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