Taking to the Waters
The results are in and apologies for taking so long to tabulate the votes. There was an unprecedented turnout at the polls and 100% of eligible voters cast their ballots for scotch.
On Sunday last, a tippling triumvirate sat down to weigh the comparative merits of Scottish waters. Here is how it all went down. My Brolaw invited me to drink scotch in honour of my recent birthday and it was to take place at my father’s house, where we would conduct serious investigations under controlled circumstances. I arrived to find a number of scotches on the table and stacks of forms awaiting my hand. As accompaniment, there was an ample selection of savoury snacks, including herring both smoked and kippered, olives and spicy cheese, fried bread and various crackers, smoked salmon, Polish sausage, and cashews. The paté remained in the ‘fridge because, frankly, who could remember everything once the bottles started being opened?
Open we did, beginning with Aberlour 16, which I claimed was copper in colour (we soon found that trying to find new adjectives for the colour of scotch was an exercise in absurdity) and warming in first intensity/complexity. I thought it was slightly woody and toasted, as well as having cooked vegetable notes. All these high-falutin’ descriptions, I must confess, were already set forth on the page in a multiple-choice style, as I would have said something more to the tune of “tastes like [insert smooth/harsh/angels’ tears/pissy] scotch” for just about anything. For Aberlour, I ad-libbed that it was a scotch that could wear ballet slippers, it being so gentle and graceful.
Our next scotch was the only blend of the night, The Peat Monster. With a sobriquet so playfully aggressive, it was little wonder that I found it to be sharp as knives and certainly peaty but, unexpectedly for me, not particularly smoky. I also chose options such as medicinal, leathery, and solvent-like. Interestingly, this turned out to be Pa’s favourite of our selections. We followed this with Glenfarclas Cask Strength 105, which had the fury of a caged animal. There was cooked fruit and honey and sweat and leather and winewood but mostly my ears are still ringing from putting this in my mouth. Confessing that I still had a touch of hangover from the previous night’s overindulgence in vino, this one set the lightning bolts sparking again across my forehead.
Thanks and praises be to Jah for setting me free from earthly pains on the next outing with Tomintoul 27. This scotch was born before I even had pubic hairs, fer chrissakes! And it nearly removed the old growth too. A delicious scotch, I say. After diluting with water, I found this to have all the scotchy goodness I love in a scotch. Brolaw said this is because of my aspirational tendencies and my pathological need to have whatever is the most ostentatious/expensive/bourgeois, etc. Whatever! It was delicious and my fave entry of the lot. For those keeping score, we’re now at four scotches down and still inside the first hour. It can only be a matter of time before tipsiness sets in.
In pursuit of said condition, we move on to Longmorn 15, which I claim has the appearance of ‘yellow submarine,’ once more raising the ire of Brolaw. I say it’s hay-like, with acidic notes and I think my nose and mouth are starting to have difficulty making meaningful distinctions. Better drink faster before the olfactories go on strike! Next up is one of the pillars of best-known malted beverages, the big daddy hisself, Glenlivet. There can be no surprises here, as it’s a bottle we’ve all had on countless occasions and yet there remains something of a new discovery in pitting it against other scotches and therefore into a different context than the usual visit. I found the ‘livet to have some smoulder and just a bit of swagger.
Somewhere about this time, Brolaw excused himself to the kitchen and emerged some minutes later with a divine soup he called scotch-seared scallops and butternut squash. Bless the man, as this was first-rate soup and did wonders to keep our strength up for the coming rounds.
Returning to Tomintoul territory, we next tested the 16-year-old, which, like those of such age, had tits but no hips and I probably shouldn’t say more along those lines, especially as the scotch count is already at seven and I am becoming increasingly liable to express sentiments best kept to one’s self. It doesn’t become more politically correct, alas, when I next pour Glendronach down the hatch, which I describe as having qualities of the Mongol horde. My mouth is certainly starting to feel like an army made a hard day’s ride across it. To wrap up the scotch abuse, we sample Tomintoul once more, with the 10-year old. This young’un clearly hasn’t yet grown accustomed to forced confinement inside the bottle and bursts out everywhere with the enthusiasm of youth, trampling all over my aching palate like my own young children who daily leap on their father’s belly at 5:00am just to see what sounds he might make. The only sound I manage for Tomintoul 10 is zzznfgher, which is a direct quote from my tasting notes, I now being unable to string coherent thoughts together.
Remember that episode of WKRP where Johnny and Venus were doing the test with the state trooper on the effects of alcohol on one’s reflexes and Johnny became more alert as he went along? Well, that didn’t happen here. Despite the fact that it wasn’t even 9:00pm yet, I was resorting to coffee to pull myself together. With that out of the way, I opened a beer and went out for a cheroot, which Brolaw had dug out from his golf bag for the occasion. The mercury was starting to dip and even my internal insulation and burning object in my face couldn’t keep me warm. Best to return indoors for something completely different; gin.
What the hell; my taste buds were already on amber alert so no reason to start mollycoddling them. Having given a bottle of Bulldog gin to my ol’ man some weeks before, we took this opportunity to give it a test run in the nude. That is to say the gin arrived immodestly, without any coverage in form of tonic or other embellishment. We remained fully clothed and determined that this gin was very pleasant but probably didn’t have the same remarkable qualities as Hendrick’s gin, which is available here at a similar price point and similarly interestingly-shaped bottle. Another beer, another coffee and it was time to say goodbye and goodnight. The lads had enjoyed a grand time of it and were no doubt smarter for all the research put in. I hopped the TTC home and found it to be populated with all manner of drunken teens and twenty-somethings, none of which, I imagine, had got that way in as cultured a fashion as myself.
November 7th, 2008 at 4:24 am
Clarification please: this was done on a Sunday night?
November 10th, 2008 at 3:01 pm
Well spotted, owl. It was a Saturday when we started. I wonder what prompted me to tell more lies? I blame Scotland, where it was all but Sunday when we sat down.