Tastes

I opened this bottle at midnight as my toast of choice on 9/11, 20 years hence. When I was a kid in the 80s I used to watch Leave it to Beaver every day after school. It was hilarious especially because a lot of the things Beaver and co. got themselves into was the same type of stuff my friends and I were doing. It resonated. I had marveled that although we were separated by some 30 years, Beaver still seemed real and not too different from me. Then a few years ago I tried to show my kids Leave it to Beaver when it appeared on Netflix briefly. It was unwatchable. The world has changed so much that nothing resonated any more. What does still resonate today? Mr. Rogers. When things are scary, kids, look for the helpers. And then, when you’ve found your courage, be one of the helpers. God bless the Helpers. I wanted something that came from a time before the world changed forever. Before the ubiquity of the internet, before terrorists forced on us endless war without rules. I chose Laphroaig 25. The nose is both a salty sea breeze and a fresh rain on a rocky shore, with some butterscotch for good measure. It lowers the heart rate just to sniff it and meditate for a moment. The palate is full and sweet, salty and smoky. Caramel and Vanilla, stone fruit and kumquat. Smooth but bold, very little bite. The finish is so warm and tingly, it feels like if the helpers keep helping, we’re all going to be alright.

I love Japan. So precise, never lazy in anything they do. Strangely, the whiskey isn’t always great. But unlike shitty American and European whiskey, you kind of have to respect even the worst Japanese whiskey because it feels intentional. It may not be my cup of green tea, but it’s certainly what the distillery intended. With all that as background, I usually avoid Japanese whiskey, unless I’m at a Japanese restaurant, as I am this evening. I saw it on the shelf and I ordered it. It wasn’t even on the drink menu. I hope it’s not $75. But if it is, it would be worth it. A vanilla butterscotch tickles your olfactory glands like you’ve buried your nose in the trunk of a ponderosa pine. The palate is uncommonly smooth and it’s hard to tell if I’m drinking something more in the scotch or bourbon family. As burnt caramel emerges, I settle on bourbon (if it could be finished in Sherry casks). The finish could be longer, but it it’s extremely mellow. I wish I had a bottle at home. This masterpiece should be called “melatonin”.

Strong and sexy like Nancy Sinatra. Oak and earth on the nose. Strong prominent cinnamon then oak, like chewing on a cinnamon toothpick. Butterscotch then the finish is rum egg nog

The big smoky scotches are pretty in-your-face. Even a bit slu tty . Maybe that’s why I love them in spite of my desire to be refined. The sweet Highland and Speyside malts get a lot of attention for their fancy gowns and up-dos. They are the belle of the ball. Lowland girls don’t get a lot of love. They aren’t very bold in general. They are a little like Cinderella. Easy to overlook, to push around, maybe they are wallflowers. But sometimes (increasingly often in my case) you get tired of the big fake boobs and the caked on makeup of the girls that so badly need attention. That’s when you realize that the unassuming charm of an Edinburgh girl is exactly what you want, and you’re kind of glad you’re not waiting in a long line for some sloppy seconds. This Glenkinchie expression is the perfect example. The nose doesn’t offer much other than a tantalizing whiff of vanilla as she walks by and gives you a shy but inviting glance. You don’t want to be creepy, so you excuse yourself and follow, but with the backup plan that if she looks alarmed, you’ll just ask her where the restroom is. No, she seems pleased to see you emerge in the hallway. The conversation is light, but she’s sweet and easy to talk to. Not saccharine sweet, no nectar or overripe fruit. Just a little heather and the vanilla that intrigued you in the first place. She cracks a salty joke then quickly looks up to see if she’s crossed a line. Your genuine laughter assures her you’re delighted, if pleasantly surprised. She takes courage and gets a little nutty, but only endearingly so. She suddenly realizes she has to go, but you can tell she regrets cutting your conversation short. And just like that she’s gone. Or is she? Your loins aren’t burning, but she stays perched on your mind the rest of the evening. You wonder if you’ll see her again and somehow the other girls, the ones you know you’ll turn to again for carnal pleasures, seem a bit garish.

Opinions are all over the board on this bourbon. I first tasted it at a specialty shop and was impressed enough with its unique character to buy the bottle for when I wanted something different. Upon opening the bottle and tasting a few drams, I can say for sure this is “something different” but not necessarily in a good way. The nose betrays the spice of high rye mash bill. The first thing I noticed on the palate was a smooth oily mouthfeel. Instead of blossoming into the burnt caramel and vanilla I love in a good bourbon, a very mild brown sugar sweetness was quickly overcome by a bitter taste and the smoothness gave way to an extremely heavy oak. Here I must relate a story. Back in grad school the student union building had a deli that allowed you to put whatever you wanted on a sandwich for the same price. I love cheese. And the deli had like 9 kinds. So I said to myself, “You can never have too much cheese” and asked the sandwich maker to put a slice of each kind on the sandwich. As I retired to a nearby bench to enjoy the cheesiest of all sandwiches, I found quickly that my jaw-closing slowed and nearly halted about 2/3 of the way through the cheese stack. I muscled through but then my molars had the same problem chewing and the sphincters of my throat just gave up and refused to push it all down. I learned that day there is such a thing as “too much cheese”. Returning to the present, the wave after wave of oak that presented themselves on the palate and finish taught me something new in the same vein: there’s such a thing a “way too fucking woody” in a bourbon.

Smoked applewood on the nose, this whisky pairs exceptionally with freeze-dried raspberries, Jamon Iberico flavored potato chips, peppermint gum and a host of other things found in the minimart in the lobby of your local Marriott. I have the sense that one cannot appreciate the full majesty of this scotch until one accidentally takes a much bigger swig than one intended. Cinnamon and smoke rush through your nasal passages and quickly adjourn to your chest where they linger like your dad’s old army buddies telling the salty jokes from which you learned the facts of life.

Apples, fresh sawdust and a splash of smoke on the nose. Stewed spiced fruit with maple and brown sugar notes. The smoke and wood emerge again on the long tingly finish. So long, in fact that it reminds me of slowly coming out of local anesthesia after a visit to the dentist and you chew on your tongue a little to see what you’re feeling. Delightful

Poured a dram and sat down with some celery and peanut butter. The astute reader will recognize there 2 of the 3 ingredients necessary for the American delicacy “Ants on a Log”. I meant to enjoy some delicious Ants on a Log, but found I was out of raisins. What happened next was pure magic. After finishing one ant-less log I took a quick gulp of water and reached for my whisky glass. I took a fulsome swig and swished it around, attempting to dislodge some stubborn peanut butter. Then, much as the holy sacraments transform in the mouth of the partaker, the Signet transformed into rum raisin right on my tongue. Cherry cordial followed and creamy roasted chocolate. When the day comes to begin the process of beatification for this extraordinary expression, doubtless the Miracle of the Ants will be in the running for Miracle #1.

I’d already had a half dram each of Bowmore 18 and Talisker 10. I’m watching the Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, barely paying attention to what I’m sipping. It’s all peated single malts because I don’t want to be challenged, I just want to enjoy and I know I love these. A little background. I went to high school in the mid-90s, but I loved the 50’s. A bit of an anomaly, but somehow my best pal was even more of a purist than me. We loved early rock and roll and my friend claimed he prayed to God each night to be transported back to the 50s. Me and my buddy took a couple of girls out in a ‘57 Chevy we’d somehow got access to for the summer. My chum took the girl that would later become my high school sweetheart, Erin, and I was with her friend, a pretty redhead. Erin was super obnoxious that evening. She brought a teddy bear and was making it talk in a baby voice. My pal told her to knock that shit off, but she wouldn’t shut up. So he grabbed the fucking bear and threw it out the window. Erin freaked out and started screaming and punching his arm, but he wouldn’t turn the 5-7 around. Neither of us got any that night, but I scored big points with Erin by picking her up after the date and taking her to find the bear. Anyway, back to the present. I’m minding my own business watching a great show and I get to the Port Charlotte. I pour half a dram and I’m nursing it, enjoying the ambience of a super good ‘50s period piece. Then something in the finish of the Port Charlotte hits me and takes me back to 1996. Something musty. Old seat vinyl from the ‘57 Chevy and an unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarette, which we didn’t smoke. We just held them in our mouths because ... Brando. Then the day came that Erin broke up with me. I took 2 packs of Luckies and went to the basement of my buddy’s outbuilding, which he had turned into a speakeasy. Velvet drapes on the walls, an old record player and 8x10 black and white glossies of 1930s movie stars. I sat down and lit up a cigarette for the first and only time in my life. I’d still never tasted alcohol. I figured, fuck it, if Erin doesn’t want me, I’m fucking smoking all these goddamn Luckies. Anyway, it all feels like it happened 100 years ago. But something in this dram brought it all back. And it was all sweet.