A few random thoughts on the contents of the cupboard
Ah yes... I'd forgotten to update anything for a great many months. So I've done that now, adding several mutterings that I'd discussed elsewhere over the last 18 months or so.
Hopefully the next update won't be so far in the future - and in the meantime, here's a short buying guide I posted on a forum thread a couple of weeks back:
Ignoring stuff at silly prices:
Best production whisky: Highland Park 18
Best limited release: Bruichladdich Infinity 3
Best 'we had to bottle the good stuff because the new stuff wasn't ready yet': Ardbeg 10 (difficult to find these days in the original version
Best all-rounder: Lagavulin 16
Best "bloody hell, that really means it": Ardbeg alligator
Best mainland: Balvenie Peated Cask
Best mainland "how did they do that": one particular Balvenie Single Cask (others have never come close)
Best overall from the above: Bruichladdich Infinity 3
26 June 2012
The Laddie Ten
The newboy comes of age
First opinions on the Laddie Ten.
It's lacking in something, but I'm not sure what. Perhaps it's sophistication, perhaps it's maturity, perhaps something else.
It's certainly an Islay malt, but not necessarily a Bruichladdich as we've become accustomed to.
Yet, the most recent bottlings we've been accustomed to are now in the seventeenth year, so they have every reason to be damned good.
Youth, you see, is not always an advantage; the rough edges are smoothed off with a bit of time spent in an interesting cask.
Indeed, Jim McEwen might need a bit longer with this to weave his magic.
Not to say it's a poor effort, or even that it's disappointing. Which is isn't. Well, not really, if you judge it as a ten rather than a fine Laddie.
Confused? I sure am.
Chocolatey, peppery, but a little blunt. So far, so good. But not outstandingly brilliant.
First opinions on the Laddie Ten.
It's lacking in something, but I'm not sure what. Perhaps it's sophistication, perhaps it's maturity, perhaps something else.
It's certainly an Islay malt, but not necessarily a Bruichladdich as we've become accustomed to.
Yet, the most recent bottlings we've been accustomed to are now in the seventeenth year, so they have every reason to be damned good.
Youth, you see, is not always an advantage; the rough edges are smoothed off with a bit of time spent in an interesting cask.
Indeed, Jim McEwen might need a bit longer with this to weave his magic.
Not to say it's a poor effort, or even that it's disappointing. Which is isn't. Well, not really, if you judge it as a ten rather than a fine Laddie.
Confused? I sure am.
Chocolatey, peppery, but a little blunt. So far, so good. But not outstandingly brilliant.
Balvenie, Lindsay Lohan and Blake Lively
The Balvenie 21 Port Wood
Well, perhaps I've drunk this one a bit quickly, but it's so deliciously smooth that it's just so, well, hard to resist.
The nose? Perhaps caramel, perhaps marzipan.
The taste is fruity, without malice or anything too exciting. yet smooth: leaning against the bar, glass in hand and just looking smooth. Perhaps slightly rugged, almost Benedict Cummerbach in Sherlock's coat. Almost sophisticated, but perhaps lacking that edge, that underlying hint that that there might be something more to it. And fruity. Did I mention fruity?
The finish is strangely dry for something so smooth, but it's perhaps a defining moment as it add what might best be considered a balance. Not necessarily a hint of smoke, but perhaps just the slightest curl of fog around the long coat as it's sucked into the darkness. Long and lasting, a memory that's made by the final kiss.
Overall? 'Smooth' is the word that springs to mind first, perhaps followed by 'balanced'. Really nicely put together, in a Blake Lively sort of way: yet, wouldn't you prefer a night with Lindsay Lohan? That's the question and perhaps the answer is that this Balvenie is quite lovely, but it doesn't quite hit the heights of adventurousness.
Well, perhaps I've drunk this one a bit quickly, but it's so deliciously smooth that it's just so, well, hard to resist.
The nose? Perhaps caramel, perhaps marzipan.
The taste is fruity, without malice or anything too exciting. yet smooth: leaning against the bar, glass in hand and just looking smooth. Perhaps slightly rugged, almost Benedict Cummerbach in Sherlock's coat. Almost sophisticated, but perhaps lacking that edge, that underlying hint that that there might be something more to it. And fruity. Did I mention fruity?
The finish is strangely dry for something so smooth, but it's perhaps a defining moment as it add what might best be considered a balance. Not necessarily a hint of smoke, but perhaps just the slightest curl of fog around the long coat as it's sucked into the darkness. Long and lasting, a memory that's made by the final kiss.
Overall? 'Smooth' is the word that springs to mind first, perhaps followed by 'balanced'. Really nicely put together, in a Blake Lively sort of way: yet, wouldn't you prefer a night with Lindsay Lohan? That's the question and perhaps the answer is that this Balvenie is quite lovely, but it doesn't quite hit the heights of adventurousness.
The strange tale of the Macallan 1841 replica
Not what it seems at first
Well... I finally got my paws on the Macallan 1841 Replica...
The Macallan Replicas were an attempt to recreate long-lost whiskies - although I'd worry a bit about the effects of time. As such, a lot of work went into them, not least the packaging, and they've commanded a pretty premium price.
Curiously, despite the limited-ness, the 1841 Replica is worth today pretty much what it was worth a few years back when it was released, unless you buy on eBay, in which case this is a £230 bottle of whisky. Originally, you were looking at £90 a bottle - which is a bit steep, but given the costs of acquiring the original bottles and finding the barrels to achieve the blend (not to mention the rather nice bottle), not to mention the cost of acquiring the original 1841 bottle and... er...
There's a problem here.
You see, some of the original nineteenth century bottles weren't what they seemed to be: they weren't actually hundred-plus-year-old Macallans. They were something created to be sold at auction for a great sum - which indeed they were.
So this, quite possibly, is a replica of a fake.
It's a thoroughly bizarre thing in that it certainly is pretending to be something, but the something that it's pretending to be might also be pretending to be something it's certainly not. Confused yet?
Moving onwards, I feel obliged at this point to expose my general thoughts about the modern Macallan: I find it clinical - very refined, yet entirely lacking in character. While an Islay appears in a kilt and smacks you round the head, the Macallan is at best an anonymous Edinburgh banker and in reality is a note lost on the wind.
Technically, it's excellent, but it's entirely lacking in soul; and with no soul, it's not memorable.
The 1841 replica is a bit different - and proves at least that there are some casks with a sort-of character lurking in the depths of the distillery.
The nose has promise, although it ultimately doesn't deliver a huge amount. It doesn't have any vices, but all the same there's a slight lack of final delivery beyond the fudgy beginnings.
On the palate, it's not bad at all: the Macallan always has a hint of stand-offishness and it's not missing this time around. Yet it's more remarkable for what it's not than for what it is: it isn't cloying, it isn't smokey and it isn't challenging. It's almost sweet and almost slightly oily, even slightly dieseley - but it's not. What it is is light, with almost the slightest hint of orange blossom or something like that that. Yet - and this is the clincher - it's almost memorable, but it isn't.
The finish? It's a Macallan, so it's not going to shin its way up your throat and strange your epiglottis. Yes, it's slightly dry, slightly acid and slightly floral - but that's about it.
Overall, this isn't a bad whisky. It almost certainly contains a lot of young spirit, to match the relatively young version of Macallan than existed in 1841, only 17 years after the distillery opened. Perhaps it's a little rougher round the edges than a current Macallan but, depending on your point of view, that might not be a bad thing.
Is it worth going out and seeking a bottle? Unfortunately not.
But is it worth ensuring you try it if you happen across it? Certainly yes: it's a curiosity which is nevertheless an interesting dram, even if it's not the best you'll ever taste.
Well... I finally got my paws on the Macallan 1841 Replica...
The Macallan Replicas were an attempt to recreate long-lost whiskies - although I'd worry a bit about the effects of time. As such, a lot of work went into them, not least the packaging, and they've commanded a pretty premium price.
Curiously, despite the limited-ness, the 1841 Replica is worth today pretty much what it was worth a few years back when it was released, unless you buy on eBay, in which case this is a £230 bottle of whisky. Originally, you were looking at £90 a bottle - which is a bit steep, but given the costs of acquiring the original bottles and finding the barrels to achieve the blend (not to mention the rather nice bottle), not to mention the cost of acquiring the original 1841 bottle and... er...
There's a problem here.
You see, some of the original nineteenth century bottles weren't what they seemed to be: they weren't actually hundred-plus-year-old Macallans. They were something created to be sold at auction for a great sum - which indeed they were.
So this, quite possibly, is a replica of a fake.
It's a thoroughly bizarre thing in that it certainly is pretending to be something, but the something that it's pretending to be might also be pretending to be something it's certainly not. Confused yet?
Moving onwards, I feel obliged at this point to expose my general thoughts about the modern Macallan: I find it clinical - very refined, yet entirely lacking in character. While an Islay appears in a kilt and smacks you round the head, the Macallan is at best an anonymous Edinburgh banker and in reality is a note lost on the wind.
Technically, it's excellent, but it's entirely lacking in soul; and with no soul, it's not memorable.
The 1841 replica is a bit different - and proves at least that there are some casks with a sort-of character lurking in the depths of the distillery.
The nose has promise, although it ultimately doesn't deliver a huge amount. It doesn't have any vices, but all the same there's a slight lack of final delivery beyond the fudgy beginnings.
On the palate, it's not bad at all: the Macallan always has a hint of stand-offishness and it's not missing this time around. Yet it's more remarkable for what it's not than for what it is: it isn't cloying, it isn't smokey and it isn't challenging. It's almost sweet and almost slightly oily, even slightly dieseley - but it's not. What it is is light, with almost the slightest hint of orange blossom or something like that that. Yet - and this is the clincher - it's almost memorable, but it isn't.
The finish? It's a Macallan, so it's not going to shin its way up your throat and strange your epiglottis. Yes, it's slightly dry, slightly acid and slightly floral - but that's about it.
Overall, this isn't a bad whisky. It almost certainly contains a lot of young spirit, to match the relatively young version of Macallan than existed in 1841, only 17 years after the distillery opened. Perhaps it's a little rougher round the edges than a current Macallan but, depending on your point of view, that might not be a bad thing.
Is it worth going out and seeking a bottle? Unfortunately not.
But is it worth ensuring you try it if you happen across it? Certainly yes: it's a curiosity which is nevertheless an interesting dram, even if it's not the best you'll ever taste.
The Port Ellen 9th Release
Nine lives?
Right. A confession or two.
1. I opened the Port Ellen the night that Liverpool FC appointed Kenny Dalglish back as manager. It seemed to be the right thing to do to celebrate.
2. More seriously, this evening I've poured the final drops from the bottle into a glass, so this is a one-off testing. It is perhaps appropriate that the bottle is finished at the closure of Kenny's pre-season preparations for his first full season back: the future is not necessarily the past.
I think I'll start with those first impressions, back when I started the bottle: I didn't see what was special about it. This is obviously a problem for a £230 bottle of whisky.
The price for the 9th release was, quite frankly, outrageous: there's been a 10th since then and I've refused to buy it - and in reality the only reason I bought the 9th was because I knew that if I didn't do so, it would sell out inside half an hour and the chance would be lost forever. Besides, the 5th release was quite, quite fabulous.
The 8th wasn't at all bad either.
So, what have we with the 9th?
The Port Ellen distillery closed a while back and has since been flattened. The remaining spirit is being slowly dribbled out by the owners, generally once a year and at a worryingly increasing cost.
The 9th release was distilled in 1979 and bottled in 2009 as a 30 year old. The release comprised 5916 bottles, so perhaps a couple of dozen barrels depending on what they've used.
It's bottled at cask strength, a mighty 57.7% - this requires a bit of watering down to enable it to be tasted properly, otherwise it's got the essence of an entire Christmas pudding, whilst it's aflame and covered in holly.
With it tamed down a bit with water, however...
On the nose, perhaps floral, perhaps a bit oily and even a little bit medicinal. Oak, perhaps, but peat is curious by its relative absence. Curious for its lack of complexity, yes - but more so for its lack of oomph.
The taste is not dissimilar, in that it lacks a defining feature. There's a mix of a spicy, floral base, oily notes and the merest hint of smoke.
The finish is more interesting: there's a sudden explosion of warmth and then a second burst which finally delivers the smoke that's been veiled until now. And then: gone, like mist burnt away by the morning sun - but not without a blast of spirit that almost parches.
There's a bit more of the feistiness that one expects from Islay in the finish, yet it's got a little too much of the element that causes cheek-sucking. It's good, but there's a slight tartness that's not compensated by warmth or a peaty hug.
At this juncture, I'm duty-bound to say that this is a classic and something that must be enjoyed if you want to be a proper whisky drinker: well, in my opinion, it's not. Without wishing to be too harsh, something like the standard Ardbeg 10 has this one wrapped up well before half-time
Yes, it's special. But it's special because it's one of the last Ardbegs, a relic of an era gone; something that harks back to an age before the upstarts at Bruichladdich used their webcams to promote weird bottlings.
This is, perhaps most worryingly, proof that marketing can overcome the more fundamental assessment of whether something is good. The simple fact that this is one of a small batch from the final couple of years of production shouldn't detract from the truth that this is not special enough on its own merits to justify the price.
It's a sad conclusion for me, because the 5th release truly was a fabulous bottling, something that I'll remember for many, many years. But try as I might, I can't bring myself to love this 9th release. Perhaps it's like meeting a beautiful movie star when she's been moved to the retirement home: so much promise, but ultimately disappointment.
Rest in peace, Port Ellen.
Right. A confession or two.
1. I opened the Port Ellen the night that Liverpool FC appointed Kenny Dalglish back as manager. It seemed to be the right thing to do to celebrate.
2. More seriously, this evening I've poured the final drops from the bottle into a glass, so this is a one-off testing. It is perhaps appropriate that the bottle is finished at the closure of Kenny's pre-season preparations for his first full season back: the future is not necessarily the past.
I think I'll start with those first impressions, back when I started the bottle: I didn't see what was special about it. This is obviously a problem for a £230 bottle of whisky.
The price for the 9th release was, quite frankly, outrageous: there's been a 10th since then and I've refused to buy it - and in reality the only reason I bought the 9th was because I knew that if I didn't do so, it would sell out inside half an hour and the chance would be lost forever. Besides, the 5th release was quite, quite fabulous.
The 8th wasn't at all bad either.
So, what have we with the 9th?
The Port Ellen distillery closed a while back and has since been flattened. The remaining spirit is being slowly dribbled out by the owners, generally once a year and at a worryingly increasing cost.
The 9th release was distilled in 1979 and bottled in 2009 as a 30 year old. The release comprised 5916 bottles, so perhaps a couple of dozen barrels depending on what they've used.
It's bottled at cask strength, a mighty 57.7% - this requires a bit of watering down to enable it to be tasted properly, otherwise it's got the essence of an entire Christmas pudding, whilst it's aflame and covered in holly.
With it tamed down a bit with water, however...
On the nose, perhaps floral, perhaps a bit oily and even a little bit medicinal. Oak, perhaps, but peat is curious by its relative absence. Curious for its lack of complexity, yes - but more so for its lack of oomph.
The taste is not dissimilar, in that it lacks a defining feature. There's a mix of a spicy, floral base, oily notes and the merest hint of smoke.
The finish is more interesting: there's a sudden explosion of warmth and then a second burst which finally delivers the smoke that's been veiled until now. And then: gone, like mist burnt away by the morning sun - but not without a blast of spirit that almost parches.
There's a bit more of the feistiness that one expects from Islay in the finish, yet it's got a little too much of the element that causes cheek-sucking. It's good, but there's a slight tartness that's not compensated by warmth or a peaty hug.
At this juncture, I'm duty-bound to say that this is a classic and something that must be enjoyed if you want to be a proper whisky drinker: well, in my opinion, it's not. Without wishing to be too harsh, something like the standard Ardbeg 10 has this one wrapped up well before half-time
Yes, it's special. But it's special because it's one of the last Ardbegs, a relic of an era gone; something that harks back to an age before the upstarts at Bruichladdich used their webcams to promote weird bottlings.
This is, perhaps most worryingly, proof that marketing can overcome the more fundamental assessment of whether something is good. The simple fact that this is one of a small batch from the final couple of years of production shouldn't detract from the truth that this is not special enough on its own merits to justify the price.
It's a sad conclusion for me, because the 5th release truly was a fabulous bottling, something that I'll remember for many, many years. But try as I might, I can't bring myself to love this 9th release. Perhaps it's like meeting a beautiful movie star when she's been moved to the retirement home: so much promise, but ultimately disappointment.
Rest in peace, Port Ellen.
Balvenie's Single Barrel 2809
Once upon a time
Some distilleries, the Balvenie in particular, have realised there's money to be made by releasing whisky straight from the barrel.
In general, the whisky that one generally buys is blended from many barrels, in which the whisky has matured. A master distiller will select whisky from several barrels to blend together in order to achieve the results he's looking for - in most cases this will be continuation of a particular taste.
The logic goes that if you buy a Genfacker 10 and then go back to buy another bottle, you want the same thing again - even if it comes from a different batch.
Thus, the master distiller at the Glenfacker Distillery will sample from many barrels and carefully select to ensure that the mix produces something as close as possibly to the previous batch.
The age statement, incidentally, should represent the minimum age of the components, so a 10 year old may well contain some spirit that had aged for 12, 14, 15 or however many years, if that was required to get the mix right.
There are a couple of distilleries that do things differently, in particular the Bruichladdich, who make more special editions than you could conceivably drink. (A Bruichladdich bottling generally comprises about 2,000 to 8,000 bottles, so whilst they are 'limited', they do generally hand around for a while).
Balvenie have recently changed their 'Signature' onto a similar system (correct me if I'm wrong!), currently at the third incarnations. It's a canny technique, because it encourages buying of the new batch 'to see what it's like' as well as removing the need to homogenise each batch to make it match the previous one. As it also encourages a bit more originality, it gets my vote.
At the extreme end of the scale is the Single Barrel. In simple terms, it does exactly what it says on the bottle: it's from a single barrel.
However, it's not quite as simple as merely falling over a barrel and decanting it into bottles: the barrel has to be selected because the contents are suitable to be bottled without blending, presumably both a blessing and a curse.
In the case of the Balvenie Single Barrel, each bottle is one of no more than 350 siblings and it's nigh-on impossible to get hold of the same thing again.
At this point, it's worth my while noting that perhaps the very best whisky I have ever tasted was a Balvenie Single Barrel: I've had three or four since and they've been nowhere near as good. Not to say there's anything wrong with them, but that the one bottle was perfection itself.
So, what's the attraction?
Well, firstly there's the 'pot luck' aspect of not knowing what you'll get. But more importantly, what you're buying is a lot more like whisky 'should be', shorn of the blending that's required for the mass market.
Then, perhaps, is that slightly odd feeling that whatever you do, you almost certainly won't get another bottle exactly the same, ever again.
And so, neatly onto bottle 86 from cask 2809 of the Balvenie Single Barrel. A 15 year old, conceived on 6th March 1995 and born on 2nd April 2010.
I may be a tad critical of the nose here, for a couple of reasons: firstly I'm accustomed to smokey Islay natives; and secondly, my one nose isn't functioning perfectly at the moment.
Spicy apple, Mrs.Vanoord reckons; and I'll agree with that. There's an almost floral thing going on, although there's an undertone of something ester-y which might yet be, well, a bit too close to being a solvent than it should be. Not to say it's unpleasant, but just that it's perhaps lacking assertiveness.
The taste isn't bad at all, albeit there's a slight tartness, perhaps the result of a certain spicyness rather than dryness. Apple again, a bit more spice and even a tiny hint of smoke.
The finish? Well, it's 47.8%, so what do you expect? The word 'crescendo' springs to mind and certainly it's a finish that lingers and lingers on the palate. Warming, in a way that some Islay bottlings wouldn't be ashamed of.
Overall - and despite this being very pleasant - I'm left with a slight feeling of what it's not rather than what it is. Yes, there's a lot of individuality and even a bit of feistyness, but... but... there's just something that's missing from this one. Perhaps it's the sweetness that the Balvenie often has, perhaps it's the thunder that a more malted whisky brings you.
Perhaps it falls between two stools; and because of that, it's not one to go back to. Like a fling in a far-off port, this Balvenie is a pleasurable experience, but not one that's going to stick in the mind in the way that others have. Yet that doesn't mean there's no reason to go back: just as the girls in every port are very different, so the Balvenie Single Barrels are individual. It's a journey well worth continuing.
Some distilleries, the Balvenie in particular, have realised there's money to be made by releasing whisky straight from the barrel.
In general, the whisky that one generally buys is blended from many barrels, in which the whisky has matured. A master distiller will select whisky from several barrels to blend together in order to achieve the results he's looking for - in most cases this will be continuation of a particular taste.
The logic goes that if you buy a Genfacker 10 and then go back to buy another bottle, you want the same thing again - even if it comes from a different batch.
Thus, the master distiller at the Glenfacker Distillery will sample from many barrels and carefully select to ensure that the mix produces something as close as possibly to the previous batch.
The age statement, incidentally, should represent the minimum age of the components, so a 10 year old may well contain some spirit that had aged for 12, 14, 15 or however many years, if that was required to get the mix right.
There are a couple of distilleries that do things differently, in particular the Bruichladdich, who make more special editions than you could conceivably drink. (A Bruichladdich bottling generally comprises about 2,000 to 8,000 bottles, so whilst they are 'limited', they do generally hand around for a while).
Balvenie have recently changed their 'Signature' onto a similar system (correct me if I'm wrong!), currently at the third incarnations. It's a canny technique, because it encourages buying of the new batch 'to see what it's like' as well as removing the need to homogenise each batch to make it match the previous one. As it also encourages a bit more originality, it gets my vote.
At the extreme end of the scale is the Single Barrel. In simple terms, it does exactly what it says on the bottle: it's from a single barrel.
However, it's not quite as simple as merely falling over a barrel and decanting it into bottles: the barrel has to be selected because the contents are suitable to be bottled without blending, presumably both a blessing and a curse.
In the case of the Balvenie Single Barrel, each bottle is one of no more than 350 siblings and it's nigh-on impossible to get hold of the same thing again.
At this point, it's worth my while noting that perhaps the very best whisky I have ever tasted was a Balvenie Single Barrel: I've had three or four since and they've been nowhere near as good. Not to say there's anything wrong with them, but that the one bottle was perfection itself.
So, what's the attraction?
Well, firstly there's the 'pot luck' aspect of not knowing what you'll get. But more importantly, what you're buying is a lot more like whisky 'should be', shorn of the blending that's required for the mass market.
Then, perhaps, is that slightly odd feeling that whatever you do, you almost certainly won't get another bottle exactly the same, ever again.
And so, neatly onto bottle 86 from cask 2809 of the Balvenie Single Barrel. A 15 year old, conceived on 6th March 1995 and born on 2nd April 2010.
I may be a tad critical of the nose here, for a couple of reasons: firstly I'm accustomed to smokey Islay natives; and secondly, my one nose isn't functioning perfectly at the moment.
Spicy apple, Mrs.Vanoord reckons; and I'll agree with that. There's an almost floral thing going on, although there's an undertone of something ester-y which might yet be, well, a bit too close to being a solvent than it should be. Not to say it's unpleasant, but just that it's perhaps lacking assertiveness.
The taste isn't bad at all, albeit there's a slight tartness, perhaps the result of a certain spicyness rather than dryness. Apple again, a bit more spice and even a tiny hint of smoke.
The finish? Well, it's 47.8%, so what do you expect? The word 'crescendo' springs to mind and certainly it's a finish that lingers and lingers on the palate. Warming, in a way that some Islay bottlings wouldn't be ashamed of.
Overall - and despite this being very pleasant - I'm left with a slight feeling of what it's not rather than what it is. Yes, there's a lot of individuality and even a bit of feistyness, but... but... there's just something that's missing from this one. Perhaps it's the sweetness that the Balvenie often has, perhaps it's the thunder that a more malted whisky brings you.
Perhaps it falls between two stools; and because of that, it's not one to go back to. Like a fling in a far-off port, this Balvenie is a pleasurable experience, but not one that's going to stick in the mind in the way that others have. Yet that doesn't mean there's no reason to go back: just as the girls in every port are very different, so the Balvenie Single Barrels are individual. It's a journey well worth continuing.
Jack Daniels and the vegetables
In the depths of the vegetable cupboard
I've had an imposter lurking in the dark recesses of the vegetable cupboard for a while: Jack Daniels Old No.7. Several months ago, I removed the wrapper and had a sniff. Then I put it back amongst the vegetables, wondering why I'd bought it.
Owing to various misfortunes and a curious liability that I possess to buy the same whiskies again, a small space has opened up in the whisky cupboard and Jack was moved in to fill it.
Given that Jack is now blocking the way to the Better Stuff, I thought I'd better try it, worrying that Coke would be required as a mixer.
Well... that's not quite the case. It's surprisingly palatable stuff, albeit its hidden behind a rather curious nose that's resemblant of the Mississippi coast after the Deepwater Horizon disaster.
The taste is pretty well-rounded, albeit again a bit oily, chewy and something approaching caramelly. Toffee perhaps; or even a bit of toast, as is usual for such tastings. The finish continues the toffee/caramel theme and whilst it lacks the subtlety of some - well most - Scotches, it's nevertheless a pleasant, vanilla-ey, sort of experience, if only on the basis of its rumbustiousness.
Overall, not an unpleasant experience by any means. Yes, it's different, but it's worth the occasional visit. I've tasted worse, for sure, but whilst most malts are judged on a certain scale, this exists in a slightly different reality: not to say it's bad, merely to say it's different. It's possible to be different and decent at the same time, but to my mind, this is a diversion on the way to find nirvana rather than a destination of any sort.
At the end of this it's worth noting that the Jack Daniels is no longer banished amongst the vegetables. Faint praise, perhaps; but praise all the same.
I've had an imposter lurking in the dark recesses of the vegetable cupboard for a while: Jack Daniels Old No.7. Several months ago, I removed the wrapper and had a sniff. Then I put it back amongst the vegetables, wondering why I'd bought it.
Owing to various misfortunes and a curious liability that I possess to buy the same whiskies again, a small space has opened up in the whisky cupboard and Jack was moved in to fill it.
Given that Jack is now blocking the way to the Better Stuff, I thought I'd better try it, worrying that Coke would be required as a mixer.
Well... that's not quite the case. It's surprisingly palatable stuff, albeit its hidden behind a rather curious nose that's resemblant of the Mississippi coast after the Deepwater Horizon disaster.
The taste is pretty well-rounded, albeit again a bit oily, chewy and something approaching caramelly. Toffee perhaps; or even a bit of toast, as is usual for such tastings. The finish continues the toffee/caramel theme and whilst it lacks the subtlety of some - well most - Scotches, it's nevertheless a pleasant, vanilla-ey, sort of experience, if only on the basis of its rumbustiousness.
Overall, not an unpleasant experience by any means. Yes, it's different, but it's worth the occasional visit. I've tasted worse, for sure, but whilst most malts are judged on a certain scale, this exists in a slightly different reality: not to say it's bad, merely to say it's different. It's possible to be different and decent at the same time, but to my mind, this is a diversion on the way to find nirvana rather than a destination of any sort.
At the end of this it's worth noting that the Jack Daniels is no longer banished amongst the vegetables. Faint praise, perhaps; but praise all the same.
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