The Malt Impostor

The Inchgower 29 Single Cask (3 cl MoM* mini)

2012-03-13T23:46:00.000-04:00

[This is one Master of Malt sent us just to get us to review it for them (see our Disclaimer here). Our thanks to Natalie and Master of Malt for the sample.]

Tasting notes:
     The Inchgower 29 pours into the glass like a Darren Aronofsky movie being screened in a pub. No, the pub is not a hipster "dive" with angsty bespectacled 29 year-olds wearing bowlers, talking about the glorious fellowship--excuse us, person-ship of the Occupy Bahamas movement. (Didn't hear about that one? That's because they only occupied a beach.) This pub is a dark place, but goddamn if the Inchgower doesn't smell like swan wings, Black Swan wings, or maybe just Buffalo wings in a blue cheese sauce AND NO CELERY. I hate celery.
     I confess, I've been riffing for fun, but really, the Inchgower 29 does smell like actual swan wings, especially if the swan was splashing about in a pond of lemon pepper sauce with spatterdocks (that's "yellow pond lilies" to you, Stephen) dotting the surface. It's créance (that's "leather training leash" for you, John) on a peregrine falcon, especially if the falcon was swooping through the Museum of Dried Fruits in Loulé, Portugal.
     After that nose, I was expecting duck soup or Tom Kha Gai, but instead found grapefruit tarted up with grenadine and a sprinkling of clown tears. It's like snorting sweet tarts crushed to powder on a glass coffee table and railing against the system. (Get it? Snorting? Railing? John? Stephen? Anyone? Bueller?) It's like drinking a ten billion pound note from a failed country whose currency value is in freefall, floating in the virtual cloud of inflationary balloons. Never before could I say that I'd drunk ~~a banana daiquiri~~, a veritable banana ~~republic, a banana oligarchy,~~ ~~a banana nation-state,~~ ~~a banana~~ gynocracy in a glass of scotch. I'm not sure I can now, either. Or did I just?
      The finish is like the aftershock of chewing on a bitter palm leaf that was pickled in vintage lemon juice (1985, a good year for lemons) and jarred in a stoppered Lalique vinegar cruet. Bitter, but not like an old spinster, but rather like 87% cocoa chocolate. The rich life, not sweetened.

Rating:

--On the scale of fish-eating birds--
The Inchgower 29 Single Cask Master of Malt is Nigel, the pelican in Finding Nemo--He saves Marlin, is pivotal to the plot, and voiced by Oscar™-winner Geoffrey Rush. What more could you want in a pelican--or a whisky?

--Bill

*--Master of Malt (Inchgower 29 Year Old Single Cask)
Check out other Master of Malt Drinks by the Dram here.
Check out Master of Malt's Facebook page here and their Twitter feed here.

The Nth 2012 Ultimate Whisky Experience: Stephen's review

2012-03-11T23:58:00.013-04:00

This past weekend, I had the ridiculously indulgent pleasure of attending the Nth 2012 Ultimate Whisky Experience in Las Vegas. It was so indulgent, in fact, that it's taken me a fully week of penance, alms to the poor, and hanging out with lepers to recover enough to write about it--and I'm an atheist. Not only did I have the chance to sample a huge variety of whiskies I'd never tried before, but I also failed to get to another huge variety of other whiskies that I'd never tried. And when I did a back-of-the-napkin tally of the ages of the various whiskies I actually did try, I realized that I'd partaken of at least several lifetimes' worth of years of whisky maturation before the weekend was out.

The first night of festivities featured a special event (really, a seminar) on one of several interesting topics of my choice (one on Investing in Scotch, one on the recreation of The Shackleton Whisky, and one on cigars and whisky pairings). I chose the one on Scotch whisky as an investment, not because I have the disposable income or savvy to invest in bottles of IGS (Investment Grade Scotch), but because I knew about the Shackleton and just wasn't that interested in getting smelly so early in the evening. But nonetheless, Andy Simpson's presentation was absolutely fascinating and made me think long and hard about trying to cobble together some extra dough to put into a couple of choice bottles.

Immediately after the special events came the main event. It ran from 5:30-9:00 and the room was not terribly full or crowded, even though the event sold out. What that meant was that unlike some other whisky events, there was a lot of room to move and a lot of time to linger over the amazing whiskies, many of which were rare, limited editions, or 21 years old and up (with somewhere around a dozen 40 year-old whiskies available, many as super pours). Everyone also had a lot of access to the brand ambassadors and whisky folks. In that vein, it was great to see Mitch Bechard from Glenfiddich, Jonathan Bray from Purple Valley, the inimitable Richard Paterson, and Scott Tallon at the Bruichladdich table. It was also tremendous to meet Mahesh and Mit Patel (the geniuses behind the UWE), Sam Simmons from Balvenie (finally!), John DuPont from the Edrington Group, George Grant from Glenfarclas, and many others. And to give you some flavor of the feel of the main event, Richard Paterson was the quintessential showman he always is, but he ended up firing off confetti cannons at least four different times throughout the night as he joyously walked individuals through his whiskies.   Clocking in at four Paterson confetti cannons, this event ranks as legendary: I have it on good authority that there have been at most two five Paterson confetti cannon nights--and rumor has it that Paterson's wedding night was one of them [Bill: That's what she said!].
     Whisky highlights for me included (and this is just to name a few) the Balvenie Tun 1401, the Balvenie 30, the HP 30 (one of my all-time favorites), an Ardbeg from 1972 (one of my super pours), the Black Adder Smoking Islay, the Glenrothes Editor's Cask, the Octomore Comus, the Glenfarclas 40, and the Sirius Dalmore 1967. But this Impostor had a hard time keeping his head from spinning during the event--not from the alcohol, but rather from the dizzying array of amazing and rare whiskies on offer.
   The dinner afterwards was tasty and welcome, though some of my fellow participants were not as satisfied with it as I was. I would have preferred the dinner occur between the special event/seminar and the main event, just to have better opportunity to lay down a base layer of food, but I could imagine how the participants have a hard time dealing with their anticipation of the main event if they'd done it that way.

   The Saturday master classes started at noon and ran until 5:30pm, and they gave me an opportunity to try many great whiskies that I hadn't been able to get to the night before. They also gave me the opportunity to taste a range of whiskies from a given brand or bottler up against each other. For those of you considering this event in the future, be advised: you need to sign up for these (and pay for each one) in advance. I say that because most sold out, and many good ones sold out before I realized I needed to do that. Nonetheless, I attended tremendous master classes by Springbank, Classic Malts, Fettercairn, and Duncan Taylor. Each of these included very special and very old and hard to find whiskies: the Classic Malts one included the Johnnie Walker Blue King George V, the Glen Spey 21, and the Lagavulin 12; the Fettercairn one included the 24, 30, and 40 year old expressions; and the Duncan Taylor included the Black Bull 40, a 1969 Bunnahabhain, a 1965 Tomatin, a 1967 Strathisla--and they even let me try a 1969 Macallan afterwards. The money I spent on these master classes was well worth it.
     Finally, I should note that the people I met at this event who were participants like me tended to occupy a somewhat different part of the whisky world than I am used to meeting at whisky events and festivals. I say "somewhat" different because there were bloggers (William Meyers), whisky writers (Dominic Roskrow, Richard Carleton Hacker--and William Meyers fits in here, too), whisky enthusiasts (Matthew Lurin--and Bill Meyers), whisky saloon proprietors and advisors (Bill Thomas, Harvey Fry, and Roberto Cofiño of Jack Rose), and whisky retailers in attendance (Joe Howell from Federal Wine and Spirits in Boston and Pat McCarthy from Bayway World of Liquor). But the difference was that many more of the participants had an interest in or were seriously involved with whisky collecting. Talking with these folks gave me a new perspective on the whisky world--in no small part because these whisky lovers, more than most, put their money where their mouths are.
     Overall, the event was fantastic, and the offerings represent a great value for the whisky lover, even at the High Roller level, if you can afford it. I never thought I'd say that, but I spoke with a few of those who had bought the higher level tickets, and they all raved about how much they thought the event was worth it--and they offered me arguments for their position.   And on the merits, I'm convinced.


   --Stephen

The Glenfiddich Cask of Dreams (200 ml mini of dreams)

2012-03-07T23:59:00.010-05:00

Tasting notes:
The eponymous wood-staved, easily rolled vessels here are part of a brilliant marketing campaign aimed, in this case, at the U.S. market: In celebration of its 125th anniversary, Glenfiddich rolled 11 new American oak casks through major cities in the U.S., encouraging folks to inscribe their dreams on the outside of the casks as they did. Then Glenfiddich civil-unioned (given that it's an election year, we thought it better to ~~be politically correct~~ ~~be politically neutral~~ ~~take the most ridiculously contrived "middle position" possible~~ throw a funny word in there) a range of whiskies, each aged at least 14 years in American oak, for three months in the aforementioned dreamy casks. With a full retail price of $119, John suggested they rename it "Cask of Penury," but then I pointed out that one can easily find it for less than that--at the moment at least--and that if he didn't have so many different alimony payments to make, perhaps he would be able to afford some finer whiskies.
On the nose, there's the classic Glenfiddich (or "G-Fidd" as it's known in our 'hood) signature, perhaps even the specific variant of it found in the G-Fidd 15 year-old Solera Reserve. Then, after a moment, that signature becomes a veritable sledgehammer of oak, followed, improbably enough, by notes of fig newtons and honey slides atop lemon poppyseed muffins...topped with rainbow sprinkles. The G-Fidd signature is prominent on the mouth, too. [Bill: Word that, dawg] But other flavors play here as well, like those of eucalyptus cupcakes with tarragon and a little sage, lovingly crafted by the fat fingers of a Bavarian baker named Hans, an acupuncture session employing pine needles, a lemon artillery shell landing on the tongue, and perhaps a simple sachet of bouquet garni. [Bill: The lemon is honeyed. No, it's the zest, and my tongue is a microplane grater... John: That's what she said. Me: Hopefully she didn't say that. Now do you mind? I need to finish this review!] The mouth is lovely--you can almost hear it whispering, as it surely did to the G-Fidd crew: "If you bottle it, they will come." [Bill: And if you drink it, you will, too.] On the finish, there's cinnamon extract and hints of wine that rich, somewhat bored foodies decided to make at the Crushpad after scoring some proprietary barbera grapes in Napa. And the finish is beautifully
balanced--so much more balanced than any of my dreams seem to be. In short, this is a true reference malt, complete with a deckled edge, vellum binding, and marbled end paper. You'll want to come back to it again--you know, just for reference.

Rating:

--On the scale of street names for classic Scotch malt whiskies--
The Glenfiddich Cask of Dreams is G-Fidd--In this case, the name is so good, it just might stick and eventually work its way into popular consciousness. Or at least we hope so. And it's certainly better than the street name for Dalwhinnie (D-Whine). And it's also better than Cú Dhub (Q-Doo)--but then again, what isn't? Word to yo mutha.

--Stephen

--Our thanks to Mitch Bechard and Katie Han and the good people at Glenfiddich for the sample!

The St. George Single Malt Whiskey [Lot 10] (200 ml apothe-carry-it-with-you bottle)

2012-02-29T22:04:00.002-05:00

Tasting notes:
Wow, there’s a singular smell on the nose. A suggestion of locker room, a whisper of artificial lemon, and the unmistakable appurtenances of white-chocolate covered Funyuns™. We also get the wooden stick of a caramel apple turned into a pistol by the imagination of a bullied seven-year-old. The apple notes on this dram make us think of little, 5 oz. juice boxes filled with whiskey so that you can take them along on play dates and picnics. (Look, if you can find great beer in cans, why not wonderful whiskey in cartoony juice boxes? Oh, and with flexible Glencairn straws glued to the back!) Such might account for the aggression of that pistol-waving boy but as I look again, I see that I was wrong. He’s conducting an orchestra. He wants more from the apples sautéed in butter, or so it appears from the upward-arcing sweep of both arms. And now his gestures are gentler. He’s telling the flames to get lower, lower, lower; he wants the thinnest of thin blue lines to be barely visible under the cast iron pan. Yes, he’s happy now as he straightens himself and uses the stick baton to signal the entry of mulling spices. First cardamom and then allspice. Now cinnamon in greater numbers, but with room for orange peel and cloves. They are all in harmony as the restless flames are brought back up. Our maestro beams with exultation as the blue flame fingers rise up, up, up until they are tipped with fiery-yellow nail polish blurred by shimmering waves of heat--
--just how many of these little juice boxes have I had? Or did the good people at St. George drop in a little of their absinthe into this batch to tart it up
in mind-bending ways? On the mouth it’s incredible. I’ve got a Poprocks feeling around my tongue, enough to remind me of the urban legend that Life® cereal’s Mikey died from too many poprocks (autopoprocksasphyxiation?). This rêverie unfolds with more nostalgia, this time for early adulthood. It’s like watching Field of Dreams with a soon to be ex-girlfriend. The finish—of the whiskey and the relationship—recalls nothing if not ionized butterscotch in a steel mess kit (long story). But then the whiskey changes. Candied fruit in a silver tray. Hard tack dipped in molasses. How can they get such complexity in this whiskey? I think they’re dropping freeze-dried single malt cubes into the bottles. Each cube--which look like black tar heroin, if you must know--presses signature upon signature into the dram, like those on an LCD pad at the checkout counter, a veritable 21st Century palimpsest for future textual scholars to decipher.

Rating:

--On the scale of awesome "10"s--
The St. George Single Malt Whiskey Lot 10 is Bo Derek--Not as classic or as apparently universally applicable as The Ten Commandments (but also not nearly so dated), Bo was nonetheless smoking. Plus, she helped popularize cornrows and slo-mo beach cinematography.

--John

--Our thanks to Ellie and Lance Winters at St. George Spirits for the sample!

The Classic Cask 1992 Glen Moray (50 ml Zim the Great* potion bottle)

2012-02-26T23:59:00.001-05:00

Tasting notes:
The Glenmoray 1992 opens light and flowery, with tiny drips of honey suckle. I cooly appraise it, and not taken in, reply with salty hibiscus crisps folded up in aluminum packets. The Glenmoray 1992 takes my measure, and ups the ante with tarragon-infused olive oil, and then manages to pull the oil back off the table while leaving the tarragon infusion. "Neat trick," I mutter, nervously fingering my cherished chert tankard artfully carved with tasteful tableaux of caber-tossing Scots. I raise the stakes, without pulling up stakes, with pale meringue whipped up by a dengue-fever-infected merengue-dancing ingenue (who looked like a young Catherine Deneuve). Then the Glenmoray 1992 braces, for evidently nothing will hold back the sprinkling, like the running of the bulls, of the flecks of black licorice. I permit myself a smile. The Glenmoray 1992, not batting an eyelash (well, I guess it doesn't have any eyelashes), unleashes a small, precise flash of heat; a veritable mini-anti-tastebud device fashioned by an impish forest elf. In response, I throw the book of the Jenever conventions at the Glenmoray 1992, and say, drily, "Gin." But there are no juniper berries to be found (nor any other berries, either), only the ripply pineapple Life Savers™ we are using as chips. I rake 'em in like an all-star, sniffing my fingertips and the green velvet tablecloth.

Rating:

--On the scale of events improbably called "sporting" that are watched by millions of people--
The Glenmoray 1992 is the World Series of Poker--We all dream of getting rich by our wits and inscrutability combined with Lady Luck, but we're all happy to lose our shirts to an opponent like the Glenmoray 1992 (even though I won, because even I know that the Glenmoray 1992 isn't alive).

--Bill

*--Our thanks to Jerry Zimmerman (and Aron Silverman and the good folks at The Classic Cask) for passing on this sample to us. In our book, that makes him Great. Slàinte, Jerry!

The High West Double Rye (200 ml disposable glass flask)

2012-02-23T23:58:00.001-05:00

Tasting notes:
The nose on this rye whiskey is somewhere between the smell of a mostly empty microwave popcorn bag that's been recently abused by high school dropouts trying to huff 100% organic glue through it and that of feet pulled from a pair of World War I boots after weeks in the trenches and then promptly drizzled with caramelized sugar cane. This singular juxtaposition led us to wonder aloud: "What makes it a 'double' rye?". An initial answer came from the latter end of that spectrum: "They put their feet in it?" Now, while that answer is funny, we knew it couldn't be right (and wasn't exactly descriptive of this dram). We should note that we never read up on such things ahead of time, mostly out of fear that doing so might undermine our status as impostors, but this flavor profile on the nose had us looking it up. While Bill tapped away at his google machine, we moved on to the mouth and found another surprising juxtaposition of flavors present: green or unripened rye grain on the one hand and cough syrup for cows stored in elmwood barrels on the other. And the finish is simultaneously sweet and spicy: a cheap lemon sucker from the bank dropped in the corner of an Indian spice market (so what if I don't have any kids? I can still get a sucker from the bank teller...). As it turns out, the source of these juxtapositions is the pairing of a 2 year-old whiskey sporting a mash of 95% rye with a 16 year old whiskey with 53% rye, 37% corn, and 10% ~~feet~~ something else.

But don't take all of this to mean that the flavor profiles here are overwhelming, because they are not: the preceding represents our findings after focusing our surgically and pharmaceutically enhanced malt senses on this dram. Kinda like an art critic being able to pick up the sense of foreboding in the patternless drips of a Jackson Pollock or the deep rumble of the echoes of eternity represented in the fields of color in a Rothko. What's that? You say what art critics do is b.s. and that that stuff isn't in there? Suit yourself. We hope you enjoy your shallow and meaningless existence. But to return to the whiskey, let's be clear: if you look closely, there's a lot going on here, and not all of it will be to everyone's liking (if by "everyone", you mean "Bill"). But if you don't try to do the equivalent of hearing the distant rumbling in a Rothko, you'll find that this rye whiskey is pretty damn solid and quite drinkable: Don Draper would chug this stuff and would love it, even if it were his 10:30am hair-of-the-dog first drink of the day.

Rating:

--On the scale of unlikely pairings/juxtapositions--
The High West Double Rye is Reed College's infamous 1980's S&M/heroin subculture--Two great tastes that, as it turns out, taste great together, but who would've ever guessed that one in advance?

--Stephen

*--Our thanks to Troy Karnes and the great people at High West for the sample!

The Springbank CV (100 ml alchemist's mini)

2012-02-18T13:40:00.001-05:00

Tasting notes:
What does this “CV” mean? Does it indicate 105 proof in Roman numerals? No, it’s a standard 46% ABV. Is it “Cape Verde”? No, this is a Campbeltown whisky. Is it “choking victim”? Certainly not, though I will come back to this momentarily. Perhaps it’s “Chikungunya virus”? Oh, who am I kidding? No distiller would release a spirit named for a mosquito-born virus. It turns out that the CV stands for “curriculum vitae,” which is more pretentious than anything I could have imagined. Well, now that the committee is convened, let us subject this candidate to an oral defense. The front matter of the thesis is all there, along with a distinctive introduction and literature review: lemony, reedy, light smoke and oils. Think grapefruit and pear sour patch kids darkened by Zamboni exhaust. As I take in the body of the work, it’s really amazing. Forget awarding the Ph.D. degree, I shall have to recommend this expression for tenure! Peppery parmesan biscuits eaten with omega-3 fish oil capsules lining the gums. Eel ceviche in small shot glasses left too long in the sun. Lest you think the author of this marvelous thesis is hopeless in the classroom, the reviews on Ratemymalt.com are glowing. What’s more, at least two students give it a chili pepper to indicate that they are hot for teacher. (In case you’re wondering, it’s a Peter pepper pressed in parchment paper perspiring pinpricks of waxy oil with enough scovillicious bite that you’ll remember it in the morning.) As we turn to the conclusion, appendices, and back matter, our enthusiasm deepens. Clearly, our candidate can do anything, even reproduce the feeling of a cactus being pulled down your throat by a vengeful homunculus.

Rating:

--On the scale of improbable titles of academic works--
The Springbank CV is Better Never to have Been: the Harm of Coming into Existence--It's certainly better (though arguably less improbable) than Is the Rectum a Grave?: And Other Essays. But don't get me wrong: I'm not saying that the Springbank CV shouldn't exist. On the contrary, I hold that its degree of excellence is comparable to the degree of improbability of a book-length argument in favor of non-existence. The splendid U. of Springbank has many wonderful drams in its faculty and this up-and-comer is right at home among them.

--John

--Thanks to Andrew Shand and Preiss Imports for the sample! Slàinte!

The McGibbon's Provenance 1990 Macallan (50 ml Zim the Great* potion bottle)

2012-02-15T23:43:00.000-05:00

Tasting notes:
     The McGibbon's Provenance 1990 Macallan is a curious dram. At first, one senses no nose, much as the retro-famous fractal-precursor mathematician Gaston Julia lost his nose in World War I and wore a leather mask for the rest of his life. Yes, the Macallan 1990 came long after WWI, and although the image looks photoshopped, I am unaware of a digital aroma-rizing application for cropping odors.
     Breaking with good malt protocol by wedging the neck of the 50ml tamponetic vial into my nose resulted in two important things. First, it guaranteed that neither Stephen nor John would want any more of the dram after my "nosing" was a fait accompli. Second, it revealed a refined, buttery, milkweed wisp, like a lucky dragonfly licking Pippa Middleton's cheek. If, that is, her cheek and that lucky little bastard of a dragonfly were coated with clarified butter and stuck in my nose. Not making much sense, am I?
     Sliding the vial up the other nostril like a coke-mad disco-era record producer cramming a rolled Benjamin up his nose in Studio 54 felt a lot like an ENT insinuating a strange pair of pliers made out of forged pig iron into my sinuses in an intubation gone awry. After that sort of surgery, showers of phlox and hand-washed silken undergarments on parade. In my nose. Sort of. Odd.
     After wiping the bottle neck clean, and relying on the 46% abv to kill any unwanted bacteria, I finally tasted it. Explosively incredible; an origami swan turned into a 1:200 scale reproduction of the Schwarzwald. A kaleidoscope of grapefruits, kiwis, and guavas juggled with dried roses saved from a wedding by an utlra-limber contortionist during a 4th of July parade. Majestic, like being clocked upside the head by Mike Tyson in his prime.
     Trumpets with mutes and saxophones with Icebreaker wool socks stuffed into the bell herald the finish, which mysteriously jilted me, and left me like Dickens' The Mystery of Edwin Drood, or Schubert's Symphony No. 8 in B minor, or teakwood deck furniture purchased from a gasohol-powered van parked in a shady suburban neighborhood. That is to say, unfinished except for the clanging as juice cans clatter down the gentle rise.

Rating:

--On the scale of wonderful things that bulge in the middle and tail off at both ends--
The McGibbon's Provenance 1990 Macallan is the Gaussian distribution bell curve--That is to say, it's fundamental to the study of...most everything, and if you're lucky, you'll be one of the 6σ-people who get to drink the dram.

--Bill

*--Our thanks to Jerry Zimmerman (and Aron Silverman and the good folks at The Classic Cask) for passing on this sample to us. In our book, that makes him Great. Slàinte, Jerry!

The Single Malt & Scotch Whisky Extravaganza Spring 2012 Schedule

2012-02-12T23:13:00.001-05:00

Our long-time readers know that we're HUGE fans of the Single Malt & Scotch Whisky Extravaganzas, and we make a point of attending any and all of them we can. Details of past events can be found here and here and here (among others). This spring's schedule is below.

But for you newer readers, here's the basic 411:
The Extravaganza features rare and exceptional single malt, Scotch and unique whiskies from around the world. There's a boss dinner buffet included, and they even kick in a pair of cigars to enjoy after the show. The brand representatives on hand are top notch, and the attendees are among the finest of folks (we mentioned we attend often, right?). All events are from 7:00pm-9:00pm, and registration begins at 7:00pm. Attire is business casual, with jackets preferred on the gentlemen--and all the other males. No denim, fleece, sweats, tear away basketball pants, cheese head hats, or any other athletic wear. Oh, and there are special rates available for groups of 8 or more, so put that party together now!

Tickets to the Extravaganza are $135 each for Members and $150 each for Non-member guests. If you are not a member, don't fret: use the promotional code “TMI2012” (that's an acronym for The Malt Impostor, rather than Too Much Information) and you will receive your first two tickets at the Member price ($135 each). Purchase tickets directly online:

https://www.amerisurf.com/singlemaltextravaganza/form_tickets.html

or by calling (800) 990-1991. Once again, use the special Malt Impostor promotional code “TMI2012” to receive your first two tickets at the Member rate. Cheers!

The Sons of Liberty Uprising American Whiskey (750 ml barrel-chested bottle with decorative metal strap)

2012-02-08T23:40:00.002-05:00

Tasting notes:
      The Uprising is the first release from the new Sons of Liberty Distillery (the only whiskey distillery in Rhode Island at present). The Uprising, so called because "every revolution begins with an uprising," is a more or less unaged whiskey that's made from a stout beer. I say more or less unaged because this is not a white dog, even if it's technically quite close to one: this white dog is just "kissed" with oak, or in oak barrels for a very, very short time. The result is a nose that is cereal-y, but also bright and fruity: there are strong notes of gin or maybe even tequila on the nose, but also pomegranate and green pear...no wait, make that green apples. Slices of green apples. In a panda's armpit. You're getting that, too, right? You're not? Keep working on it--it's in there.
     The mouth offers a different and less complex flavor profile. It's a bit like drinking a really smooth Long Island Iced Tea, only with hints of orange cotton candy, pine cones, and maybe an old hardwood rocking chair. There are faint hints of smoke and sweetness, as if someone put out her cigarette in a saucer full of Goldwasser liqueur--in the back of the closet in the next room. This dram is very smooth in the mouth, so smooth in fact that if I came across it in a blind taste test of white dogs, I'd be taking out adoption papers. Goooooood doggie.
     The finish is peppery and lingers beautifully, especially for a whiskey that's spent so little time in wood. It's gentle, but fiery: it's a baby wipe used to clean up the last thimble full of habañero extract. The finish is long and fiery, but not otherwise terribly complex or flashy. Nonetheless, it gets the job done, and satisfyingly so: it's the tortoise finally winning the race while the hare sleeps with everyone he can get his paws on.
     There's some good stuff here, but this whiskey feels almost like a promissory note for even better things to come. If this whiskey is simply kissed with oak, just think what it'll be like when it makes it to second base.

Rating:

--On the scale of groundbreaking jazz albums--
The Sons of Liberty Uprising is Ornette Coleman's The Shape of Jazz to Come--It's no A Love Supreme, but as one critic said (and I'm paraphrasing), it throws down a gauntlet others might not pick up for a while.

--Stephen

*--Our thanks to Mike Reppucci and Sons of Liberty Spirits for the sample!

The High West 21 Year Old Rocky Mountain Rye (200 ml disposable glass flask)

2012-02-06T00:37:00.001-05:00

Tasting notes:
Thankfully, this whiskey is not, as its name suggests, actually the testicles of something from the Rockies, disguised so as to vaguely resemble a rye, at least until the bartender reveals the secret to you. But this is no standard rye, either: the nose of this whiskey is at first curious, then becomes curiouser and curiouser. Pencil erasers, a marzipan saguaro cactus, tennis balls fresh from the tube, poppy flowers pressed between sandpaper sheets. And there is fieriness there, too. On the mouth there’s more tennis balls, cinnamon and allspice, and caramel reduced to the point that it could safely hold tiles to the underbelly of the space shuttle. Snow drops walked on by cowboy boots. To be more precise, they're gila monster skin boots with ostrich uppers. It’s like I’m sucking on a lozenge created by a crack team of Swiss scientists to combat Seasonal Affective Disorder. On the finish, there’s some mentholated eucalyptus that borders on Kid Kam's Cajun-style Eucalyptus. Perhaps you heard of him? The koala bear dropped off in Baton Rouge that eventually went native? He now operates the only restaurant in the world that exclusively offers blackened eucalyptus, for his previous attempts at eucalyptus “from the barbie” excited not even

murmurs from the local newspapers and food critics. All of this is to say that there is a va-rye-ity of flavors to enjoy here, and more flavors than we thought a rye could offer.

Rating:

--On the scale of awesome names for 5th Century Armenian commentators on Aristotle--
The High West 21 Year Old Rocky Mountain Rye is David the Invincible--So awesome is this name, and so fitting a tribute to this fine High West expression, we choose to ignore the worries that the author was active in 6th C., not the 5th; that he was not Armenian; and that he wasn’t named David.

--John

*--Our thanks to Troy Karnes and the great people at High West for the sample!

The 35 Year Old Rare Classic Cask Whisky (50 ml Zim the Great* potion bottle)

2012-02-01T23:00:00.000-05:00

Tasting notes:
     The 35 Year Old Rare Classic Cask Whisky immediately invites the question: How on earth did they fit a cherry ice cream sundae served in a mahogany bowl agleam with Kiwi shoe polish into my glass? How did they get a Tupelo honey Q-tip to swab out my olfactory sensors? How did they manage to bind my face in a butter-drenched cinnamon caramel Fuji apple swaddling of bandages? I feel like a snorkeler in a warm sea of lightly spiced butterscotch. It's tempting to abandon my tube to the atmosphere, swim to the bottom, and await the opening of Davy Jones' locker.
     Instead, I drink. Thick, full, vibrant. Raspberry jam, angel wings, the essence of Scarlett Johanssen's best lips-parted smolder, port-marinated currants, Orpheus' lyre, S'mores made with Scharffen Berger 62% cacao chocolate bars and marshmallows made from maple sugar and quail egg-whites, dragon tears, and burnt hazelnut crème brûlée made with goat's milk from Pan's personal flock. My tongue swells to the roof of my mouth as if I licked Ming Tsai's steel wok at an inopportune moment.
     Pickled peaches, pear nectar, vibrating pizzicato-plucked strings on Paganini's violin: a resonant finish redolent with sunshine lighting meadow-dew dappled huckleberries and snowdrop petals.

Rating:

--On the scale of combinations of melted sand and ground minerals--
The 35 Year Old Rare Classic Cask Whisky is the National Cathedral West Rose Stained Glass Window--My gosh! Kaleidoscopes of color, dizzying symmetries, dazzling craftsmanship ...medieval mandala madness in a non-secular modern masterpiece: It's a higher path.

--Bill

*--Our thanks to Jerry Zimmerman (and Aron Silverman and the good folks at The Classic Cask) for passing on this sample to us. In our book, that makes him Great. Slàinte, Jerry!

Bill's Best Night Drinking--what's yours?

2012-01-29T19:32:00.000-05:00

     Recently Bill approached us about doing a post based on his "Best Night Drinking". Now, we would have thought that Bill's Best Night Drinking might have been one he shared with the two of us, maybe a whisky festival or cruise or even a night out on the town, but noooooooooooo. But then again, we've witnessed Bill's loyalty to us evaporate in the presence of whisky brand reps, complimentary dinner buffets, and all manner of chocolate confections, so we've learned not to take too much offense.
     We should also note that in recent months, Bill has developed an unhealthy obsession with Pappy Van Winkle Bourbon, sparked by the realization that he couldn't find it so easily any more. Now, the Pappy 20 is clearly one of the better bourbons we've ever tried, but Bill's fascination with it now far exceeds the value even he would place on it--if he hadn't willingly gone off the deep end in his quest to find it. Gotta love stoking demand through deliberately maintaining scarcity. It helps if you have a great product, though.
   At any rate, what follows is Bill's account of his Best Night Drinking. Inexplicably (despite his attempt at an explanation), he writes it in the present tense and, following the Bob Dole/Rickey Henderson/Sméagol (Gollum) tradition, refers to himself in the third person. What a tool.

     To me, a recent dream-like night seems blog-worthy, and to get it out, I find need to tell it third person, as if it happened to someone else. Identifying details have been removed to protect the innocent, the guilty, and the ferrets.
     After a delicious glass of single-origin hot chocolate at [really cool local cafe], Bill and his old friend stroll to [wonderful place to get a drink] to have a glass or two or three of scotch before dinner. Bill has small glasses of:

Highland Park 18
Balblair 19
Bowmore 18

and the total cost is under $15! (The friend, new to scotch, on Bill's recommendation, tries Oban, Talisker 10, and Lagavulin 16.) The menu includes a small glass of [extremely expensive premium scotch] for [more money than Bill has ever paid for a glass of whisky]. Bill asks the waiter about it. "Is it worth it?" The waiter nods at [elegant gentleman employee] by the bar. "Go ask [name redacted], if you can get his attention."
     Bill manages to catch his attention. [Name redacted] is lovely to chat with. He talks about the coming wave of non-age statement scotches, and offers a rave review for the [extremely expensive scotch]. Bill nods sagely. [Name redacted] says something about "the best bourbon ever," and he reminisces about [a brand of bourbon that is no longer produced], of which he at one time managed to procure 32 cases at $9/bottle for the [wonderful place to get a drink]. Bill nods, agreeably, but not sagely, never having heard of the brand before.
     Bill inquires about Pappy Van Winkle. "Bah," [name redacted] scoffs. "I'll get you better than that." About one minute later, two glasses of bourbon appear, comped by [name redacted]. Willett Pot Still Reserve and Parker's Heritage Collection. Both are outstanding. Bill quivers like a puppy dog and wets himself. (One of those two assertions is fictitious.) Glug, glug, glug.
     Bill and his friend head to [trendy new restaurant]. No table is available for 25 minutes! So, Bill and his friend sit at the bar waiting for a table. Bill sees Pappy Van Winkle 20 on the drink menu, and promptly orders a glass from the absolutely stunning bartender. She comes over with the bottle, and holds it for Bill to stroke. Which he does, mildly lasciviously. They chitchat idly about the PVW20--she's says it's the only bottle they have, she doesn't know how it got there, it came in a red velvet bag, and it's half gone.* She pours Bill 125ml. (125ml!!!!!!!!!!!!) A table opens up, so Bill asks the gorgeous bartender to close the tab. While she begins the work of ringing them out, Bill hands her a $5 bill, and offers sincere thanks. She smiles appreciatively, then says that register can't ring up PVW20, and she hopes that that is okay. Bill looks at the bill.

Instead of the PVW20, Bill's bill lists Elijah Craig for $10. Bill swoons, doesn't know what to say, says nothing, saves his marriage.

                                                                 --Bill

* Note: Bill has since been back twice, and now it is 3/4 gone. Glug, glug, glug.

We'd love to hear from you: what is your best night drinking? Leave us a comment and let us know. The best story wins a prize of dubious merit.

The Glenmorangie 18 Extremely Rare (750 ml mondo mini)

2012-01-25T23:20:00.002-05:00

Tasting notes:
The nose on this dram is gorgeous and refined, with oranges and figs from a well-integrated grove from pre-war Lebanon. As the dram opens up, the nose turns downright exquisite, revealing caramel and bananas flambéed with Barbados rum in a copper saucepan from the kitchen of the court of Louis XIV. On the tongue, it is so smooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooth, it's ridiculous: it's as smooth as a pale twenty-something New Englander imagines he can be on the beaches of Aruba in January. Amidst the nearly tactile smoothness (that's right, it's that smooth), subtle and complex flavors come through: the meat from Korean barbecue spareribs expertly centered within the best dim sum bun you've ever tried, or a full buffet at the Kakawa Chocolate House after completing the Santa Fe Chocolate Trail (and no, that’s not a euphemism). Still, the smoothness is overwhelming. It's as though the liquid itself has been blended to the point that all of its molecular bonds have been broken, leaving only bosons and neutrinos. (Bill: I'll go you one further: it's a fractal, it's non-rectifiably delicious, it's 1.5 dimensional.) (John: Ok, I call bullshit.) (Bill: I'm gonna box dimension yo' butt with my Hausdorff measure, poseur!). This dram finishes more like a liqueur than a scotch, but the complexity is amazing. It's like someone turned a huge red peppercorn into a jawbreaker, but instead of eating it, decided to cross-breed it with a Fabergé egg complete with a reproduction of Versailles' hall of mirrors inside. Accordingly, this metaphoric mutant spawn echoes sweet spice infinitely down your tongue and throat.

Rating:

--On the scale of things that one hopes are infinite—
The Glenmorangie 18 Extremely Rare is time—I mean, come on: if space were infinite and time weren’t, seeing it all would be hopeless. This way, you can conceivably cover everything and use what’s left over to sit and drink the Glenmorangie 18. This last bit also happens to be my own personal vision of what heaven would have to be for me to want to stay that long.

--Stephen

Our thanks to David Blackmore and the good people at Glenmorangie for the sample!

HAPPY BURNS NIGHT EVERYONE!

The Linkwood 1988 Classic Cask (50 ml Zim the Great* potion bottle)

2012-01-20T19:46:00.000-05:00

Tasting notes:
Pears. Honey-pears. Candied honey-pears. Honey badger? The nose of this lovely dram wafts around like an over-perfumed first love. Scented duct tape included in a hastily-assembled Mother’s Day gift basket. More sweetness than Walter Payton. Distilled molasses aged inside of a gigantic Jolly Rancher™. It really smells like wine and has a super light runny mouth, like the sassy 9-year-old girl that lives down the street and likes to talk to your dog in some sort of language fit for elves. On the mouth it’s high, fresh, lovely. Elegance and refinement abounds. I’m getting the taste of a buttersoft high-grained white leather belt worn by Liberace and now used to fasten my wrists to a headboard (“We’re just joking here, right? He-he-he… he?”). Perhaps it’s more like the mineral taste of the metal buckles on Charo’s high heels. Now there’s spoonfuls of sugared grapefruit and rosewater syrup. The finish brings a touch of salt collected by fairies from the tips of saffron stamen overlooking a Mediterranean port. And yet there’s an edge here, too, like that put into a fancy straight razor polished noisily on a leather strap. Volcanic ash and peppercorns muddled in a Jefferson cup with a rhinoceros horn pestle. Late wisps of smoke from a wood-fired Jacuzzi set in the Mongolian steppe.

Rating:

--On the scale of failed attempts to prove one’s divinity to onlookers--
The Linkwood 1988 Classic Cask is Empodecles throwing himself to his death into Mt. Etna, then an active volcano--As I think about it, is there any more spectacular failure to prove one’s divinity to onlookers? And yet it did secure a measure of immortality for him: there is an underwater volcano off the coast of Sicily named “Empedocles.” What’s more, when the tip of the volcano rose up above the surface of the sea in 1831, an international kerfluffle ensued as four nations attempted to claim it. The only thing that settled the dispute was the submersion of the volcano back under the sea five months later.

--John

*--Our thanks to Jerry Zimmerman (and Aron Silverman and the good folks at the Classic Cask) for passing on this sample to us. In our book, that makes him Great. Slàinte, Jerry!

The Balvenie Tun 1401, Batch #3 (200 ml generic glass flask)

2012-01-15T23:59:00.020-05:00

Tasting notes:
     Today, class, we're going to explore a new topic in journalism by examining the works of novelists Kingsley Amis, Ernest Hemingway, and Thomas Wolfe. What did they all have in common? Yes, yes, they each had two eyes and only one nose. Very good, but I hoping for something else. Indeed, they all wrote in English, and they all used typewriters--I'm impressed you know what those are--to produce their books. And yes, surely they are all dead...is Kingsley Amis dead? Oh, okay, thanks for checking that out on Wikipedia while you were also updating your Facebook page. Anyone else? Aha! That's what I was hoping for: They were all hard drinkers, and today we will see if we also can do as they presumably did: Produce memorable and dynamic prose whilst schnockered and hungover. (Although I couched it in terms of Plato's Symposium, this is why I asked you all to drink all night long last night.) I concede, in advance, that it's odd that we will be drinking an expensive whisky, as opposed to cheap gin, but this is a MacArthur genius-grant-supported experiment. [Editor's disclaimer: Not really.]
     The Balvenie Tun 1401, class, the Balvenie Tun 1401. You'd say, wouldn't you, that on the nose one detects traces of unroasted filberts, lemon soufflé, and marzipan foam swimming pool noodles? What's that, Cuthbert? Can you speak louder? YOU WANT TO BE EMBALMED IN THE BALVENIE TUN 1401WHILST STILL ALIVE? What is this, Edgar Allan Poe's The Cask of Amontillado? Oh, you mean you want it used as your embalming fluid? Very ancient Egyptian; I can see that, indeed I can. An A+ for you, Cuthbert.
     You claim to be smelling rashers of boiled Canadian Bacon glazed with raisins, Elizabeth. Aren't you a vegan? I don't think I fully trust you on this one. Hmmm, "bacon" starts with "B" and "Canadian" starts with "C." So, a B or a C? I'm giving you an F, Elizabeth, but the two of us can always discuss how you may improve your grade later tonight in my office.
     "Cruelty-free bamboo shoots"? "Yang Guang and Tian Tian's bedding"? How do you even know the names of the new Scottish giant pandas, Nigel, let alone what their bedding smells like? I'm not sure I can even assign you a grade. Leave and never return! You're voted off the island! You're fired! You are the weakest link! Goodbye!
     Okay, class, now drink. Mmmmmm. MMMMMMMmmmmmm. Like coal tar smoke hanging in the air at the end of a fireworks display after the home team takes the lead. Balanced like a Key West Mallory Square itinerant juggler, tossing kerosene-lit torches, rusty sickles, and a box of cayenne-pepper-spiked cinnamon red hots intermingled with Pina Colada-soaked raisins. What do you mean, Cuthbert, that that's not what you smell? Get out of here! You're fired, too! Now, what else, have another swig, all of you. "Sprigs of mechanical pencil lead," Victoria? Intolerable! Leave at once, Victoria!
     Like an old thin wire brush used to curry a springer spaniel. "Like sandalwood duct tape...patching a birch bark canoe or a pagoda built by an eccentric millionaire in Ohio"??? Begone at once, Edward, and take Charles with you!
     Well, Elizabeth, we're alone; just the two of us. Yes, just the two of us. What?! After swallowing it, all you can say is that, "It's not fire-y, but kinda warming, like, you know?" You're irredeemable, too! Depart, and never trouble my sight again! Good gravy, young woman, if I'm ever stranded with a broken limb in the alps, this what I want a Saint Bernard to bring to me in a very small tun around its neck: The Balvenie.
     I guess now I'm truly alone, but not alone. It's you and me, Balvenie Tun 1401. I'm...very happy to be alone with you. I find I want to keep smelling you as obsessively as Michael Jackson kept washing his hands, disinfecting his surroundings, and getting plastic surgery. Mmmmm. Another sniff? Don't mind if I do. Old wood. Very old wood and wine aged way past the due date. Mmmmmm.

Rating:

--On the scale of things to visit again and again and again and again and again--
The Balvenie Tun 1401 is The Mountains--Anywhere in the world (that I've been so far), any season, any weather, they always provide a cornucopia of smells and sensations, from X-treme heli-snowboarding in the winter, to ferret hunting in the spring, to running with gray lobos in the summer, to chanterelle picking in the fall. Every day is a new adventure.

--Bill

Our thanks to Andrew Weir and The Balvenie for the sample!

The Macduff 11 Year Old 2000 TWB Exclusive (3 cl TWB* mini)

2012-01-07T12:04:00.001-05:00

Tasting notes:
This is a post-holiday dram if I've ever had one: on the nose, there's smouldering mistletoe strewn along the side of the road, with marzipan reindeer at regular intervals, chewing placidly on the sherried merry cherry berries. On the mouth, there's pepper and cinnamon and sweet cranberry heat, much like I found on my tongue after peeling myself--and my tongue--off of my neighbors' driveway the next morning, only to find that I did actually dance there the night before on the fruit cake they'd given me as a gift, but only after I'd doused it in Tabasco in front of them to convey more clearly my true feelings about said gift. But don't get me wrong, I could swim in this stuff: it's wonderful and sweet, just like the feeling of realizing what I'd done--once the horror of realization had worn off and the wry joy of the truth had set in. On the finish, asphalt butterscotches, definitely asphalt butterscotches--you know, the kind Santa leaves for naughty kids or for unrehabilitated juvenile delinquent neighbors--and I'm not just saying that because of my proximity to the driveway, I assure you. The smoke lingers on the finish, but it's the smoke from an oil drum trash fire on the banks of the River Deveron that hobos have used to smoke the pork tenderloin, plums, and lingonberries they stole from my house whilst I was passed out
on the pavement. The finish tingles with magical sparkles and hints of tar, not unlike those I feel in my head at this moment--and not unlike those I would imagine I'd find if, improbably, I made it to the roof just a moment after St. Nick's sleigh pulled away.

Rating:

--On the scale of regrettable holiday escapades I've had--
The Macduff 11 Year Old 2000 TheWhiskyBarrel.com Exclusive is the night I got drunk and got into a tiff with my girlfriend, only to find the next morning that I'd torched my own car, not hers--You know, I'd cut back on the drinking during the holidays, but it's the only thing that gets me through.

--Stephen

Our thanks to Alastair and the good people at The Whisky Barrel for the samples!

*--The Whisky Barrel (Macduff 11 Year Old TheWhiskyBarrel.com Exclusive)

You can also find The Whisky Barrel's Facebook page here and their Twitter feed here.

The Compass Box Orangerie (50 ml holy water travel vial)

2012-01-01T20:34:00.000-05:00

Tasting notes:
Dutch undergarments? No, it’s Scotch whisky infused with orange zest, cassia bark, and clove. We’ve had occasion to remark on the ad copy before; we’ve seen the lovely art nouveau bottle at whisky events; and even had a memorable sip while bobbing in the Boston Harbor on a fog-filled night. But as our palates have matured over the years and become refined through countless tasting sessions, we believe we are now ready to subject this offering to our uncompromising and thorough review process. In fact so confident are we that we’re willing to pull the curtain back a bit and show you a transcription of our first encounter with the Orangerie which we chose not to publish at the time.

On the nose it’s orangey. It’s the smell in my nostrils of oranges put into a fluid, perhaps a liquid. On the mouth—yes, there is it again: the unmistakable taste of oranges. Citrusy and really orangey oranges. This time it’s like there is a literal orange wedge in my mouth. The finish reminds me of nothing more than the feeling you get after eating several of those wedges that still have a lot of the white stuff on it. What’s that stuff called?

Ah, youth. At any rate, we’re ready for our more discerning review. To begin, we noticed immediately the Navalino orange peels hand-zested by a crew of mostly right-handed zesters not all of whom were wearing plastic food-handler gloves (We won’t tell!). But in addition, we found other, more complex notes.
Pumalo sections muddled in a julep cup, then strained over Carr’s® Table Water® Crackers. Calamondons ripened almost to the point of fermentation, then added to an allspice chutney. The whole of it is a triumph of subtlety. We get a hint of blood orange, but a rare variant, like AB-negative. And there’s a reminiscence of Terry’s Chocolate Oranges, but where—even at close range (the locker room, the boudoir)—Terry’s gender is indeterminate. As for the Cassia bark, we had trouble placing those notes at first but then Bill realized the obvious: the tree from which the bark was used in our batch had, decades earlier, served as the slate for a futile declaration of love carved by a pocketknife. That and the stress from Mottled Emigrant caterpillars perhaps muted the cinnamon’s trumpet and allowed the nutmeg’s overture to win the day. As you can see, there’s much on offer here, and it will suit a variety of tastes. For conservatives, it’s like a Grand Marnier to gift to Francophobes, and a marvelous complement to Freedom Fries. For liberals, it represents the hope for a brighter future where good ideas jostle the tired postures of tradition.

Rating:

--On the scale of failed blog ideas--
The Compass Box Orangerie is right up there with “Fruit Reviewer”--The closest we could find to someone even attempting this concept were these, and you can see how well they did: Miracle Fruit Review consists of one post (that was probably planted there by someone from the miracle fruit industry), all that remains of Fruit Review is this, and Fruit - Review is actually just a review of a book called Fruit.

--John

Our thanks to Robin Robinson and Compass Box for the sample!

Announcing The 2011 Malty Award

2011-12-30T23:37:00.002-05:00

We failed to award The Malty in 2010 for reasons that remain opaque to the three of us to this day. One thing we know for sure: it wasn't for lack of material. We were probably just focusing on our "serious" whisky reviews and lost sight of the need to consider this venerable and utterly useless blogger-contrived and blogger-awarded prize. After awarding the first inaugural Malty to The Compass Box Orangerie way back in 2009, we're back here on the second to the last day of 2011 and very proud to announce that the winner of...

The 2011 Malty for Best Unintentionally Parodic Marketing Materials for a Whisky Product is:

The Southern Comfort Pepper

We love the marketing here, but it's so far into over-the-top range, it's fired itself like a rocket over the shark into new and truly wild territory. The box, the overt reference to the most common venereal diseases, the glowing shot glasses, the USB drive, the working smoke detector: the combination is a thing of beauty and undeniably worthy of a Malty. See for yourself.

The taste, you ask? We haven't been bold enough yet to try it, but it does contain Tabasco, so it can't be that bad. Plus, with this kind of packaging, does it matter?

Glenfiddich 50 yr at the Ultimate Whisky Experience Nth 2012 Show

2011-12-28T19:29:00.001-05:00

Update on the Ultimate Whisky Experience in Las Vegas on March 2-3, 2012:

In case you weren't sure if the Ultimate Whisky Experience would be exclusive or elite enough for you, this has just come to us via the exclusive MaltLine: There will be an exclusive private tasting of the original Glenfiddich 50 year-old, valued at $16,000-$20,000!!!! Hosted by Ian Millar, Glenfiddich Global Brand Ambassador, this private tasting is part of the High Roller Dinner Reception on Saturday, March 3rd. If you can afford it, it's a no-brainer.

You can find details on the High Roller ticket package here.
Details on other tickets are here. And use our exclusive discount code UWECT1 during checkout and receive a $100.00 off of a Connoiseur Ticket (normally priced at $525.00)!

And let us know if we might see you there. Slàinte!

The Caol Ila 27 Year Old 1984 TWB Exclusive (3 cl TWB* mini)

2011-12-21T13:14:00.000-05:00

Tasting notes:
    I must confess, I'm cheating on my brethren Malt Impostors. I'm having a bromance with the Caol Ila 27: everything about it, even the name, which I delight in mispronouncing as "Cool Island" is giving me the chills. Uncorking the bottle is like letting out a GGG-genie sporting a sherry-soaked violet velvet vest liberally doused with a briny, iodine "briodine" cologne. It's a platter of vegetables grilled over cedar coals, from bro-ccoli to dude-cchini. It's the (clean honest) sweaty bandanna of a lumberjack who's been swinging an axe in the Great North Woods, and over smouldering cedar bark he's smoking salmon that he caught by grizzly-like swatting them out of a stream.
     Redwood cinders containing
the seeds of life, and szechuan peppercorns (thanks, Dr. Whisky!) on the fraternal kiss, with afterglow of burnt lambchop fat. (Even a vegetarian bro would love this lambchop.) In the substrate of fossilized cherry blossoms, there are flecks of shimmering sparkling sparrow liver pâté flavored shrapnel commingled with flint shards. This is a dram that drinks like a Roman banquet.
      Finishing with pine needles left over after a forest fire; out of many smoking bro-chettes, one new mushrooming cloud of bro-ken hearts: a bro-haha over who gets the last drop. Who knew a one dimensional race to the tape could be so rich in experiences? Well, bro me down, as Popeye might expostulate.

Rating:

--On the scale of volcanoes that bro-up X-tremely large--
The Caol Ila 27 Year Old 1984 TheWhiskyBarrel.com Exclusive is the 1883 Krakatoa eruption--Shockwaves traveled around the earth seven times, registering for five days afterwards. Clouds of smoke and particles wreaked havoc on the weather for five years afterwards. It was world-changing, and so is the Caol Ila 27. My, my, my Caol Ila!

--Bill

Our thanks to Alastair and the good people at The Whisky Barrel for the samples!

*--The Whisky Barrel (Caol Ila 27 Year Old TheWhiskyBarrel.com Exclusive)

You can also find The Whisky Barrel's Facebook page here and their Twitter feed here.

The Dalmore 14 Year Old 1996 Single Cask (3 cl MoM* mini)

2011-12-18T23:44:00.001-05:00

[This is one Master of Malt sent us just to get us to review it for them (see our Disclaimer here). Our thanks to Natalie and Master of Malt for the sample.]

Tasting notes:
On the nose, there's freshly soaked barley left to malt in a Highland field that was already overgrown with switchgrass. There's also a sweetness, like a silo full of corn heated slowly to coax the sugars out without popping a kernel. Some citrus notes come out on the palate, but then you realize they're really notes of raw sugar cane. Lest you think that this expression is a biofuel wetdram, however, there's old tech here, too: the mouth holds brininess that acts like a salt-bridge separator, allowing the free flow of ions, but not water molecules, and resulting in a serious drying effect. And in the spirit of a good biofuel, the mouthfeel is decidedly free of oiliness or any other hints of fossil fuel action. The finish brings vanilla and spice, but they're
both faint and slightly synthetic in character, like a Vanilla Spice Little Tree™ car air freshener that's been hanging from the rearview mirror of a Prius for three years. At 55.5% abv, this dram could serve as a high test biofuel all by its lonesome. And if you put this in your flex fuel car, it'd smell a whole hell of a lot better than french fries.

Rating:

--On the scale of promising renewable energy sources--
The Dalmore 14 Year Old 1996 MoM Single Cask is landfill gas or "biogas"--While this is as viable a source for energy as any we have available to us, let's face it: it's just not nearly as sexy as solar.

--Stephen

*--Master of Malt (Dalmore 14 Year Old 1996 Single Cask)
Check out other Master of Malt Drinks by the Dram here.
Check out Master of Malt's Facebook page here and their Twitter feed here.

The Hakushu 12 (50 ml airline bottle)

2011-12-14T23:32:00.000-05:00

Tasting notes:
     Any time there are three actual literary sisters, such as the Brontës, or three fictional brothers, such as the Karamazov's, the three tend to fall into roles. Being triplets from different mothers, the Malt Impostors stay true to type-casting: I am the serious, grounded brother, Stephen is the rainmaker, and John is the flibbertigibbet. In this review, I seek to "live large," and try to become someone I am not, such as a combination of Bill Gates, Brad Pitt, or Robin Williams: Rich, handsome, and manically unfunny.
     Filling a glass with a dram of the Hakushu 12 is sitting on a whoopie cushion filled with an intoxicating blend of passion fruit body wash combined with Clive Christian Imperial Perfume. It's spraying distillate of artisanal Fuji apples into one's nostrils in the reverse of spraying apple orchards with insecticides: I want the gently sweet acidity to inveigle fruit flies and aphids, as worlds are being created in my nose. Those cloudy orbs are filled with swirling smoke and peat, drawn by Peter Max lounging in a field of alfalfa grown by the Findhorn Foundation. And yet, so refined: A Roman Patrician nose; certainly not a honking middle European---read: Jewish---schnozz. [Note: The former sentence has been approved by Joshua (The Man) Hatton, President and Founder of the Jewish Single Malt Society.]
     This strikes me as almost a Zen koan: If a thing be perfectly balanced, doesn't that suggest that it can be unbalanced? And if it may, in some possible world (filled with apples, perhaps) be unbalanced, how can it be perfectly balanced? I am happy to report that it is impossible to conceive of the Hakushu 12 as unbalanced. Therefore, it transcends balance: It is below the bedrock of the Platonic foundation of any eternal steady state non-entropic universe. It is extraordinary.
     Oranges metamorphosing through estrous cycles on my tongue, and ultimately running long and plummy. Bonsai wood used as flooring in Victorian dollhouses. On the very back end, primal rack of lamb, grilled on an omega-3 cured iron shovel, along with scallions and ramps coated in large granules of sea salt, held on by the barest mistings of monkfish oil. And long plums. Very long plums.

Rating:

--On the scale of almost perfectly balanced things (that aren't Platonic ideals)--
The Hakushu 12 is Nadia Comaneci at the 1976 Olympic games--She knocked down the first perfect 10 in Olympic history, and followed it up with six more perfect 10s. Her only flaw? She's not a triplet.

--Bill

Our thanks to Yoshihiro Morita and the good people at Suntory for the samples!

The Glenrothes 1995-2011 (750 ml mondo grenade)

2011-12-12T23:01:00.000-05:00

Tasting notes:
Glengarry Glenrothes. Too obvious? Do I care? Let me tell you something. This baby was bottled in twenty-ten. Two-oh, one-oh. So do the math. That’s 15 years of waiting for this moment. Waiting for YOU. Waiting for THIS MOMENT. And you’re sitting there like you’re holding a teacup? Like your book club is about to start? C’mon, you gotta remember how it goes. It goes like this. A-B-D. A-Always, B-Be, D-Drinking. Always be drinking, always be drinking. I don’t care that you have a family, that little Timmy has a little game today, that you promised your wife you’d clean out the garage. Forget that! No, it’s you and this bottle and this moment. So lean in and do it!
Okay, so it’s in your glass. You and this glass and this moment. And you’re getting extra virgin olive oil with a sachet of cardamom and flash dried daffodil petals. It’s heavy on the nose like—I swear to god—my fist if you don’t get this done. And now it’s this whisky and your mouth. And it’s root vegetables and fingerling potatoes left to cool in a Mauviel copper pan. A meaty mouth of Tournedos Rossini substituting the filet mignon for something gamey. What’s that? You say lamb? Lamb? What, are we still at book club with your Sleepytime Pamperpants Tea? No this is closer to a mountain lion you took down with only the help of a Rolodex and a stapler. You got strips of mountain lion jerky cooking on the engine block of a Cadillac El Dorado in Death Valley National Park. It’s August. It’s hot. And you put a cinder block on the accelerator so the heat just explodes out into the desert in shimmering waves that could almost ignite the air. Yeah, there’s peppermint bark there, too, and anise seeds gently crackling open in slowly-browning pan of ghee. So what? Do you think this whisky cares what you think? That it worries about you? The signature of Glenrothes runs through this with the tenacity of your fear of failure. It’s like prune caramels wrapped in little wax papers, each with a failed lead pressed onto it with the edge of a thumbnail.

Rating:

--On the scale of first prizes in a sales contest--
The Glenrothes Vintage 1995 is a Cadillac El Dorado--Pre-modern dreams of a city of gold, awakened into the machine age, and set on a postmodern journey along a signless highway. Second place is a set of steak knives. Third place is you're fired.

--John

Our thanks to Danielle Katz and Glenrothes for the sample--and for the wonderful roll-out event for this one!

The Balvenie Tun 1401, Batch #2 (200 ml fill yer own bottle)

2011-12-07T23:59:00.003-05:00

[Balvenie Distillery Ambassador David Mair was kind enough to provide Stephen with this sample and an amazing tour when Stephen visited The Balvenie Distillery in September of this year. For more on Stephen's visit, check out his account here.]

Tasting notes:
     In a search for maximum authenticity on this review, we thought we would try to capture the magic of letting things intermingle in a marrying tun by sequestering ourselves in an actual marrying tun (that’s right, all three of us at once) to generate our tasting notes. The marrying tun we used is the full-sized one John constructed in (and for) the MaltCave during a recent (and particularly slow) overnight shift there, using up every last discarded plank of wood from the boat I’d made from my family Giving Tree. While John claims he was just recycling, I think he was just trying to make me feel even guiltier than I already do (that’s the part Shel Silverstein left out: in most families, anyway, you can’t get away with much of anything significant without getting seriously guilt-tripped). Bill affectionately named it eiπ = –1, claiming that it was as elegant and beautiful name as he could imagine. John and I just call her “Mary.”
     At any rate, we spent the better part of a Friday night sitting in Mary, concocting the singular marriage of tasting notes that follow. We would have taken pictures, but it was dark in there.
   We should also note: our esteem for this dram is so great that our transcription service uploaded the rough cut of the review on BitTorrent and WikiLeaks. We decided to act quickly and just release the transcript ourselves.

Stephen: The nose is round…

John: It’s rummy. Rummy, chummy, yummy.

Bill: Oranges with underlying citrus

John: Citrus underneath citrus, Bill?

Stephen: The nose is soft, but really stands up. Would that make it “perky”?

John: On the mouth, I’m getting gun smoke…

Stephen: …from an execution!

John: Yeah, blue steel, flint, graphite…

Bill: There are definitely notes of a War of 1812 re-enactment here, but in this one, all the boats actually sank…

Stephen: …because Somali pirates came upon the re-enactment…

John: …and ruined the authenticity of it altogether. But in a very enjoyable way.

Stephen: It’s bitter like myrrh…

John: But it’s also smooth and honeyed, unctuous and pleasing all at once....

Bill: It’s a Hegelian blend of thesis and antithesis.

Stephen: That would be a synthesis, Bill.

Bill: The finish is long, like ringing the changes at Big Ben.

Stephen: Leaden circles dissolve in the air…

John: There’s an indistinct umami on the back half of the tongue…

Bill: Yeah, a phantom relish fermented like kimchi.

[After fumbling around in the dark for fifteen or twenty minutes, we finally found the water dropper.]

Bill: With water, wine or maybe sherry comes through more…

Stephen: Orange oil, bitter, maybe cat medicine…

John: We’ve used “cat medicine” before. I think you suggest it for every other whisky we try.

Bill: It’s oilier, smoother with water—really removes the sting…Do you think we could have brought in the dropper of lidocaine by accident?

Stephen: Apples dipped in caramel…

John: I’m getting the cigar residue in your mouth when you wake up after a night of stogies and whisky.

Bill: Did someone say “cigar”?

Stephen: Hey, we’re not finished with these notes, Bill!

John: Let him go. Just leaves more for us.

Stephen: Ooh. Good call.

Rating:

--On the scale of great marriages—

The Balvenie Tun 1401, Batch #2 is Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio—Ok, so it didn’t last that long (but neither will this whisky—after all, it is a consumable, and a really good one at that). But by all accounts, they really loved each other, they both understood well the price of fame, and there may never be a classier, more beautiful married couple than they were.

--Stephen

Our thanks to David Mair and Balvenie for the sample--and for the wonderful reception at the distillery!