Jack Nicklaus' autobiography. I was struck by his tremendous ability to recall virtually every shot he made in major championships. I mean he recalled the wind direction, the angle of the sun, time of day, the type of grass, the club he had in his hand, and how the speed of the greens affected the ball as it landed and invariably curled toward the pin. He remembered it all.
Give me a golf club and I have difficulty remembering how many strokes I had on a single hole (yeah, there are that many!). But, hand me a dram, and if it is a great one, I can tell you exactly what it tasted like, the lighting in the room, who I was with, the garish neck tie you were wearing, and the name of the waitress. The Balvenie Portwood 21 years is such a memory evoking whisky.
The first time I tasted The Balvenie Portwood was in a non-descript hotel ballroom. An accordion partition had been pulled across half the room, as there were not many of us on that inhospitable Canadian winter night. Outside, the evening wind howled over the snow capped parking lot and whipped the ballroom windows with ice pellets. Above the frigid winds was a vast inky sky with not a cloud just stars twinkling back.
Inside, I was underneath harsh, unrelenting fluorescent lighting with the faint odor of fresh carpet glue rising up. A whisky tasting was underway. It started with Tulamore Dew. A thin, listless, vapid, acrid Irish whiskey that missed it's true calling: skyscraper window cleaner. I and others greedily stuffed ourselves with the apple and mozzarella cheese that accompanied it, in an attempt to banish the horrid taste to the cellar of our minds, never to be revisited again.
With the food pairing gone, we ravenously popped crusts of bread in our mouths and washed it down with plenty of water. I drank water with the fervor of a hippie attempting to dilute the chemical impurities of his body, in a futile effort to prevent the return of an acid flashback. Please God, I promise to be good. I will go to church. Just don't let that bad trip or Tulamore Dew ever happen again. I promise to be good! I mean it! Every Sunday I will be there!
Fortunately, the tasting moved to Laphroaig Cairdeas. A huge step up in quality. I enjoyed it. Beautiful stuff. The Cairdeas was paired with some creamy English Stilton cheese. Suddenly, the fluorescent lighting was not so annoying. The phenolic nose of this brilliant Islay took away any memory of the carpet glue smell emanating from the floor. Maybe I and the others would not slash the youthful looking brand ambassador's tires after all. He was starting to redeem himself.
The Cairdeas disappeared and was replaced by Laphroaig 18 years. It was served with pungent Danish blue cheese. Take a sip and then a bite of cheese instructed the ambassador from the lectern, who I noticed was comfortably out of boxer's reach. The Laphroaig 18 was a big dog! A flood of intense, complex peat, black earth, peppercorns and wood smoke that would make any Halloween witch cackle with delight or at the very least generate a bemused look from Joy Behar.
The ambassador twitched at the mic, as he adjusted his Buddy Holly glasses. His white shirt stuck to his chest oddly with a twist like someone had thrown a pale of water on him. He could have easily won a Revenge of the Nerds themed wet t-shirt contest. The thin black leather tie provided ghastly contrast to his undertaker pallor.
"Next, we are going to try Balvenie Portwood. It is a 21 year old . . ."
I stopped listening to him. I was in shock. Whaddya mean you are serving Balvenie Portwood next? WTF?@*&$#^??? This tasting started with a mild, watery, acrid Irish whisky, then moves to a nice Islay. Follows that up with a more robust Islay, and now he is pulling a u-turn off the peat and smoke whisky tasting lane and is crashing over the meridian and headed for the oncoming, bone-crunching traffic disaster of a hulking transport truck of a portwood bomb? Who is this guy? Slash his tires? Hell yeah! He better not have a convertible because I will slice it up like Zorro!
So, there appears a Glencairn of Balvenie Portwood 21 years in front of me. It is soon joined by an appetizer plate of strawberries and dark chocolate, but not too dark. 60% cocoa. I am skeptical. I stare in disbelief much like a JFK conspiracy theorist who is reading the Warren Commision. I am thinking my palate is ruined. I just tasted two daisy cutter Islay bombs. and now I am supposed to be able to taste this delicate, very expensive port cask aged single malt? I pad down my pant pockets to see if I have a jackknife. No luck, so I pocket a butter knife. I can already hear the air hiss out of his tires.
The bread basket is empty. Fortunately, the water pitcher had maybe half a glass worth. I grab it before anyone else. You snooze you lose I almost mutter at the college kid in drab gray Aeropostale sweats to my left. Having bathed my palate in water, I waited as long as I could, and then lifted the Glencairn of Balvenie and take a sniff.
Orient spices, nutmeg, wine, chocolate and port notes. Very impressive and fragrant.
Heavy body. Dark fig, crisp black grapes, cinnamon, and so much more than I can articulate. It is slightly sweet in the beginning but midpalate becomes drier. Definite French Pinot Noir taste where you taste the soil, earthy but in a very elegant way. There is a wine complexity to this spirit that I had not tasted before.
Waxen, rich with walnuts, oak, tobacco leaf that hang for a very long time.
. . .
I leaned back in my chair. I knew this was an amazing whisky, and at the same time I was an amazing a--hole for even considering doing undue harm to that brand ambassador's tires. Maybe the Balvenie 21 would have been even more amazing if it had been the first whisky of the evening. Maybe. All I know was I felt like a total schmuck. So, after the tasting was over, I went up and shook his hand and said he had done a great job and hoped to go to his tastings in the future.
Whether or not his order of whiskies presented was by plan or accident, it worked and demonstrated that a tasting does not necessarily have to start with the gentlest and gradually move towards the most robust. He also demonstrated that you don't have to stick to just Islays, but that you could jump around and throw in a portwood that would be enjoyed by sherry bombs fans.
I have had The Balvenie 21 year old Portwood several times since then and it has never disappointed and consistently ranked in my mind as a number one pick when budget is not a concern. The price is not cheap. Anywhere between $150 and $250 US, but this is one of those rare malts that I think is actually worth it. You do not see a lot of port cask finished whiskies from other distilleries for a reason. Working with port casks is difficult because the results can be unpredictable. To my mind, port casks in whisky are as fickle for a master distiller as the Pinot Noir grape is for the wine maker.
People who enjoy very sherried whiskies like Macallan 18, various Glenfarclas, Aberlour and GlenDronach are going to really enjoy the Balvenie 21 years Portwood. While the Balvenie is not technically sherried, it shares many of the characteristics of sherried drams. Port aged whiskies offer more of the sultana and wine notes that are not readily available in the sherry heavy whiskies.
The holiday season is fast approaching. So, now is the time to think about gift giving for Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa and even the season finale of Duck Dynasty (if you are so inclined). The Balvenie Portwood 21 years is expensive, but for the true malt fan in your life, this would be a great, great gift. Highly recommended!
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Monday, November 4, 2013
Review: George Dickel Rye Whisky
I notice the good doctor defensively fold his arms over his chest and recoil ever so slightly while I am mid-sentence. Before he can scribble "penicillin" on his prescription pad, I add: " . . . in my throat."
I was going to refer to another region of my anatomy to get a laugh, but he didn't seem to share my sense of humor or anybody else's for that matter. Certainly not Eddie Murphy's. Ever see his stand-up routine captured in Raw? You know, the skit about "fire shoot out of my d---! . . ." No? My doctor didn't either.
"It's like I have a sore throat all the time" I continue. "Or the beginning of the flu where your throat gets sore. And, I am burping a lot." I think for a nanosecond about conjuring up one, but then thought better of it. If only I had downed a can of soda before the consult. Dr. Pepper works every time.
I will spare you the next fifty questions and answers, and give you the diagnosis. "Acid reflux."
I left the doctor's office with instructions to take 150mg of Zantac daily, give up tea, coffee and maybe lay off the alcohol too. It took me two weeks to wean myself off coffee and tea. Head aches and tiredness were the chief withdrawal symptoms. Supposedly, my acid reflux symptoms would lessen. No such luck.
I also stopped drinking any alcohol for like an eternity.
Okay, two weeks.
Like I said, an eternity. Mind you I only have 2 ounces an evening from Friday through Sunday nights. Yeah, two ounces. Strangely, as I get older, I drink less. I am also keenly aware that excessive alcohol consumption can damage one's liver. In any event, my medically directed libation moratorium didn't lessen my symptoms.
At a follow up with the good doctor, he said there is something in coffee and tea that aggravates the condition. Maybe acidity. I dunno, I just start thinking about my golf swing when the medical jargon gets trotted out.
I have this tremendous ability to totally detach from a boring chat, but always nod and make the perfunctory "yes" or "really?" at the ideal pause in conversation such that the speaker thinks I am engaged in what they have to say, like a rottweiler is to a mailman's pant leg. In addition to medical lingo, certain other words or sentence fragments seem to trigger my disconnect when used in conversation:
"I had a great vacation Jason, let me tell you about it!"
"What? You didn't see that movie? It was so funny, especially when . . ."
"You are the wind beneath my wings . . ."
. . .
Fortunately for me, scotch is not carbonated, nor is it acidic. If I keep it in moderation there should be no problem. Apparently there is a 'valve' of sorts in my esophagus and if I become intoxicated it could relax and allow more stomach acid up. Just don't drink enough to relax it and everything is cool or at least Gaviscon minty cool.
Now, I have to tell you I was worried about this review. Think about it. Ever go a long time without a favorite food or beverage and then you have it. It's special, it's glorious or at least that is how you perceive it. Why? Because it has been so damn long. You are so attuned to the flavors that you are overflowing with satisfaction with your chosen food or beverage. This has happened to me. My fear? After two weeks without whisky, if I sipped the dreaded Ballantine's Finest or Drumguish Single Malt, I might think it is great. My judgment would be skewed and you misled for relying on this fool's review.
So, to guard against such worrisome risk, my bottle of George Dickel Rye was subjected to repeated sampling over a couple weeks to ensure you received the most accurate review, and I can look myself in the mirror in the morning.
$24-$25 (New Hampshire)
Light, crisp and dry.
Cloves, grapefruit, charred oak and rye bread.
I taste fresh water, thin orange rind, grapefruit, and lemon seed before the rye notes come to the forefront. The mid-palate is crisp, refreshing and very dry.
Tingling clean mint and lime with some charred oak and balsa wood. Balanced, pleasantly sawdust dry rye and delightfully bitter apricot to the end.
I purchased this whisky in New Hampshire for the grand sum of $24. I had somewhat low expectations given the cheap price. I am impressed! Once again, this whisky dispels the myth that the more you spend, the more you get.
The mashbill is 95% rye and 5% malted barley. Needless to say this whisky is clearly a rye and well done because in spite of the 45% ABV, it is remarkably smooth. The high ABV contributes great intensity of flavors and some subtle complexity.
You could add water, but I find it becomes too oaky for my tastes. Drink it neat!
This is a must buy for any rye whisky lover.
When I bought this, I assumed I was picking up a bottle of Tennessee whisky. George Dickel is a reputable brand of Tennessee whisky distilled by the Cascade Hollow Distillery in Cascade Hollow, Tennessee. If you visit their website you can view the various impressive Tennessee whiskies they offer. But, if you look closely, you will not find any mention of George Dickel Rye. How come?
I have a theory.
I read the bottle label pictured above. It left me with the impression that this rye whisky is Tennessee, but once home I read it more carefully, and I soon learned I was mistaken.
"Our smooth rye whisky is inspired by the the timeless traditions and small batch craftsmanship that make our Tennessee whisky world famous." (emphasis added)
So, the rye whisky is 'inspired' by the Tennessee whisky that bears the George Dickel brand. Inspiration and location of distillation are separate realities. Hence, the failure to reference the rye whisky on the website.
Below the misty eyed prose, that would make any lovesick high school student tear up, in capital letters the label reads: "DISTILLED IN LAWRENCEBURG, IN" and "BOTTLED BY GEORGE DICKEL & CO., NORWALKD, CT."
I thought this rye was bottled in Connecticut. I was wrong. Read carefully and the label states it is bottled by the George Dickel & Co, who are based in Norwalk. I have read elsewhere that it is bottled in Plainfield, Illinois at a facility owned and operated by Diageo.
My initial impression that this rye was Tennessee whisky was also due to a failure to carefully read the side label:
The Bourbon Intelligencer for his observations on this point.
So, I guess what ticks me off is the lack of transparency and what appears to be an attempt to trade on the reputation of Tennessee whisky. This rye is great. There is no need to imply it is something else. I am sure marketing people would tell me otherwise. They are probably right from the perspective of maximizing sales, but wrong in terms of banking on the consumer not being a bloody Philadelphia lawyer when reading the label.
If you surf the web, some people vent about the fact that this whisky is not a true Tennessee whisky. Me, I am not so disappointed that it is not that type of whisky. All I care about are two features:
I am satisfied on both counts. About the only connection between this Indiana rye and the Tennessee whiskies of the Cascade Hollow Distillery is the chilling of the spirit followed by the use of the same sugar maple wood charcoal filtering.
Anyone who is overly bothered by the fact that George Dickel Rye is not technically Tennessee whisky needs to visit a doctor for a check-up from the neck up!
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