was the winner. Getting to sleep was no longer a problem following that number.

Cheers!

Jason Debly
Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved. Any and all use is prohibited without permission.

Review: The Dimple Pinch 15 years Blended Scotch Whisky

2011-09-09T01:19:00.015-03:00

The Dimple Pinch 15yrs Blended Scotch Whisky

Apparently "The Dimple Pinch" ranks fourth in world sales in the 'blended scotch' sales. I am unsure if this is accurate, as it seems every blended scotch producer makes similar claims that their spirit is in the top 5 somewhere. Anyway, the owners of this brand sell a helluva lot of it, particularly in the United States.

The Dimple does have a following in the US that is pretty large. A lot of ordinary working men enjoy this dram at the end of a day. Whether they be grandads, dads, sons and grandsons, they like their Dimple Pinch, and like it a lot. Why? It's friendly, unpretenious, smooth, sweet, not peaty and quite honeyed. Add ice and it transforms from a loving labrador retriever into a pussy cat. What's not to like? Me, being a total scotch nut, must investigate this passion of so many, and see if I too, can join their ranks.

Nose (undiluted)
Dandelion, malt notes, apple juice and wisps of peat. I mean wisps or was that my imagination? That's how faint it was.

Palate (undiluted)
Sweet Graham crackers, some maltiness, chased by a spiciness that quicky degenerates into graininess. Also an apple cider aspect to this flavor profile.

Finish (undiluted)
The spiciness of the palate that I said turned grainy does not leave on the finish. Down this sweet spirit and you are left with a grainy taste mixed with apple cider. There is some vanilla and oak, but it's stale and reminiscent of the smell you'd suffer when sitting in a taxi, that is supposedly non-smoking. Remnants of stale cigarette smoke, windows up on a hot summer day with car sickness only minutes away.

Price Point
I paid around $33 in New Hampshire for this bottle. Not worth the money. I expected a lot more for the price and for allegedly being a 15 year old blended scotch. No value for money here.

Here's a thought. If you like the sweet, malty flavor profile, and don't mind a little grain flavor, try Cutty Sark. A much more reasonably priced alternative. Nothing special, but it is comfort scotch for when you need it.
General Impressions
This blended scotch is aged 15 years, but tastes much younger. Not a good thing. It exhibits no complexity of flavor. Light body with a sweet cereal or wheat style that leaves the drinker bored and unimpressed. I’d rather stare at a TV test pattern than take another slug of this cheap perfume. Or worse, start reading books recommended by Oprah. Calgon take me away! Far away, to a place where single malts and good blended scotch reign supreme!

There is a Zapruder-esque graininess to it and perfume quality that is very disappointing. I expected a lot more from a 15 year old blend that is supposedly made up of single malts like Lagavulin, Linkwood and Glenkinchie. I could not detect any Lagavulin in this blend at all. I can understand the Glenkinchie, which no doubt contributes the sweet honey entry. As for Linkwood, not detecting it either. I think a lot of grain whisky makes up this blend.

This scotch was clearly styled for the occasional, non-serious scotch fan, who wants a smooth taste, no alcohol bite, and lots of Juicy Fruit gum sweetness. To achieve such a medical flat-liner, middle of the road, mainstream, snorefest, Piers Morgan type of scotch, you have to sacrifice peat, smoke and complexity that would make this spirit interesting. Very easy-drinking, pronounced sweetness, and little else. This is perfectly suited for the vast majority of blended scotch consumers who infrequently drink and want just a friendly, inoffensive nip. If that's you, then I can recommend the Dimple. If you require more from your scotch, like me, then I cannot recommend this whisky.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Photo credits: Dimple Pinch photos - Jason Debly; Taxi Interior photo by Galan Pang (click here), and used with his permission. All rights of taxi photo vest with Mr. Pang.

Scotch: the History, the Taste and the Mystique!

2011-08-30T23:48:00.005-03:00

What a great title for a scotch tasting? A couple of days ago, I was contacted by a marketing exec representing "The Distilled Man: Essential Skills for the Modern Man" (click here). 'The Distilled Man' firm seem to be a company that put on seminars for men who need to learn the essentials of well, being a man, like how to barbecue, change a tire, play guitar at a campfire, and that sort of thing. One of their latest seminars is entitled as above. It will be held on Thursday, September 8th in San Francisco.

When I first got the email, I was immediately hesitant because I didn't want you being hammered with marketing crap. I mean you take the time to read this crazy blog because I am not pushing a good or a service. Right? But, as usual, I started to doubt myself, and thought what's the big deal? Somebody is putting on a scotch tasting for $65 (which is reasonable), so I thought, I'll mention it. Anybody promoting scotch whisky to the public is doing something right in my book. So, if you are in San Francisco September 8th, check it out. Click here.

Be Knowledgeable
Ok, enough of that. Let's move on. Talking about scotch tastings got me thinking about the ones I have attended. Some were good and some were well, like watching a car accident in slow motion (and that's being charitable).

For me, one of the key elements to a successful tasting is the person leading the tasting be knowledgeable. That means, not being a newly minted 26 year old MBA in a Hugo Boss suit, who you know has no real knowledge and passion for whisky, and is doing the brand ambassador gig because they couldn't get on Wall Street where they think they should be. They may be friendly, but also pretty vacant to borrow a title from a little ditty by the Sex Pistols.

Don't Be Arrogant
At the opposite extreme is the stuffy grandad, in his Harris tweed jacket and kilt, who acts like he is doing you a big favor by guiding you through a few malts. You paid money to put up with an insufferable old crank? Not!

He grimaces when the novice taster opines that blends are better than single malts or seems to be in extreme pain when somebody asks whats the difference between a blend and a single malt. Patience! These whisky tasting leaders need to learn patience. Yes, they have heard those questions a million times, but if it pains them too much like dental work in the Marathon Man to answer, well it's time to hang it up.

Traits of a Good Leader of a Scotch/ Whisky Tasting
So, what makes a good scotch tasting? Somebody leading the tasting that is: (1) genuinely passionate; (2) is obviously having fun; (3) is not taking himself/herself too seriously; (4) while knowledgeable, is not going to recite distillery mechanics and history that will make you drool with boredom like a hapless student marooned in an early 20th century German lit college class, I mean are Thomas Mann and Herman Hesse like the most boring writers of all time or what? (5) pours plenty and always has a special bottle at the end that was not on the agenda. Special bottle? Yeah, like I was at a tasting when the the brand rep for Highland Park pulled out a bottle of 25 or 30 year old Highland Park like Jesse James drew his gun! Now, that's excitement!

So, those are a few pointers for the big multinationals to consider when hiring the brand ambassadors! Now, I must say there are some reps who are certifiable whisky nuts and do a super job. Sam Simmons started a whisky blog (Dr Whisky) back in I believe 2006 when there were like 5 such blogs on the web. He has since become a brand ambassador for I believe the Glenfiddich line. He knows his stuff. There are others too who do an excellent job. And so, when they do a great job, you should let them know in an email, so they can forward it on to their boss! Hopefully the boss will hire more whisky nuts, which will benefit you and I!

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved. Any and all use is prohibited without permission except for the picture of the lady with the nice glass. That was taken from the website of The Distilled Man. All rights vest with the owners of the Distilled Man. I do not own any rights to the car accident photo. It was taken by Shuets Udono who has granted permission for its reproduction here. The video of the Sex Pistols crooning "Pretty Vacant" is posted for the purposes of nostalgia, education and entertainment.

Review: Power's Gold Label Irish Whiskey

2011-08-25T00:14:00.003-03:00

Power's Gold Label Irish Whiskey

What is the best selling whiskey in Ireland? Bushmills? Jameson's? Jameson's standard bottling is enormously successful in the United States, so why not in the homeland? Nope, it's Power's Gold Label. Never heard of it? Vaguely familiar from visits to the grocery store? Yeah, I know you. You should be getting that package of organic pasta or 12 grain bread, and where do I find you? Yeah, scopin' out the booze! Don't pertend you have never seen Power's. You've seen it. Maybe you didn't buy it because it was $19.99. Don't worry, I bought a bottle.

Power's is very affordable, no-age-statement, Irish whiskey that is as smooth as Irish charm. It is probably the best of the no-age-statement standard bottling Irish whiskey. I'd take it any day of the week over the standard Jameson or Bushmills. A great starter whiskey for the newbie, and amusing to the old horse too.

Nose
Freshly fallen pine needles, steaming orange pekoe tea.

Palate
Sweet bread, apples, limes wrapped in an oily texture with a dash of nutmeg.

Finish
Flavors do not linger very long, so the finish is what we would term 'short.' What we are left with after the whiskey is gone are pleasant notes of classic pure pot still flavor. Hard to describe it if you are not familiar with Irish whiskey, so lemme try anyway.

Irish whiskey tastes distinctly different from scotch due to the use of a pure pot still. Power's showcases this classic flavor.

This whiskey is a blend of pot still and grain whiskey, but I am told the ratio of pot still to grain is like 60/40, which in turn is responsible for the unmistakable Irish whiskey taste. So, what's pure pot still taste like? That classic Irish taste is of lime and a little green onion. Done well, it is restrained and pleasing. Done poorly, it can come off as young, raw and spirity because the flavor of green onion dominates. Power's do a fairly good job, but on the edge of being a little young. We can forgive this given the ridiculously cheap price.

General Impressions
Power's Gold is a very good introduction to Irish whiskey. While the price is low, the quality of the taste is not. Maybe not super complex, but hey, if you live in the US, you probably only paid $20! Extremely smooth, with some spice to make it interesting. Flaws? None really. Compared to other no-age-statement Irish whiskies, this is probably the best of the lot. Definitely better than Jameson's standard bottling.

If you are familiar with scotch whisky, and never tried Irish, this is a good place to start.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved. Any and all use is prohibited without permission.

Review: Lauder's Scotch Whisky

2011-08-16T22:33:00.008-03:00

There are puzzles of this world that I will never understand. Like the fascination with The Grateful Dead, music that I find mind numbingly boring (other than Casey Jones, a pretty darn good ditty). Another mystery to my mind is: who likes Lauder's Scotch?

Lauder's Scotch is one of those blended scotch brands that has always been there, invariably on the bottom shelf of the local liquor store. You've seen it all your life, since you turned legal drinking age. You always passed over it. I mean, who can blame you? This spirit comes in 1.5 litre bottles for a little under $20. Can't be good? I hear you say. I understand where you are coming from. I have the same thoughts about Lauder's.

I just got back from the annual family vacation to North Conway, New Hampshire. After a full day of ferrying the kids to various rides and attractions at Story Land and Santa's Village, followed by marathon play sessions in the hotel pool, they konk out in their little beds. Their mother turns in soon after, but not I. Your eternal night owl, whisky blogger and ne'er do-well, haunts the aisles of liquor emporiums. My gaze settled on Lauder's. Cheap price, never heard anything about it, could it be good? Another great value play like Teacher's or Black Bottle? I just had to find out.

Nose (undiluted)
Dragon's breath fiery, nose crinkling waft of alcohol that evokes memories of a moonshine still written about by Steve Earle in his song: Copperhead Road.

Ok, so the nose on this blend is not pretty. My judgment is still being suspended because at this price point, there are lots of blends that do not offer much on the nose, but deliver on the palate. So, here goes . . .

Palate (undiluted)

You must know the old adage: A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words? Take a long look at the picture above. Drinking Lauder's is to experience the super sweet taste of Rice Crispies with a heaping table spoon of sugar. That captures the cereal flavor and the sweetness, but I am detecting more. There is some Dow Chemical action going on. So, stir in some Splenda and instead of milk, add a can of Sprite or 7-Up and that would be a fairly good representation of the Lauder's flavor profile: sickeningly sweet and absolutely dreadful.

Finish (undiluted)
Extremely short like a haiku. In fact, I feel inspired to compose a haiku in honor of tasting Lauder's.

Halloween candy sweetness
T'is very very bad
tooth decay
me want to die now

Lauder's is as bad as my haiku.

General Impressions
Seriously bad sweet syrup junk scotch that I think is not even good enough for mixed drinks.

Ever read the Surgeon General's warning on the back of a bottle and wonder if it applies to you? You know, Don't drink if you are pregnant, have a medical condition, like astrology, I dunno whatever? The Surgeon General's warning needs to be updated to read: "Don't drink if this is Lauder's! Immediately drain contents at an approved landfill site capable of handling hazardous substances."

Enough said.

Sincerely,

Jason Debly

Photo credits: The photo of the Lauder's scotch on its side was taken by Paata Liparteliani and may be seen here. All rights of reproduction belongs to Paata Liparteliani.

The photo of the faded Lauder's scotch ad painted on a wall in Detroit belongs to Anthony Lockhart and may be seen here. All rights of reproduction belongs to Anthony Lockhart.

Musing about Highland Park 15yrs

2011-08-05T23:54:00.109-03:00

I and the wife invited over a friend of mine and his fair wife for drinks. She drank Italian soda, while I pushed on her hubby, Mount Gay rum & coke, followed by Power's Gold and finally Highland Park 15 years. She watched with some consternation as I delivered my praise for Highland Park 15 with reverence that most people only see on Sunday mornings at their place of worship. In my case, my place of worship is wherever a bottle of HP 15 happens to be. As my sermon proceeded, my friend's wife seemed to grow more worried . . .

"Mike! We are in the presence of greatness!"

or how about:

"God has smiled upon our glasses!"

or

"I declare jihad on bad whisky!"

With that last comment, our respective wives gave stares that cooled us down, in spite of the balmy weather.

Highland Park is a distillery that is incapable of producing a disappointing dram. HP15 is no exception. And! HP15 really is the summer dram of the Highland Park line-up. It is lighter than the 12 and 18 years old, less popular, but great. Highland Park can't make a bad scotch. HP 15 is simply a magnificent single malt. It screams quality and refinement. It tastes of the signature 'heather' that is unique to the distillery. I always marvel at the quality of this dram. Not for casual drinking as it is quite expensive and simply too elegant for barbecues and ball games. Save this for very good friends and special occasions!

A detailed tasting note of Highland Park 15yrs, which I wrote last year is available by clicking here. Too tired to read a lengthy tasting note? That's ok too. How about the following one sentence tasting note I have just composed?

"Butterscotch, honey with a nice zing of spice. Put simply this is a Coffee Crisp bar, enveloped in fine cigar smoke, in your glass!"

The hang time of these flavors is huge! A finish that goes on forever. Ok, ok, I tricked you. This tasting note is more than a sentence.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Review: Nikka Taketsuru 12 Year Pure Malt

2011-07-29T01:18:00.014-03:00

Summertime is the time for light tasting, effervescent whisky. To that end, I thought I would review such a pure malt from Japan: Nikka Taketsure 12 year Pure Malt.

Nose (undiluted)
Fresh out of the oven dinner rolls; cloves; malt.

Palate (undiluted)
Sweet malt, firm body, green tea, ginger and an overall flavor profile that is somehow reminiscent of that soft drink Fresca with a bite of grapefruit. Gives new meaning to 'citrus' flavors in whisky.

Finish (undiluted)
Spicy zing of pepper, toast with marmalade and mint jelly.

General Impressions
In general, I have a very high opinion of Japanese whisky. Say "Japanese whisky" and Hibiki 17, Yamazaki 12 and 15 come to mind. Those are great whiskies. Accordingly, I had high hopes. Unfortunately, Nikka Taketsuru 12 year Pure Malt disappoints.

Abraham Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs

Remember that college psychology course that you slept through? Do you remember anything? Does the name Abraham Maslow ring a bell? Hello? Anybody there?

Abraham Maslow

Ahh, don't feel embarassed. I, too, regret not paying more attention in university. Particularly to psychology courses. I quickly dismissed it as bunk and switched out. What a mistake that was.

Anyway, I do remember Abraham Maslow. You see this scholar studied highly successful people like Albert Einstein, instead of highly dysfunctional people, and developed a great theory of what successful, happy people have that the rest of humanity does not.

Maslow theorized that people have varying needs (aren't best theories the most obvious and trite ones?). There were the basic needs like food, shelter, sex (not sure that last item should be at the bottom of the pyramid . . .) that had to be met to function. Above that were non-essential to life needs: to feel safe, secure, ownership of property that sort of thing. Moving up that pyramid there were more elusive needs like: love . . . And if you had all that stuff, you could become self-actualized at the pinnacle once you became creative, moral, solved problems, and did what you found personally fulfilling in life. This is the dumbed down version of course. Check out this link to Wikipedia for a more learned discussion than I am capable of delivering (click here).

Now, you are thinking, "Jason, what the hell does Maslow have to do with a review of Nikka Pure Malt 12 year old whisky?"

Here's the pitch: Nikka Whisky doesn't lead to self-actualization. It will meet your basic needs of being a decent, ok whisky. It tastes smooth, has no bite, and in general a very tame, refreshing, summertime dram. Moving up the pyramid of needs of the whisky nut: it does gives you warmth and shelter from the cold weather, relief from the heat with a little ice, etc. Hop up to the next level of the pyramid and Nikka Pure Malt falls short. I'm not feeling the love. It doesn't seduce me. This bottle and I don't have a lot of respect for eachother. We are strangers in the night. That's about it. No follow up the next morning. Just me leaning out of bed and turning that clock radio ahead about 4 hours, and saying "Shit! I gotta get to work, or I'll be late. Gotta go. Had a lot of fun, see ya!"

Great whisky "completes me!" (to steal a line from the film Jerry Maguire). It makes me whole! Gives my life meaning! I undergo, albeit temporarily self-actualization! Hibiki 17, Highland Park 15 and 25 yrs, Famous Grouse 30 years all take me to the top of the hierarchy of needs of me the scotch nut. Nikka Malt does not. It's ho-hum. Predictable, not boring, but not much challenge, nor much going on upstairs other than some zing and pepper mid-palate on top of the big citrus flavors. Too much citrus based flavors. Is this whisky or Fresca infused with whisky? I need more for the high price! Not worth the money in my estimation. A satisfying whisky when your needs aren't too high up that hierarchy. And there's nothing wrong with that, so long as you know yourself or "know thy self" to borrow a phrase from another great thinker: Socrates.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Scotch and a Good Story

2011-07-19T06:59:00.002-03:00

Ahh! Summertime! You, a book and a nice dram. Could life be more perfect?

For a long time, every time I returned from a round of golf, my wife would ask:

"So, what did Steve have to say?" or whoever I played golf with that day.

I would respond: "Oh, not much."

"Now really, you guys were together all afternoon. How is his wife?"

"He didn't say."

"Oh, come on."

"Honey, the conversation goes kinda like this: nice shot! I am thinking about buying a new wedge. Do you want another beer?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. That's what makes golf great. Golfers want escape from talking work place politics, the price of gas, how's the wife and all that stuff. When on the course, it's break time."

Similarly, having a dram of your favorite whisky is much the same. Especially true with a good book. Read a couple pages, have a sip, read a couple more. Before you know it, the sun warms your face, makes you sleepy and you are dreaming you are James Bond. You know the deal.

I'm a little different from you in the sense that I may . . . instead of reading a book, try and write one. So, get your favorite dram, and read chapter one of "The Adjuster." The rest of the novel will appear once a week or so as I review different whiskies and scotch. I'll do a review, include the next chapter, you read, sip and basically drift off into never-neverland. So, grab your favorite dram and just kick back and read, a first person narrative, detective story by your friendly scotch reviewer. Cheers!

. . . .

THE ADJUSTER

CHAPTER ONE

It was 1992. George Bush Sr. was president and Guns and Roses were at the height of their popularity. It seems like yesterday. Where do I begin?

A couple of left turns followed by a sharp right was all that was needed to put me on the correct street. I cruised down Bayside Avenue holding on to the steering wheel with my left hand while I used my other to rifle through the file lying open in my lap. I was looking for where I had written down Raul Diaz's address. I kept crossing the center of the street while I tried to keep one eye on the road and my other on the damn file. Eventually, I found the address scrawled on the back of the file folder.

In one of L.A.'s more affluent neighborhoods, this boulevard was lined with million dollar plus estates on one side and palm trees, beach and the ocean on the other. As I drifted by, I noticed that one of the properties was still under construction. It was an enormous Greek revival style home with the obligatory massive white pillars out front. At the foot of the pillars was an odd pairing of statues. Alexander the Great and Zeus were frozen in commanding poses, staring blankly out toward the street. I wasn't impressed, but the magnificent view of the ocean and the bikinis littered up and down the coast proved more deserving of my attention.

It took me about fifteen minutes to drive down the street before I started to get close to Diaz's place. On the ocean side, it was a large white stucco mansion with a red clay tile roof, and a hint of a Moorish influence in its design. Of course, most of it couldn't be seen because of an eight foot high cement wall around the perimeter of the property, which was no doubt intended to keep out white trash like me.

I pulled my faded blue, custom made, 1964 Pontiac LeMans convertible into the cobblestone driveway and turned the radio down. At the foot of the driveway was a heavy wrought iron gate with two video cameras perched on top. I leaned against my door and waited for a response from the intercom system, which was built into an ivy covered gate post. The intercom squawked something unintelligible.

"I'm the adjuster", I said.

"Are you the insurance chap?"

"Yeah, I am", I growled, beginning to lose my patience. The stifling humidity was a continual drain on what little energy I had, and the fact that it had been a long week only aggravated my growing irritability. The visit to Diaz's place was the last one of the day. The heat didn't let up at all in spite of the fact that it was close to four thirty, but the choking smog of the downtown core had disappeared.

The gate slowly swung open, and my Pontiac crept up a stone shod driveway, which lead to a three car garage. I walked up an ascending flag stone path to the front entrance of the grand residence. The double doors opened, and an elderly man servant elegantly dressed in a blue blazer, red neck tie, white button down shirt and beige pants motioned in the general direction of my car.

In a voice, almost as grating as the intercom, he said, "Please move your vehicle back down to the street."

"Look pal, I'm late, I'm out of cigarettes and I've got a lot of other appointments to do." I lied. "Either Diaz wants his check or not. If not, I'll just close my file." I was also going to ask why he bothered to open the gate if he wanted me to park the car on the street, but I decided to let it go, as yet another of life’s unexplained mysteries.

His majesty looked me over, shook his head, and motioned me inside. I followed him through the doorway and into the foyer. It was bright inside as the sun shone down through sky lights in the 15 feet or so high ceiling.

"Wait here", the man servant ordered. Spanish guitar and orchestral music played softly in the background. I think it was Rodrigo's Concierto de Arjanuez.

I looked around and decided to park myself on a beige leather couch. The foyer was spacious, but not to the point of hearing one’s echo with every utterance. The baseboards and door trim were painted white and the walls were a soft beige. Along the walls hung pastel water color paintings in brilliant gold frames that glinted in the sunlight. The chandelier sparkled, just enough to be a pleasant distraction, but not so gaudy that it would damage one's retina. Beneath my feet was an area carpet over a marble floor. The floor covering was definitely Persian. The rectangular pattern was intricate and colorful. On a coffee table was a large hard cover book entitled Frank Lloyd Wright. There was not so much as a single crease in its spine. The sun, nice carpet and decor had a much needed calming effect on me. But then again, it might have been the fact that the place had air conditioning.

I waited about fifteen minutes, and was about to get up and leave when Raul Diaz walked in followed by a rather large companion. Diaz was about six foot two, trim and probably in his early fifties. This was a guy who usually carried himself with a great deal of confidence, but today he seemed different. His swarthy friend was a heavy set, balding bodyguard in an ill fitting navy blue suit that had a great a deal of difficulty concealing his bulk.

"I apologize for the wait Mr. Maguire. I had some pressing personal business to attend to." Diaz paused for a moment and looked at his watch. He glanced up quickly and asked, "Will this take very long?"

"No. I've got the check here for the full amount. All I need you to do is read and sign a form signifying settlement of this claim." I also explained how the deductible was applied and that the claim would be paid up to the policy limit.

Diaz had been staring at the Persian carpet while I spoke. He sullenly glanced up when I finished. Judging from the blank expression on his face, it was apparent that he had not heard a word that I said. This was rather odd as the last time we had met he had been quite interested in the status of his claim. The value of it was not a great deal to a man like him, but he never missed a meeting with me and always had lots of questions. I think our dealings had a certain novelty value to him.

He said with a Spanish accent, "I really thought you and the insurance company were going to screw me over by not paying." He looked tired. His body guard stood motionless staring right through me. I could sense a tension in the air. Something was wrong. The last time I met Diaz, his body guard had seemed indifferent to me and had been flipping through a magazine. I think it was the Sports Illustrated swim suit issue. I guess the Frank Lloyd Wright was what his boss read.

"Like I told you sir, I'm an adjuster hired by your insurance company to investigate your claim. If I consider it to be reasonable, then I recommend that your insurer pay the claim. This is exactly what I have done in this case."

"Let's go out back where we can finalize everything." Diaz turned and led me through his home, which involved passing through a dark wood paneled living room, a den with a pool table, and a kitchen with lots of hanging brass pots, until we ended up in the rear of the estate. His patio gave an expansive view of the ocean. As we approached, I could hear the sound of the ocean crash on the beach below and seagulls overhead. The salt of the ocean hung in the air. His big friend followed a few paces behind. The humidity was still present, but much less of a burden with the gentle breeze blowing in off the coast. Diaz and I sat down at a table with an umbrella that shielded us from the unrelenting Californian sun. I reached into my suit jacket for a pen and almost instantly felt the big hand of Diaz's bodyguard clamp down on my left shoulder like a sledge hammer.

I didn't know what was happening, maybe they were pissed off about how I handled the claim. The bodyguard had not let go, and I saw his other hand reach into his jacket. On instinct, I reached for his neck tie and yanked on it. This caused him to lose his balance and his head smashing against the glass top of the patio table before he ended up flat on his back. Still holding on to his tie, I stood up and placed my left foot across his neck, applying just enough pressure to let him know that if I lost my balance he might end up with a crushed windpipe. I then bent down and quickly reached inside his jacket and pulled his Berreta out of its shoulder holster.

"Hey! take it easy, Martin. Mario just thought that you were packin'. He thinks insurance, DEA and the FBI are all the same thing", Diaz said nervously. He then started yelling at Mario in Spanish I think something about fornication and eternal damnation.

Mario gargled as he glared at me from beneath the sole of my shoe. A little trickle of blood escaped from an abrasion on his chin. He also had a bad cut by his left temple. It was obvious that he and I were not going to be friends anytime soon. I let go of his tie and removed my foot. He immediately reached for his throat gasping while I tossed his gun over the patio ledge into some bushes below.

Diaz smiled approvingly at me and said "It’s always the quiet ones."

Mario did not have much to say.

Diaz turned away and gazed at the ocean and continued. "My family has been horribly violated and Mario is just not taking any chances."

Maybe Diaz was waiting for me to inquire into the nature of his family crisis, but I didn't because I didn't care. I sat back down at a different patio table, and this time without interruption, retrieved my pen from my crumpled linen suit jacket. Diaz seated himself across from me once more and stirred a drink that his manservant presented to him. The servant busied himself sweeping up the shards of glass that had once formed a table top. There were no refreshments for me. I pulled out Diaz’s file from my briefcase and pushed my pen and a form across the table towards him. He didn't read the claim settlement form, but nevertheless signed it at the bottom above his name. I reached over and took the document back, and then handed him the check.

About two months ago, I received an assignment from Mr. Diaz's insurance company, California Surety, to investigate the theft of a very large quantity of jewelry from Diaz's home. The insurance company's claims department suspected that much, if not all, of the stolen jewelry was not personal jewelry purchased with money derived from legitimate income. Rather, they thought it was the profits illegally acquired from criminal activities like drug trafficking and money laundering which paid for the jewelry. The insurance company felt confident that if they could establish the jewelry was actually the proceeds of criminal activity, they could deny Diaz's claim by relying on a rarely used policy exclusion. This exclusion specified that property illegally acquired was not insured.

Initially, I told the insurance company that their analysis was brilliant except for one small detail. They did not have one scintilla of evidence supporting their view. Moreover, the burden of proof for such a case would be quite considerable. There was no doubt that their policy holder was a significant merchant of misery, but establishing that the jewelry was purchased with drug money, and not by the profits of a multitude of legitimate businesses owned by Diaz would be next to impossible.

To prove such a claim would have required the full cooperation of the local authorities at both the state and federal levels. This was not going to happen for a very simple reason. Diaz was just not a priority with the police. He dealt exclusively in the wholesale importation of what were generally considered to be the soft drugs like marijuana and hashish. In police circles, it is the heroin, crack, ecstasy and cocaine dealers and users who are responsible for the vast majority of violent crime. These hard drug users shoot cops, do drive by shootings and also get the most media attention. Pot heads get the munchies and listen to Crosby, Stills & Nash. This may not be entirely true, and it would be a lie to say no one was ever beat up or killed over a bag of weed, but this was the view, of the LAPD and politicians who called the shots. To complicate matters further, Diaz kept an extremely low profile, and was not known to be a violent individual. On the rare occasion when he had someone slapped around, it was usually scum over whom the police were not about to get lumps in their throats.

In any case, I explained these finer points to California Surety, but they would not listen. They were totally fixated on using their little policy exclusion to save them a small fortune in order to have a pretty financial quarter. Of course, no one in their claims department was going to go up against Diaz, and get into a fight that might risk the life and limb of the adjuster. No, instead, they decided to farm out that unpleasant task to my business.

For the past seven years, my business partner, Roger Jones and I, have been operating an independent claims investigation firm. For a very modest hourly fee plus expenses, we will investigate, negotiate and settle any suspicious insurance claim that an insurance company, law firm or private corporation wish to unload on us. We tend to have a love/hate relationship with many insurance companies which loathe the thought of paying our investigation fees. However, they must use us because sometimes their own staff are not qualified or willing to do the dirty work. We get the messy claims. We do not get the neat, easy, straight forward ones. You know, like banker’s wife loses engagement ring down kitchen sink, and that sort of thing.

When I first met with Diaz at his home, I was straight up with him. I made it clear that I knew what he was all about. I told him that the fact that he was a trafficker was of no consequence to me. If he could supply the proper documentation in support of his claim then I would recommend to his insurer that he be paid in full. This made Mario extremely nervous about me from the very beginning. I am sure that Diaz had me checked out long ago, and was fairly confident that I was just an adjuster and not some cop, DEA or IRS agent. On the other hand, Mario, having limited ability in written or spoken English, and possibly in cognitive activities, may have not been as convinced as to my true identity.

During one of my initial meetings with Diaz I explained that the onus rested upon him to prove his claim, and that the best way for him to do so was to have his accountant provide me with all the original invoices of purchase of the jewelry along with proof of the method of payment. Of course, Mario and all of Diaz's other associates flipped out. They openly asked me if I was connected with law enforcement of some kind. But, Diaz ignored all of them and complied with my request. The accountant's documentation demonstrated that payment was made by cash, checks and sometimes credit card, and that the funds came from personal accounts of Diaz that accumulated the profits of several legitimately owned businesses. I typed up a report to California Surety recommending that they pay his claim. They delayed payment for quite some time while they had me try to dig up dirt on his suspicious import/export business. I knew it was a waste of time, but if they wanted to pay my fee, who was I to complain. When I interim billed the insurance company for about thirty-five hours of work I was given a lecture on how adjuster’s fee accounts were a growing drain on insurer’s resources. When I did not offer a ‘courtesy’ discount, I was told to close my file and give Diaz their check.

After giving Diaz his check, I closed my briefcase and got up to leave. Mario said something to Diaz, but it wasn’t in Spanish. It was another language. Diaz looked up from the check in his hand and said, "Do you have a card? I lost the other one." There was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"Yeah, sure." I tossed one on the table. He nodded politely at me and turned back to the ocean.

-to be continued-

Review: Gentleman Jack Rare Tennessee Whiskey

2011-06-27T01:07:00.008-03:00

1980's Flashback!
Whenever I hear or read "Jack Daniel's," I typically have a flashback to the 1980's Van Halen music video, "Panama," where the bassist, Michael Anthony, is thumping out some notes on a custom-made bass guitar in the shape and image of a bottle of Jack. Not exactly a ringing endorsement for Jack Daniels. I am thinking if Van Halen drink it, it must be the fast lane to intoxication and to hell with good taste.

Not so! Ol' No. 7 isn't that bad as I observed in my review (click here). A pleasant American whiskey that surprisingly has no wicked bite or awful burn on the way down. In fact, for the price, it is a pleasant whiskey. Not overly complex and sipping it will not leave you in awe, but hey look at the price buster! It delivers a nice introduction to American whisky or more specifically Tennessee whiskey.

Tennessee Whiskey
If I had a penny for everytime someone called Jack Daniel's a great 'bourbon' I would be a rich man. There is not a huge difference in the production methods of Tennessee whiskey and bourbon, but there is a difference you should be aware of, just so that at a party you won't embarrass yourself.

America is home to a number of different types of whiskey, but the most famous is it's bourbon. To be called bourbon, the whiskey must: (1) be made from a mash bill of at least 51% corn; (2) aged for at least 2 years in new charred oak barrels and; (3) not distilled to an alcohol by volume greater than 80%. So, technically, bourbon does not have to be made in Kentucky, which is the home to many of the great bourbons from the earliest beginnings.

Tennessee whiskey has only two examples: Jack Daniel's and George Dickel. These distilleries are classified as Tennessee whiskey because they meet the legal definition (yep pardner, there is a law saying what is Tennessee whiskey): (1) must be produced in the state of Tennessee, and; (2) the spirit must be filtered through sugar-maple charcoal. (There is some debate as to whether or not Jack Daniel's could label their whiskey as 'bourbon' because bourbon can be made anywhere in the US. Some say they could, by a tight reading of the law, but choose not to do so. We are not going to get into that debate here.)

Anyhow, below is a picture by Flickr member, ZosoNomad, of the Jack Daniel's distillery grounds where they burn the sugar-maple wood in order to make the requisite charcoal for filtration of the spirit. If you tour the distillery, this is always fun to watch.

Double Charcoal Filtration
Gentleman Jack is distinguished from his younger sibling (Ol' No. 7) by production process whereby the spirit is charcoal mellowed twice: once before aging in barrels, and again after aging.

Gentleman Jack Rare Tennessee Whiskey

Nose
Bananna, oak, and a little strong note of alcohol when sniffed in a brandy snifter or Glencairn glass. In a tumbler, the nose is much more pleasant and floral.

Palate
Sweet entry of corn, vanilla and oak. Bananna too.

Finish
Dries with warming notes of tobacco and spice. A little too oakey.

General Impressions
I am a little underwhelmed by this whiskey. It is supposed to be a step up from the standard bottling of Jack Daniel's Old No. 7, but it really lacks anything that sets it apart and worthy of the higher price.

Pros
On the positive side, Gentleman Jack is certainly a smooth whiskey that will go down very easily without the need of ice, water or mix of any kind. In a word, this whiskey is smooth, big time, like a pane of glass. No sharp or biting flavors. There are no obvious flaws, other than it is very mainstream, taking no chances. We are not entering any intersections on a yellow light. This whiskey is purely mainstreet easy going drinking experience firmly in the proper lane of travel.

Cons
Frankly, it is a little boring. If you are seeking a smooth Tennessee whisky, the standard Jack Daniel's bottling is sufficient. No need to upgrade to Gentleman Jack. So, this begs the question: What does Gentleman Jack offer that is not attained by the Old No. 7? I suppose it is more flavorful, the flavors last longer once swallowed. But, again the earth did not move for me. I keep thinking I should be drinking Jim Beam Black, a bourbon that is in the same price point, but is a stellar bourbon. Another option would be to spend a bit more money and enjoy another great American whiskey, Maker's Mark. The makers of Gentleman Jack should study Maker's Mark and try to replicate the complexity of flavors that they have achieved.

Gentleman Jack lacks the flavor complexity of Maker's Mark and Jim Beam Black

Conclusion
If you are a novice whiskey drinker, you will probably enjoy Gentleman Jack immensely because it is so smooth and inoffensive. For the more seriously whiskey obsessed like me, we require some complexity. The danger in making a whiskey so smooth is that there is a sacrifice of complexity of flavors. That is what happened here. A pleasant Tennessee whiskey that provides a very straight forward delivery of oak, vanilla and sweet corn. It's ok, but not great. You have to ask yourself about whether or not you are a novice or a whiskey nut. It needs to be spiced up. Maybe for inspiration the blenders at Jack Daniel's should listen to Van Halen's Panama:

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Comfort Food? Hell no! Comfort Scotch and a Cheesy Movie? Hell Yes!

2011-06-18T23:42:00.048-03:00

I was in a really foul mood earlier this evening. I mean really foul.  Bad day at work just bled into the evening.  You see, I work as a lawyer. I know, you hate 'em. Me too, like 90% of the time. 'Course, everyone hates them, but everyone wants their kids to be one or a doctor.

What I do is write contracts, work on documents, give advice, and basically do whatever it takes to get a deal. Once in a while, a deal goes bad and everybody lawyers up. I mean even the lawyers. Finger pointing and well, so much for an honorable profession and all that. This is when litigators enter the scene and they thrive on adversarial situations.  Me, I don't like the conflict. I used to deal with it better than I do now. As I get older, I just want to simplify life, so no litigation for me. No drawing lines in the sand, grand standing, bullshitting and all the double talk. I am not moral or more ethical that some other ambulance chaser, I'm just weary of all the bullshit and just call it the way it is. Anyway, enough said.

I knew that I had to snap myself out of this blackest of moods.  So, I retreated to the basement, collased into my lazy-boy and reached for some comfort: an over the top, super ridiculous, James Bond film, You Only Live Twice, and my favorite (if I was ever sentenced to a desert island) single malt scotch: Cragganmore 12 years.

Cheesy films from the late '60's and early '70's just seem to lift my spirits, no matter how dour I may be. These movies usually have sappy theme music that just makes me laugh and at the same time kinda provides an atmosphere of familiarity/security (it harkens back to a time when I was a kid and my parents created a protective bubble around me) that is welcome. I mean just listen to Nancy Sinatra sing "You Only Live Twice" . . . you just gotta laugh!

The wafer light theme music to "You Only Live Twice" is just the beginning. The absurd plot, with plenty of politically incorrect depictions of women clad in bras and panties fetching James Bond drinks and pouring baths, just demands the viewer to suspend judgment and belief and enjoy the ride! Follow that with some classic lines: "Kill Bond now!" or how about "Goodbye Mr. Bond" as the maniacal evil doer Ernst Stavro Blofeld, a white Persian cat strokin' bad guy, sentences Bond to death, and you gotta recipe for laughter.

James Bond villain: Ernst Stavro Blofeld

Couple all of the above with an easy-drinking, yet thought provoking single malt, and you have the strong possibility of abandoning that bad mood. And that's just what happened to me. I thoroughly enjoyed my extra-cheesy movie, while I sipped a great single malt that is my 'go-to' whenever I am unsure as to what to try.

Well, I am happy to report that my spirits are lifted. I hadn't had a drink of Cragganmore in a long time but it didn't disappoint! I loved it when I was a novice scotch nut, and am happy to report that I still do. A teaspoon of water to a double pour delivers up a classic Speyside malt of honey, heather, smoke and something ethereal that just makes you smile regardless of your situation!

Just remember, all in moderation, and I am certainly not advocaing drinking alone in the basement to deal with a bad mood . . . although I think that is what I just did. Hmm, I guess I am about as politically incorrect as Sean Connery in You Only Live Twice delivering the following opening line: click here. Ok, maybe that crosses the line of poltically correctness and veers head-on into the oncoming traffic of sexism, racism and through the guard rail and off the cliff into the abyss of bad cinema! But hey, just try and laugh anyway and appreciate how far Bond films have come since then.

Thanks for dropping in! Next week, I will review the Tennessee Whiskey, Gentleman Jack.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved. Any and all use is prohibited without permission except for images above taken from the film "You Only Live Twice" as they belong to United Artists. I do not own any rights to "You Only Live Twice" which is posted for the purposes of nostalgia, education and entertainment.

Review: Jameson Gold Reserve Irish Whiskey

2011-06-10T01:16:00.001-03:00

Time for some Irish. I just felt like it. Scotch whisky, particularly the aged single malts can be taxing on the brain. You know you are in the presence of greatness and therefore must make mental notes of the entire tasting experience. This can be tiring if one is not up to the task.

Irish whiskey, no matter how old or grand, somehow, makes no demands of you. To partake in some Irish whiskey is, put simply, a more hedonistic experience. It's the recess at school time. It's the summer vacation for the teacher and students or the sabbatical for the professor. And for us, it's kicking back in your favorite bar with a couple of friends, having a ridiculous conversation about anything. Irish whiskey is about . . . good times!

Jameson's standard, no-age statement bottling is the best selling Irish whiskey in America. Pity! You know why? Because it is terrible. Jameson's standard bottling is pretty awful stuff, suitable at best for frat boys determined to do shots after exams in the college social club. Really, please avoid. Tastes old, musty and spoiled.

Jameson 12 years is a big step up in quality. Common enough that you can find it pretty much everywhere, but with a flavor profile that is rather uncommonly good! Lots of chocolate, hazelnut action mixed with malty notes. Makes for a nice dram.

Jameson 18 years is the oldest sibling, but not the best. You're gonna taste Chinese green tea, lemon grass and citrus notes. Not terrible, but not great. Matter of fact, not as good as the 12 years.

And finally, we arrive at the task at hand: evaluating the Jameson Gold Reserve. Well, what can I tell you? For starters, this whiskey has no age statement, yet it is priced above the 12 year old and below the 18 year old. It's not a cheap date.

Browsing the Jameson website you will glean scant more about the age of the whiskies making up Gold Reserve. The three whiskies making up this blend are described as being of "advanced years" . . . This is not a problem for me. I am not hung up on age statements, as they are not necessarily definitive of quality. A couple of possible reasons why there is no age statement: (1) the blender has the flexibility to choose whiskies that may vary in age from year to year, yet blended properly achieve the signature flavor profile the blender aims to replicate each year; and (2) it's more cost effective (it gets expensive if you are only using whiskies of a certain age each year).

Nose (undiluted)
Rich, fragrant molasses, almonds and wild flowers.

Palate (undiluted)
Initially buttery followed by a transition to a crisp, fresh body of crunchy peanut brittle, wild honey, English cream and oak.

Finish (undiluted)
Fairly long flavors of mint, Oolong Tea and malt remain.

General Impressions
Excellent Irish whiskey! Better than the 12 and 18 year olds. Why? More complex flavor profile. The ability of the whiskey to start sweet, transition to a dry, almost crunchy quality is no easy feat. The master blender is to be applauded for his effort in this regard. While it shares some flavor similarities with the 12 year old, the Gold Reserve takes those flavors to new heights.

Price Point
While the price point is high, it is worth the experience.

Peer Review
Compared to other mass produced Irish whiskey bottlings, I would say Jameson Gold Reserve is among the best. However, the king of Irish whiskies is not dethroned: Redbreast 12 years.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Review: Te Bheag Connoisseur's Blended Scotch Whisky

2011-05-28T23:18:00.009-03:00

You and I are a lot like Michael Caine's character, Jack Carter, in the brilliant 1971 film noir, Get Carter (my hack film review: click here). Jack Carter is on a mission. Upon learning of his brother's untimely death, Jack decides to take a train ride from London to attend the funeral up in Newcastle. He decides more too. He's asking around about his brother's death in an apparent car accident. The more questions he asks, the more heads he kicks in, the more rough interrogations he conducts, the more . . . the facts don't add up. Someone murdered his brother. Jack is making waves. The Newcastle organized crime syndicate don't like him nosing around.

Jack Carter doesn't give a damn. The Newcastle hoods want him to go back to London . . . or else. They push back hard. Jack doesn't mind, he pushes back too . . . violently.

You and I are a member of a clan, a counterculture, a subculture. You see, we are scotch nuts. We are obsessed. We wax poetically about the beauty of some scotch whiskies and curse loudly the flaws of others. We will not shut up and humbly accept the marketing drivel funneled to us by the multinational drinks companies with their marteting campaigns telling us what is the best scotch for us. Our brother is the 'truth' in our sojourn in search of great scotch. Brother Truth is the victim of marketing campaigns. We are undeterred. We ask the tough questions. We don't accept the hog wash being sold to us as the gospel. We are on a search. A mission. We want to know what is the best, no age statement, blended scotch whisky in the marketplace today. And if rough interrogation of spirits is necessary, we are ready!

Te Bheag Blended Scotch Whisky

We have kicked in a lot of doors, pissed off a lot of people, and thrown some stones in glass houses. We know Ballantine's Finest is anything but! Whyte & Mackay is horrendous! On the other hand, Johnnie Walker Red is not as bad as others may have lead you to believe.

So far, our search has concluded that Teacher's Highland Cream is the best of the economy, no-age-statement blended scotch category. We have now just pushed the saloon doors open and at the bar is Te Bheag (pronounced 'chey vek'). It's available in Canada and the United Kingdom, but not widely available in the US. Not sure why. In fact, a search online failed to turn up a US based vendor of this blend.

Nose (undiluted)
Great medium peat aromas rising up in the glass, chased by tendrils of sherry and earth.

Palate (undiluted)
Velvet textured licorice and rich Virginia tobacco (think Lucky Strikes unfiltered) with plenty peat and cranberry/sherry taste! What a delight!

Finish (undiluted)
Smoke, prunes and smoked mackerel. Salty too!

General Impressions
An excellent find! Great big flavors abound! The hallmark of the vast majority of blended scotch is the gentle, soft, middle of the road flavor profile that takes no chances. As a result many blends are mediocre. The truly great blends tend to have great big, sky scraper flavors. These spirits take chances. The room for error is enormous, but success can be an incredible thing, and that is precisely what we have with Te Bheag. I have to say without a shadow of a doubt, this is the best blended, no-age-statement scotch whisky! It rivals Compass Point's Spice Tree or Sheep Dip. But guess what? They are both pure malts (meaning blends of single malts only - no grain whisky). That is how good, Te Bheag is.

I taste a lot of Highland malt in this blend. Specifically, Oban comes to mind. In general, this is a Speysider with a significant Highland malt emphasis. Really rich milk chocolate and hazelnuts comes to mind. Damn! This is good! In ligh of the fact that this blender is located on the Isle of Skye, I would imagine that there must be some Talisker in the mix too. In addition, this blend is non-chill filtered and no caramel is added, which all helps make this blend a crackling dram!

Te Bheag is highly drinkable with no apparent flaws. It is not grainy, no bite, and no taste of alcohol. Te Bheag is so good that if I tasted this blind and someone said this is a blended malt (meaning made up solely of single malts) I would believe it. It's that damn good. I would go so far to say that this superior to a few single malts. Yep, I said it.

The owners of Te Bheag are small and independent. Accordingly, distribution in the US marketplace may be limited, but don't worry, there are plenty of online UK retailers happy to ship to you.

Highly Recommended!
I highly recommend this blended scotch. The price in Canada is around $36, so it is not what I would call an economy blend by any means. While Teacher's Highland Cream reins supreme in that segment of the marketplace, Te Bheag owns the higher end blended, no-age-statement segment. Like Jack Carter, I think we found the truth!

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved. Any and all use is prohibited without permission except for images above taken from the film "Get Carter" as they belong to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. I do not own any rights to "Get Carter" which is posted for the purposes of nostalgia, education and entertainment.

Review: Cutty Sark Blended Scotch Whisky

2011-05-16T23:55:00.002-03:00

Cutty Sark Blended Scotch Whisky

I am always on the hunt for a reasonably priced blended scotch. Cutty Sark occupies a spot on the shelves of liquor stores around the world that is devoted to 'economy blends.' In other words, bottom shelf scotch.

We know some of the suspects occupying space on the bottom shelf are bad characters . . . Ballantine's Finest, J&B and Bell's. Horribly sweet swill suitable only for lighting your hibachi barbecue!

You also know that there are some great economy blends: Teacher's Highland Cream, Black Bottle, Islay Mist, White Horse and a few others. The question for us to consider today is what camp does 'Cutty Sark' fall into? The Good? The Bad? or the Ugly? Inquiring minds want to know. C'mon, let's see what it's like . . .

Nose (undiluted)
Malty, ale, apples and dandelion. Not offensive in the least. I'm surprised.

Palate (undiluted)
Certainly is sweet. Malty. Fruit cocktail in heavy syrup. Honey Crisp apples. Vanilla is lurking in the background.

Finish (undiluted)
The vanilla sweetness becoming more of a gently spiced malt. Warming too. You are also left with a teensy weensy puff of smoke. The finish is very short (meaning the flavors do not linger very long) and so I suppose the serious whisky critic would take some points off for that attribute of this whisky. I am willing to overlook that small deficiency in light of the cheap price for a bottle.

General Impressions
I am quite surprised by this blend. I like it! It is not the best of the economy blended scotch whisky category. That title is reserved for Teacher's Highland Cream. That being said, Cutty Sark is a good, everyday sipper that meets the basic needs of decent scotch. What are those basic requirements? They are: (1) no nasty bite; (2) no taste of unadulterated rubbing alcohol; (3) not bitter, and (4) not grainy.

What is worthy of note is how it is so sweet, yet not cloyingly so. Cloying sweetness is the failure of many economy blended scotch whiskies like Ballantine's Finest, J & B and Bells. To succeed, a blend has to do something with the sweetness and Cutty Sark has managed just that. Sweetness has to go somewhere. It cannot build indefinitely, otherwise it will become overwhelming by the finish.

Cutty Sark, by the time of the finish, transitions to lemons! Lemons as in lemon meringue pie. There's a puff of smoke too. Real pleasant and very quaffable. The bottle just disappears because it is so easy-drinking.

If I were to summarize the Cutty Sark flavor profile in a brief line, something that would be acceptable to Twitter (I don't have an account . . . probably like the only living soul on the planet) I would say: "a sweet, light malt experience, serving up fruit cocktail, with a finish of drying vanilla and lemon with just a touch of smoke."

Cutty Sark on ice!

Cutty Sark on Ice?
I don't recommend it.

If you are just putting your little toe in the lake of scotch whisky, I can understand your preference to add ice to blended scotch whisky. You want your whisky to be smooth, avoid that bite, and certainly tone down the graininess and alcohol taste that is typical of many bottom shelf blended scotch whiskies. Cutty Sark is one of those blends that actually does not need ice added to it for the scotch newbie. It is smooth enough, gentle enough, that you can sip neat. Yeah, newbie, neat. I said neat. You can do it. Just take a little sip and evaluate it. If there was ever a blended scotch whisky to cut your teeth on for the purpose of sipping neat, this is the one!

I find for the serious whisky fan, adding ice will add no benefit to the tasting experience. Ice tends to bring out a raw alcohol and grainy flavor that is not present when enjoyed neat. Ice? Like the Reagan era public advertisement on drugs: "Just say no!"

Value for Money?
Absolutely! A lot of the reviews online, I am told by readers, are negative on Cutty Sark. You know what? I don't care what they think. I happen to like Cutty, but you have to appreciate that a lot of my appreciation has to do with the price point. I am getting great value for money. Some reviewers online tear this blended scotch apart, but are their comments fair? To be fair, please compare apples to apples. To compare Cutty Sark to a single malt and say it misses the mark is like saying a Mercedes handles the road better than a Hyundai. That's not rocket science! When I compare Cutty Sark to other bottom shelf blends in its price point, I am mightily satisfied that I am getting good value for money.

I do not care what the critics think of my affection for Cutty Sark! I like it. It is a simple, straight forward blend that delivers a pleasant lemon/marmalade flavor at a reasoable price that I have no reservation with shelling out for as I sail around the lake this summer.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved. Any and all use is prohibited without permission except for the image of US dollars which can be seen at the flickr account: Tracy Q.

Review: Black Bottle Blended Scotch Whisky

2011-05-03T23:12:00.001-03:00

Spring is here! The birds are chirpin' and the sun actually is warming as it shines down on my pointed head. There may be a nip in the air and my lawn is still recovering from winter kill, but these are merely telltale signs that another season of golf is about to begin!

There are two scotch whiskies that I associate with this time of year. Glenfiddich 12 years and Black Bottle. Why? Many years ago, in the very early Spring, I played a round of golf on a very cold and windy day. When I and some friends shook hands on the 18th hole following our inaugural round of the season, I was spent. Wind burnt face, tired and in dire need of something to warm me up, and not knowing anything about scotch, I ordered the only malt in the clubhouse: Glenfiddich 12 years.

It warmed me up, made me think of pine needles and to this day I can remember it like yesterday. Just one of those moments I have never forgotten. Some people can tell you the price they paid for their first car, not me, finances are a blur, details that do not interest me. Ask me when I first tried this or that scotch and I will give you a level of detail that might make you question whether I have just gone completely over the deep end. We all have our callings. Forensic accountants attention for detail is valued a helluva a lot more by society than mine.

So, because of that first experience, Glenfiddich is invariably the choice malt, an ol' favorite for that first golf outing of the year. But, after the first round, there will be another malt on days of inclement weather. On those wind whipped days, often accompanied by intermittent lashings of rain, it is an Islay that calls my name. Not a single malt, but a blend, a special blend: Black Bottle. In the clubhouse, after 18 holes, I want comfort scotch, warmth and flavor, but not an Islay single malt (ie. Lagavulin) that makes me feel I am wasting it because I am not paying enough attention to it. Hence, Lagavulin and other great Islay are not suitable for such a setting.

Nose
Malty! For an Islay blend, I was expecting more smoke and peat, but what I sniff initially is malt. Not bad at all, just a little surprising. After the pleasant malt flavor, the scotch does reveal peat and smoke, but very restrained. This is not a screaming Archie Bunker in Edith's face smoke and peat scenario. No Ardbeg style nose here. This is subdued. It's Ricardo Montalban smoothly talking about the "soft corinthian leather" in that 1975 Chrysler Cordoba advertisement:

Palate
The smooth Cordoba ride continues onto the palate with a sweet entry of malt followed by soft smoke and gentle peat. Hardly any peat. This is very soft. Extremely quaffable. A bottle that is disappearing far too quickly! A great introductory blend to anyone who wants to learn about Islay scotch or are convinced that they do not like Islays.

Finish
Pencil shavings, malt, cardamon and of course smoke and peat.

General Impressions
In the category of "blended scotch whisky," Black Bottle is outstanding! This scotch whisky has something for everyone. The newbie will delight in the gentle, smooth texture while the scotch nut (like moi) will marvel at the great balance between smoke, peat and sweetness. Damn! this is good! And warming too on those cold blustery days when I walk off the 18th hole!

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved. Any and all use is prohibited without permission except for video cap above that was taken from the 1975 Chrysler Cordoba advertisement as it belongs to the owners of Chrysler. I do not own any rights to the Chrysler Cordoba advertisement which is posted for the purposes of nostalgia and entertainment.

Single Malt Scotch Whisky, Dark Chocolate and Danish Blue Cheese

2011-04-23T00:57:00.004-03:00

A Terrible View!

A View to a Kill!
Murder most foul! As you stare down into your bag of barbecue chips, you commit murder! Murder? Yeah! You kill your palate! Just forget about drinking scotch later in the evening after you wolf down your artificially flavored potatoe chips. Barbecue flavor is the worst. Salt and vinegar is a close second. Sip scotch an hour later and it will burn on the palate. Don't blame the whisky! Blame yourself. The whisky that a malt master or bourbon genius spent years blending, aging and choosing the correct wood for casks is thrown away by you when you recklessly wolf down your bag of chips, and think: "Hmm, I think I'll have a dram." You take a swig, cringe and turn to your buddies: "This tastes like crap!"

Email from a reader . . .
I received an email last week from a guy who was having his friends over and he told me what he planned to serve at his scotch tasting: barbecue potato chips, maybe some nachos with guacamole and smoked hickory flavored almonds. "Anything else you wanna suggest Jason?" I'm thinking to myself, "What am I reading? Munchies to be served at a screening of the Deliverance (1972)? What's wrong with you?" Then my mind goes through a two minute cursing session, that I will spare you, (mainly because my Mother reads this site) before I regain my senses and say to myself: "Do the right thing and email back and politely give some suggestions of how to avert disaster."

At Christmas time, I held a very small scotch tasting at my house. My food pairings were in line with the whisky that was served. Highland Park 25 years was the showcase. After a serving or two neat, I introduced the dark chocolate. Take a sip, and then a bite of dark chocolate. A little bit of heaven just for you!

Highland Park 25 yrs Single Malt & dark chocolate!

Speysider? Highland Malt? Think: Dark Chocolate
Dark chocolate can accentuate and make the taste of some single malts bloom into a wondrous experience. In particular, I would not hesitate to pair it with Oban 14, The Glenlivet 18, Jameson 12, Clynelish 14 and many others. However, there is one caveat! No Islays! Islay scotch and dark chocolate do not work. Keep the dark chocolate for Highland and Speyside malts. Sherried? No problem. Honeyed? Sure, pull the trigger! But, as you probably know, there are Speysiders and Highlanders that are peated and smokey. Ardmore, Old Pulteney, Tamdhu. What about them? Again, avoid dark chocolate and you avert disaster.

Islay? Think Danish Blue Cheese
Got some Bowmore 12? Talisker from the Isle of Skye? Danish blue cheese is the answer! But, don't go cheap. Get the good stuff! Look for "creamy" on the package and the leaders of Danish blue in the market place. I buy a leading brand that comes thinly sliced on wax paper. Just divine. Take a sip of Bowmore, Laphroaig, Ardbeg and chase it with a bite of Danish blue, all I can say is wow!

Danish blue too strong for you? Okay, try gorgonzola, an Italian blue cheese that is slightly milder. Don't like gorgonzola, ok, try English Stilton cheese. Still too much, go for a very old cheddar. Islays and old cheddar (ideally veined with blue cheese) make for a very good food marriage.

Hope these suggestions help!

Thanks for dropping by!

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Review: The Glenlivet 15 years French Oak Reserve

2011-04-14T00:55:00.006-03:00

The Glenlivet 15 years French Oak Reserve Single Malt Scotch

The Glenlivet 15 years French Oak Reserve is one of those single malts that doesn't have all the media buzz and praise that critics heap on other malts like The Macallan 12 years. I guess the consensus among critics is that The Glenlivet 15 is not all that special.

I receive usually five to ten emails a week from readers and often they ask what my opinion of one malt or another is. Invariably, The Glenlivet 15 is raised by more than a few readers. So, naturally I thought I should investigate.

Nose
Very fruity and floral. Roses, cherries and dark berries. Not the most incredible of aromas to rise out of my glass, but that's ok because the price was not the most incredible either.

Palate
Cherry, rich dark plums and of course oak. Creamy. An exotic oak, but not too exotic such that it is weird. All pleasing flavors here. Soft, enjoyable, very drinkable texture. Nice firm mouthfeel to this one.

Finish
Vanilla, more oak and drying a bit. Not super long, but not bad either.

General Impressions
Most, if not all, tasting notes on this single malt have understandably emphasized the oak. The oak is good. But, I taste some sherry, not a great deal, but a little and wanted to know if I was crazy. So, I dropped an email to The Glenlivet and they promptly responded (for which I thank them) and advised that their Master Blender, Sandy Hyslop, does age a very small amount of this spirit in sherry butts of each vatting.

This is not the greatest of single malts, but at the price point, it certainly does deliver. Smooth and drinkable. This malt is widely available, but don't think that because it is so common it can't be good. It is good. Very pleasing. Meets all the benchmarks of what goes into a nice malt. Quite quaffable. Makes a nice gift for the scotch enthusiasist who doesn't want to be overwhelmed with a strong array of flavors. No bite, bitter or offensive flavors will be found in this malt.

Give it a chance, you won't be disappointed by this, reasonably priced, middle of the road malt.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved. Any and all use is prohibited without permission.

Review: Aberfeldy 12 year old Single Highland Malt Scotch Whisky

2011-04-04T23:02:00.002-03:00

Aberfeldy 12 year old Single Highland Malt Scotch Whisky

I must confess that my psyche is burdened by the weight of that old adage that you always get what you pay for. Go cheap on those shoes and they will be pinching your toes like the cheek of a saucy school boy by a nun at Catholic school. Buy 'no-name' cola and you will taste the difference. So, it should not come as any surprise that if I can buy a 12 year old single malt that is cheaply priced, I will have serious reservations.

An acquantance of mine, Frank, had recommended Aberfeldy 12 years as a great value scotch. I was naturally suspicous for the aforementioned reason, but since Frank operated a bar with a couple hundred single malts on the menu, I was willing to take a risk.

Nose
Peaches, honey, peat and heather. No! Those are not terms of endearment. The scotch really displays those aromas.

Palate
Strong honey, pancake syrup, heather, and spice.

Finish
Drying citrus/oak with a gentle spiciness, held in a warm embrace of cigar smoke, and a little vanilla.

General Impressions
The more I drink of this malt, the greater the smoke on the finish. Starts gradually and then becomes builds into a most powerful flavor crescendo, kinda like devouring tandoori chicken . At first, like an idiot I say to the waitress, 'ahh Indian food isn't that hot.' I keep eating and before I know it my Indian waitress smiles and starts delivering the glasses of water, one after another as the curry flavor builds and builds while sweat beads on my forehead.

Aberfeldy 12 does the same in terms of smoke. Not a smoke bomb upon initial tasting, but keep sipping and before you know it, you are wondering who gave you the Cohiba.

Never Heard of Aberfeldy?
Not a well known malt. The distillery is owned by John Dewars and Sons. Aberfeldy is an old distillery dating back to 1898 and was established to ensure a ready supply of single malt to be used in the famous blend, Dewar's White Label. It, along with approximately forty other single malts, is blended into the White Label. Since 90% of single malt production is typically used for blending, the owners of the distillery may not be overly preocuppied with promoting the single malt. This might explain that the bottling of the 12 year old Aberfeldy only began in 1999.

Criticisms?
This malt is rather sweet. It does dry towards the finish though. I could understand someone finding it simply to sweet to their liking.

Aberfeldy 12 years is not sherried. Not in the least. No surprise once you learn that the new make spirit was aged in American oak ex-bourbon casks. Hence, the vanilla sweetness. The lack of sherry in the flavor profile is not what I would consider a flaw. Just an observation for you to consider.

Great Value Play
For the price, you are actually getting a fair bit of flavor complexity. Something not seen in other entry level 12 year old single malts at this price point like Glenfiddich 12 years. The complex weaving of honey and heather upon the palate is surprisingly good for the low price. The value of this malt is particularly obvious if you consider that the 12 year old Dewars blend, Dewars 12 year old "Special Reserve" is a dollar less in price (at least where I live). The 12 year old blend is terrible, whereas this single malt is not. Of course, pricing will depend where you live.

This malt offers great appeal to the novice, yet because of the complexity, it will please the serious malt nut. Do give it a try!

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Review: The MacPhail's Collection Tamdhu 8 year old Single Malt Scotch

2011-03-23T17:27:00.005-03:00

In the past, the Tamdhu Distillery, in the town of Knockando, always produced what I found to be a gentle and pleasing introduction to single malt scotch. A great starting point and for that matter, always enjoyable to return to every once in a while.

The house style if you will is invariably smooth and easy-going. No over powering flavors and usually a rounded, soft mouth feel. Unfortunately, this old Speyside distillery (founded in 1897) was closed by its owner, The Edrington Group, in April 2010. Reasons are invariably vague. The Edrington spokespeople blamed the weak economy at the time and the need to "rebalance its distillation capacity." For further Orwellian double talk akin to a White House press secretary, more Edrington quotes are available in a news article on the closure of Tamdhu by clicking here. The bottom line I figure is its all about saving dollars and cents (and sacking 30 hard working people).

When the Tamdhu distillery was in operation, its output was an ingredient whisky for a number of unremarkable entry level scotch blends like: Famous Grouse, J & B Rare and Cutty Sark. The distillery cranked out a vast sea of 4 million gallons a year. The majority went for blending, but the distillery did bottle some single malt, usually with no age statement, but later there was a ten year old. Tamdhu was never a darling of the whisky critics. Lacked the magic they required in their drams (or maybe their pocket books . . .). But, for the average Joe, Sue and myself, it hit all the right notes. Smooth, pleasing and friendly.

Today, you can probably find Tamdhu single malt scotch still on shelves, but it won't likely be distillery bottlings. There are still some bottles kicking around (because so much was produced), but more than likely what is on the liquor store shelf comes from an independent bottler like Gordon & MacPhail.

Independent bottlers buy a 'new-make spirit' (unaged whisky) produced by a Scottish distillery and make decisions about how to age it. Decisions concerning what casks (American or European Oak), first-fill sherry or ex-bourbon casks, second-fill, etc and of course aging. "Wood management" is, in my opinion, just as important, and sometimes more important than the quality of the new-make whisky. A good independent bottler like Gordon & MacPhail can take the unremarkable new-make whisky of a distillery like Tamdhu and make it into something special if they exercise good wood management.

Nose (undiluted)
Surprisingly soft mist of peat, rich sherry, lots of spices and vanilla. Quite impressive for the price of this malt.

Palate (undiluted)
Sherry, some cranberry and raspberry. Lots of other rich red fruits too.

Finish (undiluted)
Nice sherry again, red licorice and black coffee on the tail end.

General Impressions
I am really impressed with this single malt. I mean really impressed. For a malt that is made up of whiskies as young as eight years, it tastes like the majority of the spirit is much older. Then again the nature of the new make whisky may mature much earlier (ie. 8-10yrs) than others. In any case, this bottle is proof again that age statements do not necessarily denote quality.

Gordon & MacPhail have done an excellent job of wood management with the Tamdhu new-make whisky they received at least 8 years ago. Excellent quality refill sherry casks were used to age the spirit. I know this because I can taste it. The refill sherry casks may have not necessarily been 1st refill, but rather 2nd or some combination of the two. Whatever the case is, the master blender did a terrific job given the price of a bottle of this release.

Criticisms? At this particular price point, not really. Gordon & MacPhail deliver an easy drinking single malt with pleasant sherry and red fruit flavors that slightly dry on the finish. Maybe not overly complex, but this is not meant to be a show stopper or one to drink while you ponder the meaning of life, you ol' soldier of the mind. Hell no! This is a malt for when you need to chill out in the backyard and watch the sunset. This scotch will also work well when you and a buddy debate NFL stats and whether or not the Patriots will make it to the Super Bowl.

Elizabeth Taylor (1932 -2011) in "A Place in the Sun"

I have always felt that Tamdhu never really had a place in the sun to borrow the title of the magnificent film starring the actress Elizabeth Taylor who sadly died today.

Jason Debly

Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved. The writer owns no copyright to the picture of Elizabeth Taylor as she appeared in the 1951 film, A Place in the Sun. The film and still frames are the copyright of Paramount Pictures. The picture from the film is posted for the purposes of nostalgia, education and entertainment.

Review: Gordon & MacPhail 1991 Ardmore Highland Single Malt Scotch

2011-03-13T23:37:00.005-03:00

If you have read some of my other reviews, you probably have noted that I am a big fan of the economy blended scotch, Teacher's Highland Cream. It is ridiculously cheap to buy, but packs a nice punch of flavor. Lots of bacon, smoked oyster and anise flavors. Maybe on the nose kinda like sniffing diesel fuel, but when it hits the palate, it redeems itself. I am not saying Teacher's is the greatest blend, but I am saying it is one of the greatest economy blends, that is at the price you pay. More on price later in this post . . .

One of the core single malts making up Teacher's is Ardmore, an eastern Highland malt that is heavily peated. The peaty nature of Ardmore is quite a departure from other eastern Highland malts (ie. GlenDronach) and frankly malts from the rest of the Highlands. Big peat fires were used to dry the barley and it is readily apparent on the nose before you even sip.

Nose
Lush peat, lemony and the scent of a heavy summer rainfall as you sit by the window. The aromas of this malt really are very expansive, but not overpowering.

Palate
Sweet peat, lush texture, oily and of course smokey. The smoke is recognizable for anyone familiar with Teacher's. Mid to late palate is greeted by a lot of ginger and some oak.

Finish
You are left with lingering flavors of salt, brine, more smoke and that ginger.

General Impressions
Tastes like ex-bourbon casks were used in the aging of this malt, though I cannot say for sure, as I have not been in contact with the distiller. However, what I can say for sure is that there is a total absence of sherry flavors in this single malt. In a nutshell, the flavor profile is peat, smoke and ginger. A lot of ginger in the mid to late palate that moves onto the finish. I find the ginger a little too much.

There are other flavors present like black licorice (think ouzo or arak). This licorice flavor is echoed in the Teacher's bottling along with that signature Ardmore smoke.

Lesson in Economics
Drinking Gordon & MacPhail's 1991 Ardmore brings to mind a first year university economics class. Specifically, the concept of opportunity cost. You know the concept regardless of whether or not you ever studied economics. Opportunity cost is the other choice you would have made instead of the one you did. For example, you decide to invest $10,000 in the stock market. Your opportunity cost would be what you would have done with the money if you had not plunked it in the market. If you would have bought a bond paying 4% interest, then your opportunity cost for playing the market is the loss of 4% interest on that money.

My opportunity cost with respect to Gordon & MacPhail's Ardmore is what I might have done with the $70 if I had not bought this particular bottle, and that is what stings for me. I could have had a bottle of Talisker 10 for $8 less! Glenfiddich 15 yrs was $13 cheaper! And the killer! Glenlivet 18 yrs for $2 cheaper!

The price point of the Gordon & MacPhail bottling of Ardmore will vary depending on where you live of course. But, in general, I suspect that it is higher than you should pay. Ardmore distillery also has it's own releases that are more reasonably priced. Check 'em out.

Ardmore is a pleasant enough single malt, but it is not stellar and therefore Gordon & MacPhail should price it accordingly. If you can buy Ardmore either from this independent bottler (Gordon & MacPhail) or from the distillery (they have a few bottlings) at say $35 US, then there is no problem. The trouble with the bottle I picked up was the price. Tamdhu and Aberfeldy 12 years are priced a lot lower, but of similar quality. So, I guess what I am saying is you need to get Ardmore at the right price. If so, then everything is ok.

I know I tend to obsess about the price of scotch, but hey, like you, I am paying for it out of my own pocket and I want value! Not getting it here at $70 a bottle. The 1991 Ardmore is smooth, inoffensive, pleasant enough, but lacking the complexity and wow factor to justify the price that Gordon & MacPhail demand. For that reason, I cannot recommend this particular bottling at this high price. Ardmore is a pleasant single malt, but you have to get it at the right price. That did not happen here.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Review: The Peat Monster Malt Scotch Whisky

2011-03-03T18:13:00.005-04:00

The Peat Monster Malt Scotch Whisky by Compass Box Whisky

The Compass Box Whisky Company is not a distiller of scotch whisky. What they do is buy the scotch of other distilleries, barrel it, age it and blend the spirit to their own particular recipes.

The Peat Monster pictured above targets that segment of the scotch drinking market that prefers Islay to Speyside malts. This particular bottling is a vatted malt meaning it is a blend of single malts only. Which single malts? Ardmore, Caol Ila and Laphroaig. Note that only two of the three are Islay malts. Ardmore is a highland malt and a peated one at that.

I was given this bottle by a co-worker. James explained that a friend of his wife picked up the bottle at the local liquor store. Had a sip and was disgusted. She considered it vile and amongst the worst stuff she ever had. James tried it and considered it to be awful too. So, here I am, with a bottle that two people consider to be terrible, a monster if you will, as the title of this blended malt suggests. Let's just see how monstrous it is . . .

Nose (undiluted)
Smells like the rubber Steve McQueen was laying down in the movie Bullitt, but in a good way. It's rubber, but not bad rubber if that makes any sense?

The aromas offered up by this single malt include major smoke and peat action. Like a massive seaside bonfire that's a little out of control and suddenly the wind changes direction, blowing in your face. Yeah, a lungful of smoke. As I poured this malt into my glass, the room was infused with massive smoke. Wife annoying smoke! Dog house smoke! Watching old war movies in the basement smoke because your presence is not welcome elsewhere in the house!

Palate (undiluted)
Sweet peat and malt begin this number. Smoke and seaweed appear like a Mac truck, with the high beams on, appearing in your rear view mirror at night. While it is bottled at 46% abv, it is not nasty. No awful bite here. No bland alcohol flavor. The flavors of the sea and air are well integrated. It is not spicy. Just a lumbering, rounded taste of smoke, peat, sea salt and sweet malt.

Finish (undiluted)
You have a long, slightly dry finish of smoke with menthol, peat and heavy sea salt. Well done!

General Impressions
I am not a peat and smoke nut, but I must say this malt was a nice surprise. I found that if I added water, it improved a bit more. One has to be careful not to add too much water though. You can easily ruin it if you are too liberal with the water. I suggest a teaspoon of water to a double pour.

This malt is firmly in the Islay flavor camp if you will. Very smokey, peat heavy, and maybe a little rubbery in the background, but again in a good way. Since it is an Islay style malt, I think comparisons to other Islay malts is fair. I place this squarely in the vicinity of Bowmore 12 years in terms of quality.

Criticisms?

Don't worry about the rubber. It's there on the nose and on the palate, but only faintly and strangely works well with the overall flavor profile.

I suppose someome might complain the flavor profile is not overly complex. There is some complexity. What I mean is the flavors do weave together in an interesting fashion, but not overly intricate. For that reason, this is below the great Islays like Lagavulin 16 years, Caol Ila and some others. But, you have to remember, those are single malts and this is a blended or pure malt. Of course, those single malts I referred to are also a lot more expensive. It's hard to knock this bottle.

I think James and his wife's friends simply are not fans of smoke and peat dominated malts. If you too are more a of Speyside honey and cinnamon fan, to the exclusion of smoke and peat, then this is not for you either.

For those of you who like Islay malts, The Peat Monster will not disappoint. While not a true peat monster in the tradition of Ardbeg 10 years or Laphroaig Quarter Cask, it is nevertheless a wee peat monster that may not scare you, but will certainly amuse you.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

P.S.: If you haven't seen Bullitt starring Steve McQueen, then do it! Pictured above were frames from one of the most influential car chase scenes in the history of cinema.

Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved.

Poster owns no copyright to images taken from the 1968 Warner Brothers film Bullitt, which is posted for the purposes of nostalgia, education and entertainment.

Review: Talisker 10 Single Malt Scotch

2011-02-17T23:15:00.003-04:00

Talisker 10 years Single Malt Scotch

Beware of Bars
The first time I tried Talisker 10 years single malt scotch was in a fairly posh bar. You know. Ground floor of a hotel, adjacent to a fine steak house. It was dimly lit, dark wood panelling, leather wing-tip chairs, a long bar that was polished to perfection, behind which stood a smartly dressed bartender.

The evening was young and I and two other guys from work were exhausted. Drained from all day negotiations, the only order of the evening was to talk about anything, so long as it was not work. For a drink, I ordered Talisker 10. Never had it before. Expected a lot and was disappointed. Just tasted kinda like brine, sea water, pepper and smoke. I suppose it was malty and not poor to taste. But not stellar either. What happened?

Months and years later, subsequent tastings of Talisker proved far more enjoyable. This lead me to conclude that the bar probably had the bottle open for a long time. So, moral of the story: beware of bars. I have been in bars that purport to specialize in scotch whisky only to find many bottles with an inch of spirit left in them, sitting for a year or more resulting in a considerably diminished flavor profile. Oxygen is the enemy of whisky. Once you open that bottle, you're on the clock. Ideally, you want to finish the bottle within six months. I find that after the six month point you are pushing it unless the bottle is 3/4 full (in which case you have another 6 months to finish it).

If the bartender reaches for the whisky with two fingers left in it, I will tell him to drop it and get me a new one.

Nose (undiluted)
Refined smoke. Lemon bread. Very enjoyable.

Palate (undiluted)
Light bodied. Sweet malted barley followed by billowing smoke and banana. And finally the peppercorns appear.

Finish (undiluted)
Drying sea salt, slight dulse and brine.

General Impressions
Tired of the Speyside honey/cinammon flavor profile? If so, try Talisker. Very unique and at first might throw you for a curve, but you will think about it and come back for more. A classic if there ever was one.

I have noticed that upon opening the bottle, this scotch is quite peppery, but that quality is tamed by exposure to air. Taming this lion of a scotch is fine. He still has his claws, so long as you tame the bottle completely within six months! Highly recommended to novices and the serious scotch nut. Reasonable price too. Often can be found on sale too.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

P.S. For another review on this site conducted by a serious Talisker nut, click here.

Review: Highland Park 25 years Single Malt Scotch Whisky

2011-02-10T01:36:00.008-04:00

Ever see the 1969 classic western, True Grit? A trusting man is murdered by his drunk and degenerate gambler, hired hand. The trusting man's daughter, Mattie Ross, a plucky fourteen year old farm girl, goes to the town of her father's murder seeking justice. Justice is elusive. The murderer has fled to lawless territory and the law seems to be ineffectual. Mattie hires an aging, boozing US marshal, Rooster Cogburn (portrayed by John Wayne) because he has "true grit." Great movie and brilliantly re-made in 2010 by Joel and Ethan Coen. Pictured above and below is actress, Hailee Steinfeld, as Mattie Ross in the 2010 remake.

Both films got me thinking about 'true grit' and how elusive it really is in the world we live in. How many people do you know display such depth of character? I can name two people in my entire life and one of them has passed away. It seems today, especially in the workplace, that integrity, justice and fairness are jingoisms touted, but rarely present.

So, what does this have to do with Highland Park 25 year old single malt scotch whisky? Simple. In my crazy mind, I think it displays true grit. How is that for a ridiculous segue into a whisky review?

Great single malt has character of a rare quality like great people you may encounter in your lifetime. Age statements are unimportant. It is character. Talisker 10 is a mere 10 years old, but has a depth of character far beyond its years, much like the young Mattie Ross. Other single malts are very old, and so we assume great character when it may not be there, much like elderly people we know who are frankly not good people. So, just because Highland Park 25 years is a very aged single malt, we have no guarantees. We have only the hope that with all that time, it evolved into something worthy of admiration.

Nose (undiluted)
Damp Fall leaves, exotic kitchen spices that hint of India and Thailand, and cold sea air mixed with peat. Restrained but undoubtedly powerful.

Palate (undiluted)
Explodes upon the palate! Very intense, concentrated, aromatic flavors of this heavy bodied single malt rain down upon you like the vengeance of God. Fear and trembling. This is very powerful. While a heavy mouthfeel is present, the flavors are, nevertheless, well defined. You can easily pick out chewy butterscotch, spiced pineapple, dried apricot, fine oak, spicy Cohiba cigar, and marmalade as they fill your palate. The dominant flavor towards the end is a Florida orange.

Finish (undiluted)
Long! Wood smoke and malty cinnamon becomes a poweful orange rind and ancient oak that demands your complete attention. An awe inspiring example of an extremely masterful single malt.

Add Water?
Highly recommended! Highland Park 25 is 48.1% abv. It needs water! It is just too pure, too powerful. Kinda like trying to look at the sun or the face of God.

How much water? Pour a double (1.5 oz) and add a teaspoon of distilled water. Adding this amount of water, however small you may consider it, truly reminds me of what makes scotch magical. It's ability to change so much with so little.

Nose (diluted)
More peat and sea air is released. However, the damp leaves are still present and pleasing your nose.

Palate (diluted)
Initially becomes sweeter, gentler, more loving. Much less explosive upon tasting. Nevertheless, still powerful. Mid-palate presents much more wood smoke and a rich, malty taste that is quite mesmerizing. Waxed heather, hazelnut and black ground pepper too.

Finish (diluted)
Super long finish that delivers flavors of lime, freshly chopped mint and cardamon.

General Impressions
First of all, this is not a whisky for a scotch newbie! Stay away. It will turn you off to scotch, and that is something I don't want to happen.

It is so powerful, that upon your first sip, you will begin to uncontrollably salivate. A huge mistake with this scotch would be committed by taking a big slug. Take only the tiniest of sips. I mean really tiny. There is such kick to this whisky. Hence, the need for water. Water is important for another reason. It brings out more interesting flavors. I definitely prefer this scotch with a teaspoon of water. Makes all the difference.

Gift?
Yes, most definitely! A great gift for someone who knows scotch whisky and therefore can appreciate it.

Price Point
Price varies depending upon where you are. In any event, it is always expensive, but worth it. A truly special gift for the scotch connoisseur. Highly recommended!

Peers
In the 20 plus year single malt category the question will come up as to how this malt ranks against others. Highland Park 25 ranks very high. Always popular at scotch tastings. Is it the best? Well, now it is a question of whether or not BMW is better than Mercedes. While I think it is great, I think the Balvenie 21 year old Portwood has a bit more complexity and a flavor profile that I find more nuanced. In any case, Highland Park 25 beats the hell out of Glenfiddich 21 and a host of others. In conclusion, it exhibits undeniable "True Grit!"

Alternative Opinion
Don't trust me? Try Chip Dykstra of The Rum Howler who has agreed to review this single malt and post his astute impressions.

Cheers!

Jason Debly

Copyright © Jason Debly, 2009-2011. All rights reserved except for images of True Grit (2010) which are posted for the purposes of nostalgia, entertainment and education. Those images belong to Paramount Pictures.