Sipsmith Gin Palace

A few weeks ago I wrote on the topic of my love of gin, and about the enormous and very cool history of this wonderful spirit. Little did I know that one of the distilleries I recommended would have had a similar idea. Only, they had it a bit earlier than I did. And they acted on it. Basically they just did it better. Mostly because they persuaded a rather grand hotel to dedicate an event to the history of gin through the ages. Clearly demonstrating rather poor research and organisational skills there, James. Anyway. Sipsmith gin, riding a wave of their own popularity and the resurgence of cocktail drinking have brokered a deal with the Langham Hotel to host a little night called the Sipsmith Gin Palace.

 

Running over six weeks this event is being hosted by the Langham, one of the first Grand Hotels and one frequented by little known names such as Mark Twain, Oscar Wilde and Arthur Conan Doyle. It is being held in the ludicrously opulent and almost ridiculously Art Deco styled Palm Court and the whole event could have been lifted from a Poirot episode. The already somewhat rarefied atmosphere further augmented by the presence of a live, and rather good, jazz band who managed to deftly keep their musical accompaniment audibly present but not intrusive. This earns them a solid ten points from this Whisky Dog.

But, sport, we weren't really there for the location – even if it wouldn't have looked out of place at one of Mr Gatsby's parties. The cocktail menu is one of gin through the ages; from the Dutch-influenced Gineveristic of 1689 through to the molecular cocktail of the present day: http://london.langhamhotels.co.uk/pdf/SipsmithGinPalaceMenu.pdf The menu itself forms a time line, with dates attached to each cocktail. Seeing this, and reading through the essay on the development of gin printed upon the reverse, we promptly ordered the most contemporary offerings. Not quite sure that was how it's supposed to work. 

My compatriot started with 2012's Spontaneity – a complex mix of gin and falernum with copious lime to cut through the sweetness and a strongly flavoured oil (which, of course, had to be added at the table, out of a bottle on a silver salver, using a pipette). I chose the slightly less up to date Transition, from 1882, a sweet and citrusy mix of gin, byyrh, mandarin bitters and maraschino. This proved to be a brightly coloured cocktail which is, slightly incongruously, served in a bottle. With a straw. Perfectly pleasant, but it did seem a little out of tone with the rest of the evening.

Spontaneity:

 

Round two then, and the other end of the timeline. I chose a Secret Method, from 1770, a potent combination of gin, vodka, lemon, lime and sugar served long. And it is fantastic. Crisp, refreshing, and dangerously easy to drink. One could drink these all day. Well. No. One couldn't. There is a worrying amount of alcohol concealed in each of these glasses. I would like to think that this, or something very like it, was the preservative of choice for naval officers in the Caribbean. In fact, this is probably what Admiral Duckworth was sipping as he drove the French out of the West Indies. This was accompanied by a cocktail called Escapades, from 1731. I say cocktail; this seemed rather closer to a dessert and was served with a piece of gingerbread on top. Apparently gin was once a sweet drink, sold in gin and gingerbread shops for medical purposes. Certainly puts that 'spoonful of sugar...' thing in a different light.

Finally we had Pink Gin. I'd always had an image that pink gin would be, well, pink. As such this cocktail proved to be very different to my long-standing, fallacious, assumption. It is, in fact, a shot comprised of gin and Angostura Bitters. Two shots, actually. One silver and one gold. There are lots of ways I could describe this. I could call it potent, or powerful, or heady. These are all good descriptions. What it was, though, is lethal. Lethal, yet delicious.

Pink Gin: 

And with that we departed the Langham with depleted bank accounts and satisfied palates to face the wilds of Regent Street. The Gin Palace is running until the end of October and is absolutely worth attending. It's on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Book a table. Right now. Here's the contact information: http://www.toptable.co.uk/palm-court-reservations-london?restref=31369 . Hurry.

James

Sussex

Once upon a time, a few weeks ago, the Whisky Dogs attended a party in the Sussex Down. A fairly small affair: gazebo, bar, punk covers band, piles of food and, as all parties should have, a peacock. Peacocks are brilliant. They're conversation starters. They're funny to look at. They're..well. That's actually about all they are. But that's their appeal. They're funny and you can talk about them; perfect thing to have at a party. Nestled below the Firle Beacon on Nicholas Gage, 8^th Viscount Gage's estate the party was held in the manicured garden of a coaching inn turned small holding and certainly possessed a picturesque, Sussex charm. One which was only added to by the presence of a large number of the local hunt. The whole thing did become a bit...horsey. Not a bad thing, of course, and certainly led to some unusual conversations. Never had I thought to hear so much on the topic of horse dieting.

And so we drank the night away. I recall a case of Thornbridge's Wild Swan vanishing before the sun set. Very tasty it was too. There was also a bottle of Ballantine's 17 Year Old, the best whisky in the world in 2011, which disappeared in moments. Also there was some gin. Quite a lot of gin. Possibly rather too much gin. And so it went, singing, dancing, gin. Then we fell asleep in our tents or, erm, cars; only to be woken by the charmingly rural sound of the inhuman banshee shrieks emanating from the bloody peacock. They do not make pleasant noises.

There we were. Hungover. Hungry. Tired. In tents. Facing the unrelenting, baking sun of a summer's morn in southern England. This was truly a day not seen since the Luftwaffe contested the skies over the verdant rolling hills of the Downs. It was desperate. It was also rather unpleasant. We tried everything our striving, suffering minds could think of to improve our situation. Food. Coffee. Tears. Sleep. A bracing cliffside walk. Striding into the sea, chased by a spaniel. Nothing was working. Were we doomed?

Eventually we came to the obvious conclusion. We needed a beer. We needed it badly. It wasn't easy. Body and mind rebelled; it was too hot, we were too hungover. Using the lessons learnt the previous evening from our red-coated, fox-slaying brethren we took our hangovers in a firm hand and retreated to the Pilot Inn for a pint of Harveys.

Harveys is a family-run brewery in Lewes which has been in business for some 200 years and is something of an institution in the southern counties; especially East Sussex. This is a beer which belongs to a place like few others. Other regional beers can be enjoyed practically anywhere they can be found. Thornbridge's offerings may be at their best on a windswept hilltop, peering out at the persistent drizzle that characterises the Peaks, but they're as wonderfully palatable regardless of where they're enjoyed. Another coastal brewery, St Austell, may actually be better enjoyed inland and away from the salt tang of the Cornish air.

Harveys, much like a foaming ale version of Antaeus, loses something when taken away from its chosen ground. Away from sea and cliff and Down the ale tends to fall a little flat. Maybe it just doesn't travel well. As such the Pilot was probably one of the better places to indulge in several pints of the stuff. The sea is ever present and the place is basically perched on the edge of a cliff, at the eastern edge of the Downs. Maybe it was the location, maybe the context, maybe the tortured state of our nerves and livers. Whevs.

That pint of medicinal ale was, without exaggeration, one of the best pints I have ever savoured. Everything came together. Sat in the sun, pleasantly tired, with sand in my shoes and the sound of sea and gull that first sip was like a snatched taste of Elysium. And, frankly, if that isn't a reason to go drink a beer by the sea then nothing will ever persuade you.

James

Also, ignore everything positive previously said about peacocks. Squawking monstrosities.

Theatre

On Sunday I was having something of a dearth of social options, let's say, and the idea of staying in and watching Downton Abbey – for what else does one do on a Sunday? - was proving a little difficult to bear. So, I thought I'd go to the theatre. I should really have come up with something terribly catty to put in here about theatre-going on a Sunday and then ascribed it to a certain dowager, but I can't seem to think of anything. Which must be why Julian Fellowes gets the fame and fortune and I, ah, don't. Anyway. I went to a small place in Lisson Grove called the Cockpit Theatre to see a show called A Broken Rose. Awfully good it was, too.

But first, and in keeping with the general purpose of this blog, my compatriot and I went to sample the pubs in and around the area. Well, pub, anyway. After peering into, and quickly retreating from, a number of, um, shall we say less than salubrious establishments we chanced across a Moroccan pub. Well, shisha bar. It was nice, it had shisha, so I suppose it lived up to expectations. Its supposedly-imported-but-actually-brewed-in-Slough European lager tasted like supposedly-imported-but-actually-brewed-in-Slough European lager. Which is always good. Um. The music was quite entertaining, and the fug of smoke made it fairly atmospheric. It probably has other good qualities, too.

Then we saw the play! Which was actually fantastic. It was billed as a dark, twisted fairytale and, to my happy surprise, turned out to be a dark, twisted tale about fairies. Performed in the round and with some excellent set and costume design it was the story of a girl's possibly real, possibly psychosis-induced invisible fairy friends. All happily mixed up with a smattering of substance abuse, domestic abuse, unwanted pregnancy, stage blood and a quite shocking – although in hindsight somewhat inevitable – conclusion. A solid Whisky Dog recommendation. Which we give to plays now, despite the name. And the other entries. 

So, we're out of the theatre, but it's a Sunday night, what to do? Still not wanting to return home and watch Downton, despite the appeal of Lady Mary's eyebrows, we ended up happily ensconced in the Allsop Arms. Located about halfway between Marylebone and Baker Street stations this pub carries the arguable mark of quality that comes from being the second pub on the Kensington and Marylebone arm of the Capital Cask Ale Trail. We at Whisky Dog like ale trails, so this was a good sign.

I would heartily recommend this pub, and its really very good Allsop Ale, to anyone who finds themselves with some time to waste in the area. It would be an excellent place to cleanse the palate if you were unfortunate enough to have had to face the grotesque appeal of Madame Tussauds, located about 5 minutes away.

In conclusion; a better evening than one spent watching Downton Abbey. And, really, what more can one ask for? 

Apart from Lady Mary's eyebrows, obviously...

Gin

Gin has had a bit of a varied history, to say the least. Gin is pretty quintessentially English, as compared to whisky which is currently a bit of a cross between Scotland's entire export economy and a Chinese businessman's penis extension. A pretty wonderful cross, but a cross nonetheless. There's just so much more associated with gin. Gin is burnt into the national character. It is the symbol of our nation's history and a chart of just how much we've developed as a society since it first came to the fore. It's also quite good mixed with other things in a glass. I realise that this is a blog about whisky but I for one haven't drunk much of it recently because it's been what we in England call summer and summer is a time for gin. And Pimm's, but that's another matter entirely. And I believe that gin is a little under respected, a little under appreciated, insomuch as an alcoholic liquid can be, anyway. There's art to do with gin, albeit portraying the stuff in a fairly unflattering light.

Gin started out as a cheap way for poor people to get as drunk as they possibly could as quickly as they possibly could so they could escape their dangerous, miserable, drudge-ridden and generally impoverished existence in the docks of London. It probably didn't help that the water then would kill you, the government had significant duties on foreign spirits (hence why smugglers and, by extension, Hastings exist) and, oh yes, there was no licensing of this powerful spirit. People were literally making it in their bathtubs. Well, figuratively, since they didn't have baths. Anyway. As you might expect gin got rather a bad name at this point seeing as how it maybe, possibly, probably singlehandedly stabilised London's burgeoning population explosion through a charming combination of death, child mortality and alcohol-fueled crime. Probably tasted pretty horrible too.

 Anyway, people got a little wise to just how much of a problem gin was becoming and clamped down on production and distribution, times changed and eventually almost all the gin production in London stopped. Out in the colonies, at that slightly fluid moment where the Empire was rushing out just fast enough for new and exciting diseases to kill the colonists, there was a slight problem with malaria. At that time there was only one solution to catching malaria, and that was to consume a large amount of quinine which, by all accounts, tasted pretty awful. The solution? Soak it in water then pour gin on top until it tastes palatable. And so the gin and tonic was invented on some sun-baked verandah in Ceylon or some other far flung outpost of her Majesty's empire and came to characterise a completely different aspect of England. Not just for the poor, gin was the respectable drink of the colonial adventurer. I expect that, if he were real, Allan Quartermain would have been perpetually squiffy on G&Ts, much like this:

Then the middle-classes got a grip on the stuff. This was the time of gin in teacups and hammered housewives smashing the stuff back to cope with 60's suburbia. And still is, if my mother's liquor cupboard is any indication. But gin, like all good alcoholic drinks, is undergoing a bit of a renaissance. In 2009 the first gin distillery to open in London for 189 years started production of the absolutely brilliant Sipsmith gin, in their still called Prudence. This is gin as it should be made, not by the thousands or millions of gallons by Diageo, but in 300 bottle batches in a residential street with water from the Cotswolds and barley from, well, a nearby field. After a bit of a slow start Sipsmith gin is now available all over the place – so long as that place has a Waitrose – and is well worth trying.

Although gin is best known as being from London (or Plymouth, for some reason) sometimes it's best to look further afield. So far afield, in fact, that you're rapidly running out of Britain before you get there. Shetland, that windswept, barren, and sheep filled island is about as far from the traditional homes of gin drinking as you could realistically get before you cross the Arctic Circle. Yet Shetland is the home of Blackwood's gin which is made using locally collected Wild Water Mint, Meadowsweet and Sea Pink flowers. I don't know what any of these are, but the end concoction is absolutely delicious by itself or mixed at half and half with tonic and a slice of lemon. 

And that's all there is to it; now I hope you'll all mix a drink, sit back, and savour the taste of history and the last, somewhat overcast, days of summer.

James

Cocktails

Cocktails

Cocktails have a bit of a mixed reputation; both in life and here at Whisky Dog. On the one hand they can be delicious, impossibly cool looking to drink and have a decidedly insalubrious effect. On the other hand, they can be horrifically syrupy bile in colours Dali might have thought twice about using. Although it does still tend to have a decidedly insalubrious effect. Yes, I'm looking at you, 'Woo Woo'. The humble, or decidedly extravagant cocktail has also taken a bit of a battering at the hands TV shows like Sex and the City, with its obsession with Cosmos. After all, what is more female than a cocktail? It really doesn't help that cocktails are a good way for bars to make money and so, generally, are...underpowered, to say the least. For too long we have suffered at the hands of chain bar cocktail menus which always comprise of a half pint of ice, a single measure of cheap vodka, then a copious amount of some unknown substance from a plastic bottle below the bar – a frankly bewitching sounding combination which then costs half your day's pay and then is gone in minutes. It can't be savoured, and tastes only of E-numbers and high fructose corn syrup. Or something.

But it doesn't have to be this way!

I suppose we have Mad Men to thank for a lot of this, but a good cocktail; made with whiskey, is now within our grasp. All we have to do is reach out and take it. Or find a bar that makes it. Or, you know, learn the recipe ourselves. And, chaps, it is always whiskey. I've seen concoctions made using single malt scotch and that, well, that just seems wrong.

First; the bar that makes it: The Old Fashioned

This is THE whiskey cocktail, beloved of Don Draper and everyone else who tries it. In fact, my first taste of this cocktail was when someone shoved one into my hand in a bar with the words 'This is what Don drinks'. I hadn't seen any of Mad Men at this point so I nodded, and smiled, and then drank the single best mixed drink I'd ever tasted. On one level so simple, and yet undeniably brilliant, an Old Fashioned is basically bourbon, a drop of Angostura bitters and some brown sugar mixed with water. There are many, many, many variations of this. In fact, the bar in question, located in impossibly trendy Camden has two variations of it themselves. However, this is by far the better version:

Old Fashioned (two)
Woodford Reserve and a dash of maraschino liqueur are balanced out with a brown sugar cube, orange bitters and slowly stirred over Ty Nant mineral water ice cubes. These drinks take time and passion to create – expect to wait 5 minutes per drink.

That last part is vital. This is a cocktail which is crafted so you get layers of sweet, bitter, sour boozy, and that delicious orange twist. The bar staff must hate them, which is a sign of a good cocktail. And just look at it. 

Forget the bright colours, forget the Cosmos, forget everything you think about cocktails in bars. It just looks impossibly cool. As will you drinking it. I guarantee*. This is a drink that should single handedly make men drinking cocktails cool again, and reclaim it from the stigma of town centre Friday nights and crying girls.

Especially if you drink one in here.

Second: learn the recipe yourself: The Stonewall

While an Old Fashioned is pretty fantastic, sometimes it just doesn't hit the spot. In the same way that a generous glass of scotch just isn't going to be what you're looking for as the sun dips on a sunny day. That's where the Stonewall comes in. It's simple, it's refreshing, it's delicious, and it's not massively sweet. This is something you could mix in really big jugs and have set between friends in a garden of a summer's eve. You'd probably have to crawl back into the house afterwards, but it'd be worth it.

You'll need bourbon, cloudy apple juice, ginger ale and limes, lots of limes. Then mix a generous measure of bourbon in a glass with the apple juice at a 2:1 apple to whiskey ratio. Squeeze in some of the juice and gooey bits from a lime, stir, then top up with ginger ale. Garnish with a slice of lime and, hey, done. Then go and set the world to rights as the shadows lengthen.

Hopefully this has rescued cocktails for you. Now, I don't expect to see you drinking cocktails in your local Slug & Lettuce again. Ever, actually. But if you must, stick to the gin – even they can't mess that up.

*Guarantee not valid in any actual real-world situation.

The Trans-Pennine Ale Trail

Britain may no longer rule the world but it is safe to say that Britain did go about inventing most of it. Not just the obvious stuff either, you know, rule of law, parliamentary democracy, gunboat diplomacy, cricket. Britain also invented railways, the jet engine, the pub, concentration camps, ale, the deep fried Mars bar and the myth of Welsh nationalism. All of which came about by taking something which already existed and making it actually work well – or in the case of the Mars bar, turning it into a precision guided killing machine. In batter. I mean, the ancient Greeks invented the steam engine but it took a slightly odd Cornishman and the allure of obscene amounts of money to make it actually do anything worthwhile.

As to this, allow me to return to this site's new apparent purpose; ale. Bit of a misnomer at the top of the page, but let's ignore that. Right. As I was saying about British inventions, they're all built on previous ideas made better. And what's better than taking a bunch of good ideas and mashing them together? Thermodynamics says you can never get out more than you put in but, in this case, frankly, I disagree. Take four of the best things to come out of Britain – trains, pubs, ale (obviously), and architecture. Architecture? I hear you cry, but this is the country that glorified Brutalism! To which I say, basically, shut up. Add to this mix the beauty of the Pennines and, with a stroke of maniacal genius, you have just invented the Trans-Pennine Ale Trail.

Running through the northern reaches of the Peaks from Manchester in the west through to the outer environs of Leeds in the east the trail comprises most of the stations between Stalybridge and Dewsbury. Charmingly, most of the pubs and bars in question are actually within the stations themselves. This is a throwback to a bygone age of rail travel, where most of the larger stations would have had a general tea-room which occasionally served something a little stronger. Now, with the exception of the detestable franchises selling unrecognisable styrofoam cups of grey, scummy liquid, upsettingly few remain. Those that do are often in some of the most ostentatious Victorian stations; most of which are located in the northern counties where new industrial money produced some truly remarkable examples of architecture.

First, the Dewsbury, at the easternmost end of the trail, is a town located about halfway between Hudderfield and Leeds. Here, nestled below the typical wrought iron gridding, is a pleasant bar of time-darkened wood named the West Riding Refreshment Rooms. The beer here appears to tend towards heavy, full headed varieties, which I wasn't quite sure we'd be able to cope with. This concern was not helped when two pints of white foam were deposited before our slightly concerned eyes. Given time and patience these coalesced into a surprisingly clear and light pint, perfect to take the remaining sharp edges off a hangover. However Dewsbury is not a place where one can spend a day; the bar is fairly small, chaotic and perpetually crowded, and so on to Huddersfield.

'Uddersfield, as the man on the train called it, proved to be a revelation. I was expecting a slightly decayed post-industrial town (shameful southern bias, I'm afraid). In contrast I found a huge station of pale stone, which opened up onto a similarly large esplanade of very impressive civic buildings. I mean, the one opposite the facade of Doric-columned stone which forms the station's entrance had a very large reclining Brittania placed on its roof. Its neighbour settling for the slightly less showy but always classic lions. The better of the two bars in this station is the Head of Steam, a slightly incongrously '50's diner-themed bar divided into four sections; in principle for dining and accommodating children and the like. The beer here is impressively varied in character and locality, with ciders being fairly well represented in addition. Having been amused by the name I settled in to a good few, very pleasant, pints of Copper Dragon, which I would recommend to all and sundry. My compatriot, clearly possessed of a more varied palate, sampled far more widely – even venturing so far as to try a beer from South Yorkshire.

And then...

Well, and then we went home. This is the inherent flaw of the Ale Trail; there are nine stops. Train services, while regular, and not as often as would be ideal and so it is very difficult to do all nine stops (or even more than two) in a given day unless you are starting in Manchester or Leeds. The train times/opening hours/point at which the sun has crossed the yardarm get into a bit of a snare otherwise. Starting late, with a hangover, was probably not the best approach to take. We do apologise.

Perhaps the most difficult part of the day was the slightly arduous journey back to the the relatively tame southern Peaks from the wilds of the Pennines, which caused some complaints. It is apparently very difficult to get around in the north. Not sure I agree. I mean, we managed to cover nearly two hundred hungover and drunken miles with fairly little fuss, confusion or tears. By contrast the very next day I managed to get in a bit of a muddle over the three stations in West Hampstead and, let's face it, that's just a road, a few houses and some grass. For all their complaining these northern jessies don't even know they're born.

James

The Ale Festival

Although we here at Whisky Dog Blog are primarily concerned with distilled beverages, I feel it worthwhile to discuss the CAMRA Ale festival I recently attended in Derby’s historic roundhouse; a wonderful building now used as part of Derby College. I have previously been to one of these events held in Stoke-on-Trent, accompanied by the two other writers on this blog and they will be unsurprised to know that the clientele was much the same: middle aged men in CAMRA t-shirts talking loudly about the superiority of their chosen tipple.

Upon perusing the large selection of cask ales on sale, I noticed a far smaller stand catering to those who wanted to taste U.S craft beers as well as beers from Europe. I ignored this section at first, instead tucking into many a half of fine English beer; admittedly focusing mainly on Pale Ales. Although the beer was good, it just wasn’t hitting the spot. It was all quite samey and I was dying for something to hit me and make me take notice.  So I decided to wander over the aforementioned stand.

Now (and this is relatively important), I have long been of the opinion (as I imagine many Englishmen have) that American beer is just mass produced, watery, tasteless, shite that can only be drunk without risk of mockery when consuming a pizza. It was with delight on this evening that I discovered something that allows me to completely repudiate this view. I was first, however, confronted with the spectacle of Scotsman aggressively yelling “your bein’ fuckn’ uncouth” at a pretty inoffensive looking English student for swigging his beer straight out of the bottle. When the guy enquired as to whether it was appropriate for a member of CAMRA’s staff to speak to festival goers in this fashion (adding quite rightly that once he had paid for the beer he could consume it in whatever way he saw fit) and also adding that he was rather offended by the incident, the Scotsman responded “Good! I meant to fuckn’ offend ya!”.

I will first of all confess that the main reason for choosing to try Rogue breweries ‘Yellow Snow IPA’ was for two aesthetic reasons: firstly, the bottle looked cool. Secondly, the name made me giggle. Be that as it may, I was quite astounded upon tasting it. There is no doubting that it was the right choice, this truly is a marvellous beer. It has everything you look for in a quality IPA, it is hoppy and strong tasting, it doesn’t feel thin on the palate and although a few bottles can make you feel a little worse for were the day after, it truly is a beer that forces you to take notice of its quality. I was quite astonished by how good this ale was and purchased a couple to take home. I later began wishing and hadn’t consumed them straight away, but it really is that tasty.

A few days later I was in Tesco (of all places) and saw that they had a small selection of American craft beers and I decided to try the only one I had never seen before. It was Goose Island’s ‘India Pale Ale’ and again, it was utterly fantastic. Not as strong tasting as the Rogue IPA, owing primarily to the fact that it isn’t as well hopped, but a beer of great quality none the less. These two beers genuinely are two of the tastiest beers I have drunk in a very long time and have caused me to totally renounce the snobbish, elitist and, frankly, quite ridiculous attitude I had towards American beers in the past.

I have a theory as to why I possessed this attitude in the first place. It is not untrue to claim that the overwhelming bulk of American ‘beer’ (if indeed it deserves that title) sold in British pubs and supermarkets is complete and utter garbage. Both cheaply produced and wildly overpriced it is sold to a public who, while having very good access to modern British craft beer, have very limited access to real American beers. Consequently we began to act as if these big brands spoke for American brewing as a whole, rather like assuming that certain fast food chains are the full international expression of American cuisine. In the words of David Brent: “don’t assume, it makes an ass out of you and me.”     

Joe 

Caol Ila 12 year old

There are few pleasures, I believe, which elicit more frowning approbation than drinking by oneself. I don't know, maybe taking heroin or watching Take Me Out might result in the same staid disapproval – not really my field of expertise. Anyway. Drinking alone is something which must be done with a certain degree of both preparation and decorum. This is not something you can approach by buying eight cans of Strongbow and shoving a Steven Seagal film on a TV; or it shouldn't be, anyway. You need a classic of cinema or television; I chose Jurassic Park, but something with artistic merit might work too. Or any of the current spate of really, really brilliant Danish TV shows would do nicely. Once you've got the entertainment sorted some serious thought has to be given to the evening's spirit, discussed below. Once all that has been sorted out all that remains is to settle down, pour a glass and luxuriate in the glow of absolute self indulgence.

This is not the forum for anything which may be described as having the astounding depth, or the infinite complexity, or the untempered searing power which many whiskies may claim. This is a situation which calls for subtlety, for a whisky which possesses all the characteristics of its home region, but veils them behind a delicate, floral and honey sweet film of, well, reticence – I suppose. In this regard a twelve year old Caol Ila swiftly steps forwards as the perfect candidate. An Islay malt, produced at Port Askaig on the island, the first thing to notice is the fact that this whisky is practically colourless. This stands it in stark contrast with its island brethren, which tend towards dark, faintly imposing amber shades.

Port Askaig was once the main link between Islay and the mainland, and this whisky demonstrates a blending of the two worlds. On the one hand all the wealth of flavours, the pervasive oil and salt of a windswept shore, and the fierce peatiness of the island's water are present here. This is not a malt which could ever be thought to have come from anywhere but Islay, or perhaps that fine distillery located in Scotland's wild North which was once only accessible by boat. On the other is the fine, smooth and accessible characteristic more normally associated with its East coast brethren.

While this scotch will not win awards for complexity, or possess the sheer power of some of the other fine spirits reviewed here, it captures perfectly just how refined and delicate whisky can be and still retain its wonderful potency. This is not an anaemic Lowland or Speyside, it is absolutely a product of Islay, possessing the island's wonderful mix of sea and smoke, yet it smooths over these with a fascinating floral blanket without in any way smothering them. As the bottle itself says this is Islay 'elegantly expressed with clarity and balance'. And it does it very well indeed.

As a vital aspect of an evening spent with a bottle and one's choice of entertainment it also succeeds with flying colours. The delicate nature makes it far more drinkable than most Islay malts, which tend to be so complex as to exhaust the palette after three or perhaps four drams. This does lead me on to my main criticism of Caol Ila – the light and delicate body is a little unsatisfying. Considering this is a fairly young malt from Islay the finish tails off with worrying rapidity. Conversely this also makes it one of the more intriguing expressions from that wonderful island – it is a malt that leaves one wanting more. It is, as Oscar Wilde didn't quite say on the topic of perfect pleasures, exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied.

Oh, and it's pronounced Cull Ee-La.

James

Sazerac 18

Researching a dissertation yields the prospect of spending successive evenings pouring over musty books to the ire of yourself and others. Conversely it can provide a fantastic excuse to indulge, evening after evening, in a glass or two of excellent whiskey. Accompanying successive nights of reading, note-taking and typing with the lilting tunes of Miles Davis and a glass of session whiskey can lead to a quiet, rather cultured form of alcoholism. If there is something that could be considered a session dram then the Sazerac 18 may be it… if it wasn’t for the £100 plus price tag for a single bottle. It is, perhaps, for the best that it is priced towards the upper extreme of what most people, including myself, would consider acceptable to spend on a bottle of whiskey because if it is drunk as a session whiskey the Sazerac 18 can prove dangerous to any remaining credit you hold with Father Time and your chosen banking institution. I shall try and explain through my experience why it is (rather sadly considering these small mitigating factors) the closest I have come to the perfect session whisky.

The first opening of a Sazerac 18 releases such a delicious smell that when we opened our first, and so far only bottle, I was reminded of a tour around a Caribbean rum distillery I had been on some six years previously. Part of the excursion at the Mount Gay Rum Distillery took the group through a room filled almost entirely with a gigantic wooden vat, its staves soaked in the ingredients of years of rum production. The humid air was saturated with the bewitching smells of raisin and molasses. Opening the bottle of Sazerac 18 reawakened this memory and I hoped against all hopes that this rye was as brilliant on the palate as it was on the nose.

A plethora of words can be used to describe the way this rye tastes: butterscotch, toffee, caramel, raisin, vanilla – indeed it does have some fantastically ‘rummy’ undertones. You will find these words thrown around rather overwhelmingly in most tastings of this rye but this bears no reflection on how the whiskey comes together on the palate. The sweeter tones are not overbearing, instead they are balanced by the more familiar notes of an exceptionally refined Kentucky rye: oak, leather and a hint of spice. This is to describe the interplay between the different flavors that my humble palate could detect, a more experienced taster would, I imagine, experience a luscious balance of rising and falling flavors that would prove to be even more enticing than to an amateur enthusiast such as myself.

In my experience consecutive tastings of a whisky always seem to fall, (by varying margins) slightly short of the experience, burnt into your memory of the first sip. The Sazerac 18 is a rare example of a whisky that quietly delights you as every sampling comes within a hairs breadth of replicating the first heady meeting. Each time you taste this rye you find yourself chasing another of its delicious components and then taking another sip to confirm what delicate hint of its ambrosial composition you had experienced. 

The Glenlivet 15 year old French Oak Reserve

When I was younger I knew this chap who, well, let's just say he wasn't very bright. One day he was indulging in that quintessential teenage activity; playing with fireworks. He lit the fuse and went to throw this really quite powerful explosive and the fuse went out. So he relit it and went to throw this really quite powerful explosive and it blew most of his hand off. Raining bits and pieces, quite a lot of noise, traumatic experience all round. The point is that just because you're performing the same action with the same object you probably shouldn't expect the same reaction. Also, never ever play with fireworks.

This applies, just barely, to whisky. The object of today's review is the 15 year old French Oak Reserve The Glenlivet. The Glenlivet distillery is located near Moray in Scotland, in the Spey region and opened in 1824 – making it one of the oldest still active whisky producers. Located in the glen of Glenlivet the distillery was so successful that a huge number of smaller producers started calling their produce Glenlivet, resulting in it being called the 'longest glen in Scotland'. As a result of a pretty major legal challenge the distillery earned the right to call its, and only its, product The Glenlivet. Hopefully that's cleared up any confusion over its grammatically horrible name. I've sampled this particular scotch twice and have to say that it seems to be a real inconsistency between bottles.

In keeping with the rather dubious firework theme the first occasion was at the Lewes Bonfire, I'm not sure how many people have been to – or heard of – this event but it has to be one of the most staggeringly insane things England has managed to produce. After actually wanting to host the Olympics and Desperate Scousewives, of course. Essentially, in remembrance of both the Gunpowder Plot and the burning of seventeen Protestant martyrs, the entire town dresses up in costumes and marches through the streets carrying burning crosses and flaming torches while towing lit barrels of tar and torching effigies of the Pope and other disliked public figures while generally blowing stuff up with gunpowder.

See? Insane. When sampled in this smoke and fire filled environment the scotch came across as light, sweet and fruity with only a slight hint of smokiness. Somewhere between plum brandy and a cigarette, in fact. It was also incredibly smooth and even refreshing, we may have drunk the entire bottle in less than an hour. I have since come to the conclusion that since we were drinking it while essentially passive-smoking twenty cigarettes, a bonfire and the gun deck of HMS Victory in October 1805 our impressions may have been a little bit off.

So, if on first tasting the whisky comes across as mellow, smooth and even a little underpowered – a malt one could happily spend an entire evening drinking – then the second tasting, with a different bottle; in the rather less insane confines of my own home, was something of a shock. Whether it was a different casking, an over-strength bottle or just the lack of a persistent cloud of smoke I don't know but the second bottle of this fine spirit figuratively blew my hand off. The smoothness was still there but the lightness of body, the sweet fruitiness, had been utterly smothered by a raw, fiery spiciness and incredibly dry finish which just seems to come out of nowhere. Not necessarily unpleasant, but it undoubtedly seemed in many respects closer to a Highland malt than the balanced Speyside I was expecting. This is one of the things I find most appealing about whisky; despite the industrial quantities in which it is currently being produced there is still something of an art, rather than a science, to it. Hopefully my third opportunity to indulge in this particular expression will strike a balance between perfectly nice fizzle and fiery explosiveness. In conclusion; do try this malt, and don't go back to lit fireworks, chaps.

James

Lagavulin 16 Yr

There are few drinks whose pouring can induce yourfellow unknowing drinkers to inhale and then, as a consequence, walk outside tosee if someone is having a spontaneous bonfire. Lagavulin is one of thesedrinks. Although it is a whisky I have sampled on numerous occasions, it neverceases to blow me away with its subtle power and complexity. 

On this occasion it was a weeklong stint onMetronidazole and consequent time on the wagon that gave me a hankering for a dram of great quality and sophistication. The dregs from New Year aside, thequality pickings were slim. Glenmorangie, a superior whisky to be sure, justwasn't enough; it's luscious fruit-like nose depleted by the repeated openingsof weekend lodgers. The Glenfiddich: empty and maliciously placed back its boxto entice the eventual disappointment of the luckless imbiber. It then occurredto me that I had stashed something in the back of the kitchen cupboard prior toNew Years Eve; having forgot about it, I assumed it must still be there. I hadhidden it, primarily with selfish intent but also to prevent the disapprovinggasps of John Smiths drinking relatives. 

The Lagavulin. There it was. Not much left, but enoughfor a decent dram. The gasps, as it happens, were mine, although they were notdisapproving. To call this ‘a dram of great quality and sophistication’ is an understatement; it may indeed be the mostconsistently brilliant whisky ever to be had. Upon sipping this wonderful malt,I began thinking about all the different Lagavulin bottling's that I havetasted. I remember my first: a 16yr finished in Pedro Ximenez port casks;somehow the magic of my first taste has never left me. It may not be the drinkfor everyone, in fact I know it isn't, but I truly do pity those who cannotappreciate the peat and pepper of the nose, the brine and salt of the palletand the long, peaty, alcoholic finish.     

Moredifficult to find that many whiskies, it is perhaps one of the least famous ofthe Islay malts – its Ardbeg, Laphroig and Bruichladdich brethren beating it tothe punch – but on average it is most certainly the tastiest and most consistent.It can be brought from some higher end supermarkets (Waitrose and the like) butit may take more time and patience to locate in bars. The 16yr, priced ataround £38-40 is the standard expression with older bottling’s comings in atfar higher prices.

There aresmokier whiskies, Ardbeg for one, and great whiskies too, but there is somethingindescribable about the joys of a Lagavulin. According to its wonderfullystylish and understated bottle, locals say: “time takes out the fire but leavesin the warmth.” I dare say they are right.


Joe

Talisker 10 Year Old

As North American editor the primary focus of my updates should be the Rye and Bourbon whiskies available to me during my jaunt across British Columbia and Alberta. I have utterly neglected this task and for this update have decided upon something a bit more familiar and close to home.

Making the most of a very spring-like day in early February we took a boat out on Burrard Inlet and launching at Port Moody sped up Indian Arm to the falls. Turning around at Wigwam Inn – now the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club, its days as a gentrified brothel behind it – we came back to see the sunset spread behind the mountains like a gigantic bruise from which trails of cloud veined out over the dusky sky. Wind chilled faces and hands needed relief so we stopped at The Boathouse restaurant for a drink and a bite to eat. As it was a game night oysters were on special at $1.20 a go so I cautiously ordered a couple of the Chef’s Bay variety. After being told that it was the wrong time of year for my choice I settled on a starting round of two Royal Miyagi.

The Boathouse has an extensive wine and cocktail list so could have offered a good Chablis to accompany my oysters but I was hankering after a Scotch. My initial instinct was to go with something that had spent its life ageing close to the sea: salt and seaweed would be worthy companions for the regal oyster. I asked if the bar stocked any Islay Single Malts and was told they had Crown Royal (excellent when topped with ginger ale and lime) so I jumped the comprehension barrier by asking more generally for a Single Malt Scotch. Talisker was duly mentioned and I ordered up a single measure of the ten year old. In reflection my want of a briny Islay Malt may have been a little rash as the lingering iodine in some of the island’s heftier candidates may have proved overpowering for the oyster’s delicate flavors. As it happened the Talisker substitute worked wonderfully. I was greeted with a smoky element that seemed more pronounced than in previous liaisons with this malt. The peppery dimension found in Talisker’s older expressions was almost entirely absent but in the circumstances this did not detract from the overall experience. Talisker affords a good balance between the qualities of the Islay and Mainland malts but has a character that betrays its island birthplace. Taking a mere lip moistener of this younger and perhaps less complex dram from Skye prepared the palate perfectly. The additional hint of the aforementioned smoke to the first briny, then fresh, and finally delicious umami aftertaste of the oyster lifted the entire composition. I quickly made an order for four more oysters. 


Chris    

First Post/Glenmorangie 10yr old

It was in the face of the frozen chaos set to engulf the UK over the weekend just passed I decided that clearly the best thing to do would be to cloister myself in a small village nestled on the edge of the Peak District; a stone's throw from the staggeringly historic and, more importantly, very pretty Derwent Valley. It was in this village - a tumbling chaos of crumblingly ancient gritstone and sprawling 70's houses - which provided the infinitely charming backdrop for tasting the whisky.

We're starting quite solidly in the mainstream for this post with a 10 year old Glenmorangie. Supposedly perfected by the Sixteen Men of Tain Glenmorangie is an unremarkable but very pleasant single malt readily available from, well, basically anywhere which serves alcoholic fare of any real quality. By which I essentially mean everywhere that doesn't cater to students or BNP members. You should be able to find it in most pubs and even, I hear, in larger examples of Asda. Not that I've actually been in an Asda for years, it's something to do with all the green. It just doesn't seem all that inviting.

As a Speyside malt Glenmorangie has a smooth and light body and is, to my very untutored palette, a sweet, smoky and very easily drunk malt. This is a scotch which you can reasonably claim possesses hints of apricots and honey and nobody will look at you with the same scathing judgement they might use if you had just burst into a room wearing a beret and insisting that the lurid crimson vinegar you're swigging straight from a flat-bottomed, screw capped bottle contains 'a tantalising hint of wild red berries'. To put an end to this fairly awful metaphor this is as solidly unpretentious an expression as you're likely to find and is, in contrast to the fiery rawness of the Highlands or the wondrously complex and ever changing amber depths of Islay, about as inoffensive a malt as may be found. In fact, I challenge you to find a person with an even passing taste for scotch who doesn't admit an affection for this bottle. In this case inoffensiveness is positively high regard. Honest.

James