A Taste Quickly Acquired

It's causing me physical pain not to open this bottle of scotch I bought 2 1/2 weeks ago.

You see, kids, I've had quite a day. To say nothing of what's come before this very moment, right now my hands are twitchy from being so tired I can't sleep. I've had one meal today, thanks to my insane 10-hour work day, standard for this week. I'm in dire need of a metaphor-proof vest for all the foolish verbosity I've had hurled my way. And I cannot, for the fucking life of me, get Howard Shore's score to The Departed to evacuate my brain.

And so here I am: a bottle of Macallan Cask Strength staring me in the face. Much as I ache for the warmth behind the eyes that this bottle of mahogany moonshine would provide, I made a two-part promise to myself:

1) I have to open it in celebration of something (besides resisting the urge to go on a crime spree)
2) I have to open it in the company of others who will partake (I find myself drinking alone more often lately. Boo-hoo.)

So rather than open it now, I'll twitch my fingers upon the keyboard for a short while and tell you about where I acquired that bottle: the Barriques Summer Single Malts Scotch Tasting.

Knowing that scotch is my thing, my friend Dave let me in on the fact that this wonderful event was happening August 2nd, and so we went and--for a paltry $14--sampled 9 different types of scotch. (Thanks also to those of you who let me know about it and I just didn't see your message until afterward.)

The guy who was running the event told us about this one guy who'd gone through all of the varieties in about 30 minutes flat the night before. Clearly, that idiot didn't want to enjoy himself, as we took about 2 1/2 to 3 hours to get the full experience (highly recommended).

I was a touch nervous at the start, since the first drink was not scotch but tequila--Maestro Dobel Reposado, to be exact. I've never had a taste for tequila, but the well aged agave fruit agreed quite nicely with my palate and made for an excellent primer. As I go through these, I'll end with the best comment associated with the drink--both in terms of accuracy as well as florid prose--as taken from the handout we were given. For the tequila: "intense viscous touch."

The first scotch on the table was a Glenmorangie 10-year. This is the only one with which I was already quite familiar, as it's what I normally keep at the house (either 10-year or 15). Hell, I'm savoring one as I type this. The immortal Sixteen Men of Tain gave us this godly start toward a heavenly brain wobble. Best comment associated with this drink: describing the aroma as "fruity with a hint of smoke."

Next up was the Bunnahabhain 12-year. Admittedly a pale preview of the last drink of the evening, this one had an even smokier scent than the Glenmorangie, but it was much nuttier to the palate. While I don't think it was as smooth as my normal Glenmorangie, I may have to start stocking this one at the house for variety's sake. Best comment: flat-out tie between "spectacular malty sweetness" and "a whisky alive with nautical folklore."

Then came the Deanston 12-year, which was the most surprising of the early selections. Equally pleasant to both nose and mouth, this had the most pleasantly smooth sting of the whole bunch. It's got a bit of fruit to it, but not as much as its predecessors. Additionally, it was the first to have a peaty element in the palate...again, surprisingly satisfying. Best comment: perhaps the most unintentionally dirty, the finish was described as "an elegantly subtle honeyed tail that is long and thought provoking."

And then the Ledaig 10-year swam from glass to gullet. According to the handout, "Liquorice and cloves combine into a medium length smoked pepper finale." Well, it was more like Robitussin-soaked gravel going down my throat. Of course, as bad as that sounds, I'd say it's like Lorca's poetry--his worst is better than most others' best. That being said, as long as I have other options, I'm apt to skip this one from now on. Best comment: on the subject of the scent, "Further intrigue develops from soft antiseptic hints and charred leather." Brother, he ain't lyin'.

Thankfully, the Dalmore 12-year came in to save us from all those antiseptic hints. Much smoother and much more citrus-y than I was expecting, Dalmore was a label I'd tried once either in a Boston pub or a Chicago restaurant. All that citrus was overwhelming in the best possible way. Best comment: opining upon the palate, "Good attack on the mouth, more elegance than muscle."

And then there was the Talisker 10-year. The guy running this thing warned us about the Talisker. He recommended it highly, but he told us it was peaty as all can get, which made us a little nervous. Using the word "peaty" to describe anything but soil gets me apoplectic, actually. That being said, I'd describe Talisker as the Jolt Cola of scotch; it'll knock you on your ass, but you'll be shocked as to how much you enjoy the taste on the way down. Best comment: finishes with "a lot of power and character with a dryish smoky quality."

The 1991 Glenrothes followed. With many of the brands before, I wasn't always able to taste all of the different flavors supposedly contained within these divinely fermented potions. Now I'm far from possessing the most sophisticated palate, but this frustrated me verily, since the flavor I often missed was the one I wanted most. There was no better example than the Glenrothes, which contained coconut, vanilla, and butterscotch. On the first taste, I did not get the one that I most wanted: the butterscotch. Drove me nuts, this did. Thankfully, unlike the previous drinks, I finally did get the flavor I wanted in the end. A blissful second of butterscotch is sometimes all you need. Best comment: "handpicked by the Malt Master," which is not all that descriptive. But come on...wouldn't you want to be called the Malt Master?

The penultimate drink of the evening was the one for which I'm now eagerly awaiting to open my own bottle: the Macallan Cask Strength. For the very few of you I've not mentioned this to, here we go. Scotch is usually between 40 and 45% alcohol. This stuff is 60%. No chill filtration. No water added. Cask. Strength. Specifically, Sherry oak casks from Spain. Add water. Release the flavor. From the mahogany color to the smoky taste, it's just about perfect. I was hunting for a bottle after we finished up the tasting, and I ended up taking their last one. It was 70 bucks and worth every penny. Or it would be, if I'd just open the damn thing. Best comment: "a hint of wood smoke," which is itself the smallest hint at how fantastic this stuff is.

And then...oh, then...was the Bunnahabhain 25-year. I've never tasted scotch to date, or any drink for that matter, this amazing. I can't give you just one comment; here's the write-up.

Color: A rich, nutty gold.
Nose: Sweet caramel dessert aromas beautifully entwine with subtle suggestions of oak and polished leather.
Palate: Indulgent hints of sweet berries and cream create a wonderful melange of tastes that progress into a roasted nut and malt feast sprinkled with only the most complementary of spices to balance the profile perfectly.
Finish: A soft dry finish leaves you with a lingering sense of sugar and spiced-oak flavors dispersing delicately on your tongue.

In retrospect, this must be what it was like to...I don't know...kiss Rita Hayworth, maybe.

After finishing the glass, I asked how much a bottle cost. Wearing a knowing smile, the guy said, "$310." While I could not afford it at the time, I find that kind of excessive extravagance does me good now and again. So, I'll save up for a bottle and order one next year. I'll then make it last at least a year, if not two. You're all welcome to join me for a drink (those of you who enjoy scotch anyway, of which I think there are two).

Alright, my Glenmorangie is long finished, and I think I can finally drift off now.

Before I go, thanks again to my friend Dave--for letting me know about this thing, coming with, and indulging my seemingly ceaseless need to talk about The Dark Knight. After the 25-year it was difficult (to say the least) to want to follow that taste up with anything. We had to, though, as a few hours of savory libation are liable to make a man hungry. King of Falafel did the trick.


Read: Winning Pocket Billiards, by Willie Mosconi
Watch: Mad Men (the only reason the AMC network exists)
Listen to: Bring Yo' Ass to the Table, by Left Lane Cruiser (What can I say? Sometimes I just want to listen to punkish bar blues.)