Whisky for Beginners

We've moved

2008-07-29T10:22:00.002+01:00

Whisky for Beginners is now simply Dubber and Clutch, where our stories continue.

Heads up, bargain hunters

2008-07-20T13:28:00.002+01:00

Arberlour 10 year old is six quid off at Tesco at the moment. £18 instead of £24. Nice drop too. Recommended...

Link to: Aberlour distillery.

Whisky for Not Drinking

2008-07-12T22:09:00.001+01:00

In which we talk about our whisky investment plan.

Proof that we are rubbish at video blogs. So, like playing the piano - we are determined to be bad at it repeatedly so that one day we can be good at it. The end clips off, my hair is baffling and stupid, and there is rambling.

Still... at least nobody reads this.

Whisky Country: Part Two

2008-07-08T19:10:00.003+01:00

So, I thought I should conclude my recent expedition to The Moray Riviera before it becomes too much of a distant memory.

My father and I set off for Huntly in the morning, with the intention of visiting Whiskies Of Scotland. It’s staffed by a very friendly and knowledgeable man by the name of Ronnie Routledge. Ronnie’s former Whisky Manager for Gordon & Macphail, so has a wealth of experience that you or I will never quite match, I suspect. If you’re ever in the vicinity, although I’m sure you won’t be stuck for choice of whisky emporia, Whiskies Of Scotland is worth making time for. You’ll be well looked after, and with the range of exclusive bottlings they carry from Duncan Taylor, you can be assured that you’ll have a wide variety of extra special malts to select from.

No, I don’t work for them…yet.

Tangent:

Whilst thinking of how to describe Ronnie, the phrase that sprang to mind was “a topper of a lad…” Where I’m from “topper’ is superlative which can be use to describe anything of outstanding merit.

This led me to think of a memory from my childhood.
The local radio station when I was growing up was Moray Firth Radio, and it had a daytime DJ who had a slot where members of the public would ring in with items for sale. One day a local farmer rang the live phone in to offload a cumbersome musical instrument.

DJ: And we have Alec now on the line with something that might interest our musician listeners, How are you today Alec?

Alec: Aye Jim, nae bad like. I dinna ken if ‘is wither’ll had oot. A’s hinkin’ te tak the beasts in ooer nicht. Gie cal’ ken?
(Hello Jim, I’m fine. I don’t know if this weather will hold out. I thought I might move the cattle inside tonight. It’s very cold, you know…?)

DJ: I know what you mean Alec. I had to turn the central heating up last night… So, what is it you’ve got to sell?

Alec: Well Jim, Ah’ve a muckle piana sittin’ ben i hoose, and it’s jist tikin up space, ken? So Ah’m needed shot o it.
(Well Jim, I have a large piano in the next room, and it’s taking up space, you know? So I’d like to get rid of it.)

DJ: Is it a grand piano, Alec?

Alec: Oh aye, it’s a f*ckin’ topper!
(Oh yes, it’s a beauty!)

I think that there may have been a quick cut to a commercial break at that point, but I was too busy bent double, cracking up laughing, at the unintentional comedy genius of the moment.

I digress.

Where was I? Aye, Whiskies Of Scotland in Huntly. Had a good look round, and although cash strapped, couldn’t resist picking up a copy of ‘The Whisky Muse’ by Robin Laing. I like a bit of music with my whisky, so it looked great to me. Upon paying, I noticed Ronnie’s selection of tasting bottles atop a barrel. Within the selection was the Adelphi Clynelish 10 year old, which I’d been reading about the day before in a catalogue for whiskies which featured in Scottish Field Whisky Challenge, which I knew Ronnie had been a judge in previously, so I asked him if it would be alright to try it.

It was…

To me the first thing I got was spice and dry grass when nosing it. The feel in the mouth was viscous and green, but with some peat and smoke in there also, and the finish lingered a surprisingly long time. A bottle I'll be getting in the not-too-distant future.

So we said our goodbyes and headed on to the next stage of our journey, which was to be a visit to Glenfiddich Distillery for the tour. Once outside, I badly needed to use the toilet, so I told my Dad I’d nip in to the pub we were passing and I’d meet him in the car. Upon entering the pub, I experienced The Spaghetti Western Effect. You know, when you walk into a saloon and the piano player stops playing, and everyone turns to look at you, and the women run upstairs and lock themselves in a room before the shooting starts…? Perhaps I exaggerate, but you get my point. I’d forgotten that I was dressed up fairly smartly and a touch too flamboyantly for Huntly at eleven in the morning on a Wednesday. My top was a retina-searing pea green. I like it, but it’s had comments passed on it before.
There were three customers, the barman, and myself. At the far end of the bar sat a grizzled man with bottle-top glasses and a baseball cap perched on his head. He was called Geordie (in the North East, it’s a derivative of George, and nothing to do with Newcastle-upon-Tyne.) and had the most impenetrable Doric, that made even me struggle. Near-unintelligible. Sat to his left, next to where I was standing, was another old bloke who looked like he’d gone ten rounds with Tyson in his hey-day. Two black eyes, a scraped nose, and a gash running from his hairline to his ear. The blood looked fresh. He smiled at me and said, “Fit like the day?”, to which I replied “Nae bad, yersel’? Having established myself as a returning local and not some dandy interloper, small talk and pleasantries were exchanged. I now felt obliged to have a drink, as I thought it’d be bad form to just ask where the toilet was. So I scanned the shelf above the optics, looking for something to try, and then my eyes settled on the Glennfiddich 12. A dram I’d had many times before, but have been dismissing out of hand due to teenage over-indulgence skewing my perception of it. As we were off to it’s birthplace shortly, I thought I’d get in the right mindset for the tour.
The barman reached up to retrieve the bottle from the shelf, and looked bemused that the cap was sealed.
“I don’t know if I’m supposed to open it,” he said.
“Er...Okay,” I replied, thinking this is a pub, isn’t it? “I’ll have a Bruichladdich instead please.”
The barman obliges by grabbing the bottle down from the top shelf, and then lets out a noise of exasperation at yet more unbroken foil.
Customer Number Three has been sitting quietly up until now on the leather bench behind me. Now, he leaps up and lets out a wail at the barman, and through a series of wild gesticulations and guttural utterances convinces him to just give me a nip of ‘fiddich like I asked for originally.

Now it felt like I’d earned that drink.

I'll finish this tale of three parts next time...

Join us for a drink

2008-07-04T10:22:00.004+01:00

The land of ire

2008-06-30T17:30:00.004+01:00

So while Clutch was celebrating his father's 60th in what he calls 'whisky country', I was hanging out with musicians in what I suppose you could call 'whiskey (with an 'e') country'. Except mostly, it wasn't.

I don't know a great deal about Irish whiskey - I mean, even less than I know about Scotch. There were only three things I knew for sure:

1) that the Irish stuff was distilled three times, rather than the Scottish method of distilling twice;

2) that the Irish never use peat in the process - and that's the bit that gives the competition their smokey, earthy overtones - especially in the Islay regions;

3) Irish whisky tends to be blended - Scotch is typically (at least the good stuff) single malt.

The ill-informed Irish youth
My four days in Belfast were spent meeting, chatting, partying and drinking with various Irish musicians - both from Northern Ireland and from the South. And as I spent an entertaining few days freeloading on people's couches and watching bands perform until the wee small hours, I had no end of conversations about whiskey.

And not one person knew a thing.

For a country proud of its whiskey-making tradition, they're not very good at instilling their young with a knowledge of the basics, are they? Everyone knows a good Guinness from a less good one (and I had a few of each - though there's really no such thing as a 'bad' Guinness)... but hardly anyone can name more than a couple of Irish whiskies - much less tell the difference.

I did notice that there was an amazing array of antique whiskey advertisement mirrors wherever you went - but not that much in the way of an actual whiskey selection, and sod-all expertise. At least, where I was looking.

Tried and true
I bought a small bottle of Black Bush and another of Jameson on my second night there, and split the former with my host, Nick from Penny Distribution (in the music business, distributing pennies) after a great night seeing up-and-comers General Fiasco and A Plastic Rose at the Empire.

It was a late one, but between the two of us, we managed to battle our way to the bottom of the Black Bush with the aid of ice (NEVER in a single malt scotch...) and some tasty snacks. By three o'clock in the morning, it was all gone, so we called it a night.

I ended up leaving the Jameson behind, convinced I wasn't all that interested in Irish whiskies after all (morning after regret?). I called it a 'thanks for having me' gift.

But later, once the cloud had lifted, I became determined that there was more to the Irish stuff than the bottles you can buy cheap here in England. So I looked a little harder. And after some pestering, I managed to convince Walter the Goon (honestly) from the band John Shelly and the Creatures to find me a good Irish pub in the traditional 'not-part-of-a-dodgy-chain' sense. One with a decent whisky selection.

He did not disappoint.

Whiskey tasting on the fly
We made our way to The Duke of York - a worryingly English name for what actually turned out to be an Irish-as-it-could-possibly-be pub - and we had a quiet Guinness while we perused both sides of the closely-typed whiskey menu, which ranged in price from £2 a measure, right up to £55 a measure (they don't call them drams, apparently).

We were on a bit of a deadline - my bus to the airport left in an hour, so we had to make a choice. At the proprietor's insistence, I tried a Redbreast 12 year-old. Good sized measure, no water, no ice - just neat.

Oh. My. God.

Not the usual kind of smoky, fiery, paint-strippery pleasure you get from a peaty Islay malt - but a completely different category of delight. Sherry, honey, floral and fruity flavours... and just the smoothest whisky drinking experience I've yet encountered. A real pleasure of a drink - and if I can find a bottle of it anywhere, I'm grabbing it. Just amazing.

There's clearly more to this Irish whiskey than they're letting on. And the people in charge should be investing money in educating their children about the stuff, so that when they grow up to be musicians and reprobates, they can act as informed ambassadors to the likes of me.

Preconceptions shattered
At the airport, on the way out, I scoured the shelves for anything like it, but instead ended up taking home a Connemara as a souvenir of my trip instead. And it breaks all three rules of what I understood an Irish whisky to be:

1) It's distilled twice - not three times
2) It's peated
3) It's a single malt.

And it's really pretty damn good. Again - no ice, no water - just neat. Smooth, but with a smoky edge that makes it feel like a proper grown-up's drink.

I shall be heading back for more.

But, it has to be said - even though I had a thoroughly marvellous time in Belfast, that doesn't mean I'm not deeply jealous and resentful of Clutch's adventure.

Whisky Country: Part One

2008-06-29T10:14:00.007+01:00

I travelled northwards on Monday night, with the intention of becoming a surprise guest at my Dad's 60th birthday, and expanding my knowledge of all things malt. Obviously the best approach to this would be to sample as many as I could, and thanks to my father's generosity and extensive collection, I managed to do just that.

My parents live in Manager's House at Coleburn Distillery, which is situated just south of Elgin, snugly nestled at the foot of some impressive timber and farmland. It's bang in the middle of The Whisky Trail, and you could quite happily spin someone round blindfolded, and then send them off in a straight line in any direction, and before long they'd have a dram in their hand. No shortage 'round there.

So I arrived at my folk's place at about eleven o'clock, and realising that I couldn't just walk up the gravel drive, as that's in direct view of the house, and my surprise visit would end up just being just a visit. So approaching from the rear of the house, I tried to cross a field, which revealed itself to me as being not quite as solid as it first appeared. Limiting my curses, so as not to give the game away, I extracted my sodden legs from this knee-deep bog and continued up a short hill to the front door of the house.

I deposited two bottles of Glenglassaugh 1976 30 year old (there was no way I could afford a 60 year old...) on the doorstep, chapped the door loudly and ran round the corner. I watched with some amusement as my Dad tried to work out, where the whisky had come from and why the dog had not announced The Arrival Of The Postman Or Other Interloper. I let him do some head-scratching before I appeared from 'round the corner, and whilst he was looking away from me, launched myself onto his back.

I made a note that this is not a good thing for sixty-year old people. Once the terror had gone from his eyes, I think he was pleased to see me, and either the shock, or sense of occasion warranted a stiff drink.

The 'glassaugh was cracked open. Clothes drying on a sunny day, loads of citrus, freshly mown grass - if there's such a thing as a summer malt, then this is in that category. Lovely.

The rest of the day progressed in fine fashion, but you're not here to read about my family life so I'll get to the bits you want to know about. Chronologically, here's how the day progressed:

12:30 Lagavulin Pedro Ximenez and a bowl of Cullen Skink, followed by local ice-cream - If I'm ever led before the gallows, make sure this is how I go out. Stunning on all fronts. Lagavulin can do no wrong in my book. Ximenez imparts a round sweetness in the finish, that lets you know you've just had something very special. This is my Desert Island Malt. Put that together with the soup and ice-cream combo, and I want for nothing. If Jimi Hendrix had come in and sat opposite me and started playing 'Burning of The Midnight Lamp', I'd be looking around for St. Peter...

13:00 I'm on the computer upstairs, trying to use my limited tech knowledge to install a few things on my Dad's PC. He tries to throw a spanner in the works by placing a Macallan 25 year old in front of me! How can I work in these conditions? Never mind that it's an unfathomable W*ndows machine, and that I am to IT what Arnie is to figure-skating... But it's his birthday, and I can't disappoint.

Sweetness in abundance. Honey, caramel, peaches - my dad said oranges, but I wasn't getting that. It's an oak cask, and that came through more in the palate and finish for me, than in the nose. A thing of beauty, and if someone wheels this out after a meal, you should know they want something. My Dad wanted his computer back to normal. Sorry, Dad...

16:00 I've been asleep for about half an hour, dozing happily with a library of whisky books and magazines to trawl through surrounding me. I awake and succumb to my phenol habit. I want an Islay and I want one now. Not wanting to sound like a spoiled brat, I ask my father nicely if there's one going by any chance (of course there's one going, he loves them too...).

Phenol is the compound found in the peat smoke which adheres to the malted grain during the drying process. It will only stick though if the grain is moist, so you've to be careful and not dry your malt too fast. Amongst distillers, they talk of phenol in parts per million, or ppm. Most Islay malts are around the 30 - 50 ppm, but apparently there's something called Octomore from Bruichladdich, which sounds more supervillain than whisky to me, and that's about 60 ppm, so I'm looking forward to trying that when we venture there in September. Port Ellen reputedly once managed an 'experimental' malting at 100 ppm. Wow. I can but dream.

Anyway, I ended up with an Ardbeg Uigeadail. Great stuff. Old car interiors, old books, like your Granda's loft. Obviously loads of peat, but tempered by the mix of bourbon and sherry casks used in this creation. I loved it.

21:30 So we've been out to the very grand Castle Hotel in Huntly for my Dad's 60th Birthday Meal. Great night, and always lovely to spend time with my family. After I've expanded the girth of my waistline substantially, we go though to the lounge bar and my Dad orders the after-dinner drams. So we get one each, going the route of both trying something different in order to get as much experience as possible from what's on offer, like stereotypical tight Scots. I let my Dad surprise me.

I'm trying to get better at my blind tasting, but so far all I can identify with much certainty is if it's Islay or Speyside, and even that can be tricky with some of the more peated expressions that seem to be fashionable with most distilleries at the moment. Though from a personal point of view, I can think of worse things to endure than a phenol zeitgeist.

So I established it was a Speyside, and then that was it. I had to be put out of my misery(?) and told that it was the Rare Malts edition of a 20 year old Mortlach. It was a lovely dram, but I didn't get as much from it as I felt I should. It was beautifully smooth, reminding me immediately of the Macallan 25 that I'd had earlier in the day, but apart from the sweetness, sherry, heather blossom, honey and a tiny hint of brine, it seemed somewhat underwhelming. Now I think that I'd like to revisit that at some point as I'm sure my palate was a bit worse for wear after what it'd been put through that day.

I then tried the other whisky, and it was likened by both myself and my Dad to ice-cream. Heaps of vanilla, very smooth on the tongue, but spicy and rounder in the finish, like it changed into a cake on the way down. Turns out it was a Glenmorangie 15 year old Sauternes finish.

11:00 Back home at my folks house, my Dad pulled out the special stuff. 21 year old Rare Malts edition of a Coleburn - cask strength. My Mam rolled her eyes, and said "Ye'll a' be tooteroo..." and wandered up to her bed, knowing that much nonsense was about to be talked, with not one, but two whisky-bores in her household.

That Coleburn's something else. A Speysider through and through, but with enough guts in the bottling to make you think twice about what it is you've got in your hand. It's prickly on the nose, chunky on the palate, and there's a short-lived blast of peat in amongst it all as well.

What a day. I think I managed to pace myself reasonably well. Obviously exceptional circumstances with it being my old man's 60th do, so it's understandable that a spot of indulgence was had - we're not like that all the time you know...

Next day I was due to visit some people and places - all whisky related. More later...

Tasting notes

2008-06-26T20:43:00.006+01:00

I have a Moleskine notebook. I'd wanted one for years, and I could never justify the fact that they are so much more expensive than anything else out there in that category of product.

But once I actually bought one in a moment of self-indulgence, I realised what the cost factor was. Moleskine notebooks are three times the price of other notebooks because they are five times as satisfying to write in.

I love it to bits. Really seriously love it. My £10 pocket sized unlined Moleskine notebook is a prized possession on a par with the Macbook. I lost my phone and wallet last week (on the way back from a whisky tasting in Stourbridge, as it happens) - and the first thing I checked when I noticed that things were missing was that I still had the Moleskine.

Of course, it has something to do with the things I've noted inside that I want to keep and remember, but it also has to do with the artefact itself. Hard to explain. If you feel anything for stationery, you'll know what I'm talking about. I know it's not just me...

What's more, as a result of the Moleskine, I've rediscovered the joys of writing in pencil.

I'm a bit of a stationery nerd, and I love a good pen. On special occasions, I've been known to drop quite a hefty sum on a good Cross pen, and even for day to day use, I'm fussy about my writing implements. But purely by accident, I found myself with an HB and my Moleskine one day and haven't looked back.

I've since graduated to a cheap retractable, and I'm on the lookout for the right mechanical pencil for the feel and the writing style. I don't know much about good pencils, though I guess the brands will be much the same as the higher quality pens.

But in the meantime, for someone who spends most of his time tapping into the computer, I've gone retro for notetaking. Ink is out - graphite in.

And one of the great things you can do when you have a pencil and a notebook with you at all times is you can pull it out and make notes about whiskies that you try. My own notes are meagre, and contain just brief impressionistic notes like:

"caramel / berries / paint stripper"

But now that I have more of a reason to be more thorough - so that I can report back in full here - I have another reason to experience the geeky joys of nice writing implements. Your advice and suggestions for the best whisky notetaking tools would be much appreciated.

If only I had attractive handwriting. Does anyone teach remedial penmanship these days?

What food with whisky?

2008-06-23T22:46:00.006+01:00

I once read that whisky writer Michael Jackson loved to always have chocolate chip cookies on hand when tasting some of the peatier Islay malts. I can no longer find the reference, and perhaps that's equal parts memory and wishful thinking, but I get the feeling that there are other things that can be had with whisky than cheese and oatcakes.

Trouble is, I don't know what those things are.

Clutch and I have experimented with a number of different gastronomic snacky treats. Vegetable crisps are quite good - and stuffed olives are (if you shopped in the right aisle at Tesco) an exceptional complement to a Laphroaig.

Sundried tomatoes - also very good, but these things are good with or without the whisky, just as the whisky is very good with or without the food.

I suspect there are foods that improve the overall quality of the whisky tasting experience - but I think it's fair to say we're guessing at this point. Is it a pork roast? Strawberry icecream? Tuna chilli? Rockmelon? Does it depend on the age or the smokiness of the whisky?

The slice of cheese on the rough Scottish oatcake is a safe bet (and these ones may well be the best of them) - but we also want to try some other things.

One thing I can tell you for certain though: chocolate chip cookies with a Lagavulin is sensational.

Other than that... your suggestions would be welcomed.

Back for a drink

2008-06-23T02:18:00.008+01:00

There's this sense you get, when you're talking to someone who knows a little bit more about something you're interested in, that they have access to something that's just a little bit outside you're reach.

Like when you play chess or tennis against someone you know can beat you - but they have to work at it. It's not a walkover. It's like - they have something that impresses you, but you know that somehow, it's attainable.

With just a little bit of practice and a little bit of help, you could do what they do. You could beat you at tennis. Because although you enjoy it, you know deep down that you'd enjoy it that much more if you had just a little skill. It's not mastery you're after, but a few of the tricks would go a long way.

That's where I'm at with the whisky - and the person who's ahead of the game is my friend Clutch. So I've asked him to join me on this blog, so I can reinvigorate it, and start having the conversations about whisky that I love having with him, here in public.

And don't get me wrong. He's no expert. He'd be the first to tell you he's still learning. But he knows a little more than I do - enough to impress me. And there are some people who are just getting started with their first little bit of discovery - and maybe I can be that guy for them.

Whatever your level of whisky connoisseurship, you're more than welcome here.

If you know your stuff, perhaps you could chip in in the comments, and let us know what you think so we can all learn from you. If this is new territory, perhaps you'll find it helpful.

So - this is our blog. It's about whisky. We're not experts, but we're learning. Glad to have you along.

Bumper sampler assortment

2007-09-09T23:38:00.002+01:00

We had people over for dinner tonight -- none of whom had ever met each other. Jo's a kiwi who works at a Go-Kart track here in Birmingham, Jonathan's a young English lad who's been living in Poland, and was crashing on our couch until he found somewhere more pleasant to stay -- and Clutch is a Scottish theatre set builder who sings and plays in the band (X) is greater than (Y).

Clutch is a fellow whisky enthusiast, and brought around a few bottles to sample before and after dinner, and over the course of six hours, a large vege roast dinner with some very good vegetarian haggis, and a few episodes of The Flight of the Conchords, we managed to work our way through (er...) seven measured single shots of whisky. All of them different.

We decided to work our way up the the Lagavulin, which is, for both of us, the favourite. But neither of us are confident tasters, merely enthusiastic amateurs.

We began with something moderate, just to get the palate working. The first was the Glenlivet, which is very nice, without being particularly challenging.

Second was one of Clutch's: the Old Pulteney. A little more character and a little more crisp.

Then we had dinner, during which we just ate and talked.

We followed the main course with a Scapa, which I've spoken about here recently. A bit sweet, leading up to a dessert of apple and berry crumble with cream. Worked very nicely together.

After dessert, the Ardbeg (pronounced, I learned this evening, Ard-veg, because of the Celtic 'b'), which Michael Jackson wrote smelled of tar-covered rope (really?!), but which I thought was just a bit more complex and interesting.

We then sat down to watch an episode of Flight of the Conchords, which Clutch and Jo both seemed to enjoy (and which I really love). For the first episode, we had a very special selection: The Glenmorangie Quinta Ruban, matured in port barrels, which gives it a really lovely, rich flavour. It's dark and has so much body.

I wanted to say 'oranges' when I first smelled it, but immediately thought that was a bit daft... but I should trust my nose a little more: that's exactly what the whisky guild thinks too. It kind of stole the show.

There was a little of the MacAllan 15 year old left, so Clutch and I polished that off -- just shy of a full single measure each left. Very nice indeed, and even though I only had a very small (200ml) bottle of that, it did take me till the very end to appreciate it properly. A real grower.

And finally, on our third episode of Conchords for the evening, we treated ourselves to the Lagavulin 16 year old, which is just superb.

The Ledaig, Cragganmore, Jura, Talisker and Oban were left on the shelf, and Clutch has a few particular favourites that wouldn't fit in his backpack on the way over. So there's more work to be done.

And even though we drank throughout the evening, and 7 whiskies sounds like rather a lot, this was actually around the same alcohol consumption as two and a half 200ml glasses of wine each, which I don't think is particularly unreasonable for a six hour evening with a large meal.

And the flavours were just sensational, for the most part. That Quinta Ruban was lovely and the range of developing tastes over the course of the evening really enriched the whole experience.

That, along with yummy food, good company and good music (Humphreys and Keen's The Overflow and a range of kiwi music classics), made for a great evening in.

We might have to make another night of it.

Scapa

2007-09-05T22:10:00.000+01:00

I bought a book on the internet the other day. It's called The Instant Expert's Guide to Single Malt Scotch.

Obviously, I didn't become an expert instantly, but it did help me understand a few things and pointed out some very interesting bits of information.

And tonight, after a very nice meal at a Moroccan restaurant, I decided to apply some of that new knowledge to a 14 year-old Scapa.

Scapa is an Orkney distillery, which makes this a non-Islay Island Region malt. Which means almost nothing, because although the Highland malts, the Speyside malts, and the Island malts are different from each other, they're also quite different from other malts in the same region.

There's really only a consistency in the Islay malts (peaty) and the Lowland malts which are smoother (read less interesting) and were designed for the English market.

Scapa is surprisingly sweet. Heather, so it says, but definitely honey. This is almost a dessert scotch. Not in a syrupy way, but it has a real sweetness beyond the other scotches I've tried.

Not terribly peaty or smoky, and it doesn't last an awfully long time as far as finish goes, but it's light and very pleasant.

I was distracted at the store from a Highland Park and a Dalwhinnie, neither of which I have yet tried. This was interesting to me because I hadn't heard of it or seen it elsewhere, and I was curious to try something from so far north.

I'll get to those others another day. This is quite lovely. Not my favourite, but a good buy nevertheless.

The death of Michael Jackson

2007-09-02T07:49:00.000+01:00

No... not that one. Perhaps better known for his beer connoisseurship, Michael Jackson was by far one of the best whisky writers on the planet.

"Renowned writer and international advocate for beer, Michael Jackson, died at his home in London on Wednesday night. He was 65 and had been suffering from Parkinson's disease, but the cause of death is believed to be a heart attack."

Read the full article.

A wee dram

2007-08-20T10:39:00.000+01:00

I went to Scotland last week, and you'll never guess what I bought! No, not a kilt (well, actually, yes -- I bought a kilt, but it wasn't for me).

Give up? I bought some whisky!

There are plenty of great places to buy whisky in both Glasgow and Edinburgh. But for the sake of consistency, I went to The Whisky Shop -- partly because I've had such a great experience with them to date, but mostly because they're quite generous with the tastings.

It also gave me a good excuse to explore the centre of Glasgow while trying to find the little shop.

Once there, I was a little torn. So many different bottles to pick from.

In the end, it came down to a choice between buying myself a bottle of Bunnahabhain (boona-HAR-vin), which I really like, or some smaller sampley half-bottles that would be more of an experiment.

In the end, I went for the experiment, which just goes to show that I like sampling, learning, tasting and finding out about whisky more than I like drinking it. I think that's probably a good thing.

Also, the smaller bottles were much easier to squeeze into the suitcase I was dragging around with me. Perhaps someone will buy me a bottle of Bunnahabhain as a gift sometime in the future.

I went for the Lagavulin, a bottle of Oban (which I'm yet to try) and a 15 year-old MacAllan from the cask (also, to date, unopened).

I left it until after a train journey and a tiring day of interviews and tourism before I hid from the chaos of the Edinburgh Festival and poured myself a single with (once I'd had the chance to give it a really good sniff undiluted) around about a teaspoon of water.

And I have to say, the Lagavulin (lah-gah-VOO-lin) is just amazing.

According to the experts:

Nose
Massive peat. Ultra-intense iodine carries a shade more spice than of old. The fruity-sherry notes are clean, vanilla is much deeper. Beautifully layered.

Palate
Peat so thick you could stand a spoon in it. Chewy iodine bolstered by sherry and big oak.

Finish
A little spice lightens the grip of the peat and vanilla. Dries off with malt, dried dates... and iodine.

Comment
A true classic in every sense that offers breathtaking depth.

According to me:
I got a really rich cocoa powder in the aroma. Superdark chocolate. The flavour was very peaty with a really dry sweetness (is that what sherry tastes like?) and it had an aftertaste that just went on and on.

Loved it to bits. It's my new favourite.

Bushmills in Belfast

2007-08-11T23:25:00.000+01:00

First of all, a note on spelling. It turns out that whiskey with an 'e' is not just a weird American thing like leaving the 'u' out of color, flavor and mom. Irish whiskey is also spelt that way. So: Ireland and America make whiskey. Everywhere else makes whisky.

I just got back from a couple of days in Belfast, and I couldn't go to Ireland without actually sampling my first Irish whiskey, could I?

Actually, that's exactly what happened.

I wandered the streets of central Belfast, from the Northern Whig tavern to the Common Grounds cafe on University Ave. I looked for an Irish whiskey, and all I could find, in a shop called Dr:nk (yes, that's a colon -- no, I don't think that's a regional spelling thing) was a bottle of Bushmills.

I spoke to the gentleman behind the counter, who assured me that it was a very good introduction to the Irish whiskies. But he didn't strike me as very convincing. As a result, I only bought a quarter bottle (£5). It's a blend, and actually, it comes from the world's oldest licensed distillery.

I was quite keen to get my hands on a single malt, but the few he had in stock were pretty pricey -- and he didn't strike me as the right chap to source my advice from.

I tried again later in a restaurant I'd popped into for dessert and coffee -- but again, I had to explain what a single malt was, and that no, Bells didn't count. So... between that and the 'no alcohol you didn't buy from us' rule at the hostel, no actual whiskey was consumed in Northern Ireland -- and it's only now that I'm back home in Birmingham recovering from a 14-hour journey that I'm sampling this particular drink.

It's nothing special -- a little sweet, none of the smokiness you get with the Islay (EYE-la) malts -- but it's a pleasant enough drink with a splash of water in it.

In fact, if you were going to drink your whiskey with ice in it, then you really wouldn't be doing any damage by choosing this one to do it with. Ice, it turns out, ruins the nose on a whisky (no 'e')-- and that's half the fun of a decent malt. Well, okay -- less than half, but a decent proportion.

Still... there's something nice about a dram with a few ice cubes in it. You could do it with the Bushmills without a trace of regret. And it's pretty inexpensive, without being, y'know, awful like some blends I could name...

Bushmills do actually make a 16 year-old single malt, which sounds really pretty great. That's not what I have here.

Whatever happened to...?

2007-08-08T21:21:00.000+01:00

A name that I hadn't given any thought to for -- ooh... perhaps 20 years or more -- is Dominic Roskrow. You probably won't have heard of him, but these days he describes drinks for a living.

He doesn't know this, but as a late teen finding my way in the deepest suburbs of Auckland, New Zealand, he was my nemesis. Honest.

Thanks to my high school English teacher, Peter Thomson, I wrote the occasional piece for a free music magazine called Rip It Up and had aspirations to know a thing or two about the rock scene. Roskrow was a seasoned music journalist for the New Zealand Herald (our only national newspaper which blended the politics of the Times with the spelling of the Guardian).

While Graham Reid had always made me feel a little under-educated with his urbane nods to what were probably widely understood references at the time, that was nothing compared to the ire that Roskrow could inspire in me.

Nobody in my experience of all of music journalism was able to so consistently appraise a rock record and come to the complete opposite position to the one I had adopted as he could.

It was absolutely uncanny.

It got to the point that for quite a few years I was able to buy a record entirely unheard simply because Dominic Roskrow had hated it. Anything he loved, I despised on principle.

There he would sit in his (presumably) unreachable and lofty place in the towers of Granny Herald passing false judgement on all manner of musical outpourings that would cross his desk and enter his auditory world. And I would sit and seethe at just how wrong one man could be.

Now, all these years later, I do a search on whisky reviews, and I find that my childhood nemesis has found his way into another nascent passion of mine. He is one of the names that comes up most often when you go looking for writing about whisky.

As yet, I haven't read enough of his reviews or sampled enough of the whiskies that he's written about to form any sort of opinion as to the reliability of his recommendation. But once again, he knows far more about it than I do -- and his opinions are both valued and printed in a publication that people pay for, while I tap away at the keyboard for another freebie.

I'm fervently hoping that he's remained as monumentally wrong in this new endeavour as he always was about music back in New Zealand. But since I've somewhat lost much of my adolescent desire to mark myself out as different from the views expressed in the mainstream media, I suspect that he's probably going to be mostly right.

He still writes as if he's composing a solo oratory piece to be delivered in a large auditorium (and I quote: "...fate has intervened to guarantee that for the time at least their paths are going on very separate routes, one uncertain and directionless, the other ever upwards"), but I'm guessing he knows his malts.

Just wait till I know a thing or two, and I'll be happy to cross imaginary swords with Dominic Roskrow again. And he will no doubt continue to be oblivious to my fist shaking and cursing. And all will once again be right with the world.

Cheers.

A social drink with a bunch of musos

2007-08-08T14:15:00.000+01:00

I had occasion to meet with a handful of Birmingham's finest musicians from a wide range of styles last night. We headed to a BYO restaurant, and picked up a bottle of Talisker 10 year-old on the way to sample a bit of a tasting while we chatted and picked at our balti meals.

It was very nice. Everyone around the table said 'oaky' in one voice, so that was an agreed impression.

Talisker is the only single malt made on the Isle of Skye. It's strong and has a bit of a bite served neat (45.8% alcohol by volume) so we splashed a bit of water at it.

It was probably a mistake to use the water with the bits of lemon floating in the jug that was sitting at the table... so for our second tasting, we made a special request for lemonless water.

Experts say things like:

Nose
A razor-sharp spiciness lances through Demerara sweetness and rich peat. Absolutely magnificent.

Palate
The enormous build up of spice adds to the multi-layered peat. The sweetness is almost like freshly crushed grist. Wave upon wave, layer upon layer of complexity.

Finish
Massively warming and still spicy. The peat lingers while the spice bristles.

Source: Jim Murray in Whisky Magazine

All in all, we had a very pleasant evening and we were all agreed that the Talisker had been an important component of that. We had in our company a knowledgeable Scot by the name of Clutch who told us some useful facts, few of which I can recall today, though mainly because of my grasp of Scottish place name and distillery pronunciation, rather than due to over-indulgence.

We were all rather reserved, under the circumstances.

On the pronunciation front, I can tell you that Ledaig is pronounced LED-chig. That was a topic of debate briefly.

Oh, and I did get to try Laphroaig (pronounced la-FROYG) after having just the day before commented that I was a little bit frightened of it. We stopped in at a pub for a nightcap on the way home from the restaurant, and Clutch bought the two of us a single.

It was just as peaty and peppery as I had expected, but it was a much friendlier drink than I was anticipating. I had expected something really paint-stripper harsh, but after a madras-hot curry, it was surprisingly sweet and smooth.

One day I'll revisit it with a clear palate and come up with an actually informed opinion.

The other thing I hadn't been expecting was a pub that had a moose's head on the wall, next to a flat screen telly showing extreme sports. That seemed incongruous.

Learning to love Whisky

2007-08-06T17:12:00.000+01:00

Over the past year, I've become rather fond of whisky. Not that I drink a lot of it. I'm a one-a-day man. Two at the outside. Three tops. Four is an absolute maximum, and five is almost completely out of the question.

Although born in New Zealand and now living in England, I am Scottish by descent (my father is from Glasgow). For this reason, I am able to convince myself and others that my newfound enthusiasm is a way of reconnecting with my heritage.

I am mere weeks away from my 40th birthday, and in whisky I have finally found my perfect response to the accusation of being a hard-to-buy-for son, brother, cousin, friend, and colleague.

Like my love of jazz, my love of whisky (or 'whiskey', if you're American) has taken a bit of work and I have made some real rookie mistakes along the way. But the more I find out about it, and the more I sample it, the more I discover a complexity and richness that rewards repeat indulgences.

Like jazz, it's not to everyone's taste. There's also a degree of snobbery that surrounds it, of which I want no part. It's fine that some things are expensive. It's not fine to pretend that they are only suited to people of a certain breeding.

I am not 'of a certain breeding', but I do happen to like some things that are an acquired taste. This is one of them.

However, I am a complete novice when it comes to the stuff. I own a total of five bottles of scotch (four single malts, one blend), no American bourbons and nothing at all from Ireland.

But even though I am not a connoisseur, by any stretch of the imagination, I am, at least, an enthusiast. I'm willing to learn, open to new flavours, and happy to ask the stupid questions.

This blog is a record of that process. I'll tell you what I find out through reading, tasting, asking people and trying things out. My aim is to be able to provide a reasonable review and guide within the next few years -- or at least to be able to read one and have an informed opinion as to its merits.

I'll also provide links to The Whisky Shop, with whom I have no affiliation, and nor have I arranged any kickbacks. I discovered them whilst in Oxford recently, the man there was very helpful, and their website is the best and most easily navigable I've seen of its type. I send you there merely as a keen and impressed patron.

As I write, I'm sipping on a Cragganmore 12 year-old single malt. It is described by smarter people than me as follows:

Nose: Silky, elegant and rich: currant bushes, sweet fruits, honey, cream, leather, rich malt, chestnut. Water makes it smokier. Fruity with a savoury edge.

Palate: Lovely weight: honey, blackberry, cooked fruits, walnut, dried apricot. A mid- to back-palate whisky which is robust, yet silky; meaty but elegant. The word is complex.

I can taste the honey and the apricot. I was able to spot the smokiness in the smell (or the 'nose') but it might take me a while to distinguish chestnut or leather.

I'm having a single (35ml) measure with about a tablespoon (10ml) of water -- and I think for me, that's a pretty good mix.