Pale honey hue, swirling in the Glencairn glass. Ten seconds. Fifteen. I tilt it and inhale the nose. Magic. I’m instantly in a rickhouse, stacked bulging barrels, oak shavings underfoot, sacks of toasted barley exhaling goodness that sparkles in shafts of sunlight. Give me grain! Golden kernels, husks crisply rolling between thumb and fingers. I defer tasting the whisky. Not yet! A second hit of nose, and I’m getting citrus, and maybe cherry. A hint of acetone, but that’s not unpleasant. I close my eyes, sip the first, throwaway taste. Only the weak taste-buds fall comatose. The manly ones will be there for the second taste, the one that counts. They don’t shirk. The second sip rubs my face in saddle leather, and sweetness only describable in terms of British desserts. Treacle tart. A hint of cherry tobacco. My senses of taste and smell are nearly ovewhelmed and leak into my vision, single-malt synesthesia, progressing like a rolling landscape across the visual field with a fantasia of bass sienna and cinnabar pulsing up to contralto aurorae of mustard and chartreuse, with dancing soprano flickers of aquamarine. The echoes die, slowly pulsing with my heart, the finish like a wave slowing to a sinuous stop along the strand and—a final surprise—green peppercorn and sorghum.
Powerful. Makes me wish the synesthesia extended into erotica. A proper challenge for the master distiller!
The second act in my flight is as different as two scotches can be. Dark amber, heavily peated, aged at the edge of the sea. An Islay whisky. The nose teleports me to a windblown beach. I smell iodine, and barnacled rocks, and lots and lots of smoke. I can almost hear saltgrass whisper. And under the brine, beneath the barley, like sweet silk in my mouth I find the sherry the cask held before, and the oak’s vanilla. The first taste knocks out half my tongue. It’s cask-strength, and it burns. A very good burn. I sample the nose again, and cold spindrift splashes my face, burning peat makes my eyes water, but I’m hasty to get to the second, serious taste.
I feel my scalp lift. So much energy in this oily dram! And to describe the flavors? It will be hard to articulate in a way I can say with a straight face, because honestly, it’s like going down on a mermaid. And the fantasia in my vision goes berserk, monster waves crashing against cliffs, echoing like cannonades in the hills, shaking to an impossibly long, hot, and peppery finish.
When the last whisper fades I feel drained, boneless, and why is my face buzzing?
Powerful. Makes me wish the synesthesia extended into erotica. A proper challenge for the master distiller!
The second act in my flight is as different as two scotches can be. Dark amber, heavily peated, aged at the edge of the sea. An Islay whisky. The nose teleports me to a windblown beach. I smell iodine, and barnacled rocks, and lots and lots of smoke. I can almost hear saltgrass whisper. And under the brine, beneath the barley, like sweet silk in my mouth I find the sherry the cask held before, and the oak’s vanilla. The first taste knocks out half my tongue. It’s cask-strength, and it burns. A very good burn. I sample the nose again, and cold spindrift splashes my face, burning peat makes my eyes water, but I’m hasty to get to the second, serious taste.
I feel my scalp lift. So much energy in this oily dram! And to describe the flavors? It will be hard to articulate in a way I can say with a straight face, because honestly, it’s like going down on a mermaid. And the fantasia in my vision goes berserk, monster waves crashing against cliffs, echoing like cannonades in the hills, shaking to an impossibly long, hot, and peppery finish.
When the last whisper fades I feel drained, boneless, and why is my face buzzing?
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