Friends of T’s and mine bought me a bottle of Scotch. A really nice bottle of Scotch.
Before I say much, know this about my whisky-drinking: I’m a boor. I know what I like, but am not a snob. I don’t know (or care) about the various regions of Scotland, distilling techniques, barrels, or what have you. I don’t use words like “peat-y” to describe anything except my good friend in fifth grade, Peter R. And I spelled it differently.
When I’m at home, I tend to drink either Oban or Bruichladdich – each of which has been, on more than one occasion, by more than one person, described to me as a “pussy whisky.”
But let me describe to you the bottle our friends gave me last night:
It is deep gold, transparent, but just barely. The color of nectar.
I read that it is “fragrant, sweet, with a whiff of smoke.” And further: “The body is smooth, medium, rich. On the palate, round, warming, malty, with delicate peaty undertones. It has a long finish, fruity and smooth, with an afterglow like a Western Highland twilight.”
Its manufacturers say that it has a “sweet peat and fruity nose with a spicy mouth-filling sweetness and a long drying finish with smoke and some salt.”
But this is what I think:
The body is curvy, rounded, sumptuous – taut, firm, but yielding. On the palate, it is musky, sweet, hot – smooth, slippery, and just a little dirty if you think about it. It takes long to finish, but I’m in no hurry, lapping it up hungrily, but patiently, and when I’m done, I have an afterglow. I don’t know from Western Highland twilights, but I look JBF.
Just like T’s pussy.