A Post About Scotch
The other night, I attended a Scotch tasting at Atkins Park, here in Atlanta’s Virginia Highlands neighborhood. Atkins Park is a nice joint, full of dark hardwoods, and the site of Atlanta’s oldest continually licensed tavern. There we — being a bunch of old friends from CCP and I — drank a dram each of Glenkinchie, Lagavulin, Talisker, Oban, Singleton, and Cragganmore, to get a sampling of single-malts from across most of Scotland’s discrete whisky-making regions.
When I mentioned this on Twitter, Chuck Wendig suggested I write about it. So here I am. If you’d rather, you could go watch something like the Three Sheets episode on Scotland. I’m not the boss of you.
(A note here about links: I don’t have a favorite whisky site, so I’ve linked mostly to two general sources. One is Wikipedia, the other is the official website for these spirits — watch out for biases.)
Scotch is an acquired taste, but can be as fun to drink and parse as wine, if you’re so inclined. To me, it’s like a drinking in a sense of place, and since that place is Scotland, you know I dig it. It’s about downing the distilled essence of a landscape, tasting the waters and grains and peats of a far-away land; about turning Scotland into smoke and fluid and taking it in through your nose and mouth.
It’s a form of vicarious travel. More aptly, it’s a form of vicarious travel that gets you drunk. So, yeah, I like it a lot.
Let’s talk a little bit about that word, whisky. Near as I can tell, whisky (no “e”) is the word for the stuff that comes from Canada and from everywhere east of Ireland. Whiskey (with the “e”) comes from Ireland and America. Scotch whisky, sometimes (often) just called Scotch, is whisky that comes from Scotland.
Bourbon, by comparison, is a whiskey from the States, or more strictly, from Kentucky, or more strictly, from Bourbon County, Kentucky.
What we were given the other night was a sampling from the Classic Malts collection of single-malt whiskies, owned by Diageo, and the evening had a bit of a sales-pitch vibe to it, for better or worse. (But the price was low for all these whiskies and paired foods, so I’m not complaining.) If the goal was to get me to buy more Scotch, it worked. But I was buying Scotch anyway, so whatever.
A very rough guide to the origin regions of Scotch whisky.
Officially, according to the Scotch Whisky Association, Scotch comes from one of five regions: the Lowlands, the Highlands, Islay (I’ve been saying is-lay, but it’s eye-luh), Speyside, and Campbeltown (note my typo in the graphic at right). Practically, the Island region (technically a subregion of the Highlands, I guess) is sometimes counted as a region unto itself. In fact, I thought it was a region unto itself until I set out to write this thing, so either I was wrong before or I’m wrong now. Have a dash of salt — I’m not yet a renowned whisky writer.[1]
• We were started off with a Glenkinchie and soda, which was rather a disappointment. We came to taste Scotches, not Scotch-like cocktails. As a result, I can’t tell you much about Glenkinchie’s taste, except that it can’t be too dark or smokey, as the glass I was handed was all but clear. Glenkinchie is one of the few Lowland distilleries left, but I can’t tell if it’s typical of the region or not. I’ll report back when I know more.
Our cocktail was served with a pasty parmesan shortbread cookie that was helped bring out the brightness of the drink when it wasn’t crumbling down the front of my sweater.
• Next up, the lovely Lagavulin, an iconic Islay. This was one of my favorites, already: a smooth, dark, smoke-filled whisky. Peaty; a little like drinking a bog, in all the best ways. A little bit of water or a single rock of ice and this thing opens way up — it’s a great Scotch to learn with, as it tastes pretty distinctly different neat and with water. Good stuff.
This was served with a blue-cheese risotto ball, but I missed out on those because they didn’t bring enough for the table. They looked and smelled good, though.
• After that: Talisker (10-years old, I believe), the Scotch of the Isle of Skye. I’m a sucker for these island Scotches, it turns out. I started paying attention to Scotch when I bought a bottle of Scapa on Orkney island, so it may have helped to set my palate for the stuff. Talisker’s light and airy, nicely smokey, with a salty edge. I thought I’d had it before, but this isn’t what I remembered. Damn good, though — possibly my next bottle, if I don’t go for something peatier.
Our Talisker came paired with a bacon-wrapped oyster, perhaps to remind us how the flavor mates well with seafood, maybe just to evoke a rich, ocean-side sense of place. Welcomed, either way.
Maybe it’s just me, but Talisker sounds like the name of a rogue cop (”You’re a loose cannon, Talisker!”).
• I’ve been wanting to try Oban (oh-bin) for a while, and now I have. It’s a Highland whisky with profuse flavor and a rounded character, not too dark and not too bold.I drank mine neat, but if I was smart I would’ve put a rock in it to see how that affected the taste.
We were served a slice of an unidentified fruit with this, and whatever it was did the trick. The Oban came off much brighter and more floral with that taste still swimming around. Good stuff. I’ll get this again soon, I hope.
• On to Cragganmore. This one’s from the Speyside region, and struck me as being mellow with its smoke yet pretty flavorful overall. I prefer a smokier, peatier Scotch, though. To be honest, my recollection of this one’s pretty vague, and that’s pretty telling. Either it didn’t pack much punch, or I was getting slippery by this point. Probably both.
This was served with slices of bread melted with mozzarella and pancetta, which were delicious. The effect of the pairing was lost on me, though, as I pretty much ate these and then drank my drink, in that order.
• We ended with the Singleton, also from the Speyside region. The website says this thing was a big hit when it debuted, but to me it tasted too much like bourbon to scratch my itch for Scotch. Don’t get me wrong, I drank this and the dose served to a friend of mine, who rejected it for its bourbon-ness, but I won’t be ordering this anytime soon…
…unless, maybe, it comes with more of the soft, juicy rabbit sausage this was paired with. That was tasty. The pairing effects may have been lost on me by then, but I didn’t find the Singleton opening up much with its flavors. I just remember, “Mmmm, sausage,” and saying, “Sure, I’ll finish your glass.”
Some of us faded the evening out with a nightcap at the Indy — a black velvet for me — and, all told, it was a stellar evening. Let’s do it again sometime.
[1]The fella who led our tasting, though, mentioned a few “whisky writers” that night, and now that I have heard the phrase I cannot shake it. How does one become a whisky writer? If the answer is “by trying real hard,” then stand back, because I may have a new goal to chase.
Get out of my brain.
In Park City, I saw a restaurant: “Talisker on Main.”
And I thought, that’s a cop team.
“You don’t know who else to call, you call Talisker and Main.”
This is a great post.
I want to be more educated about this subject. Wines, I’m good. Scotch, I just know I like it, but I don’t know much about why or what.
– c.
What sort of scotches do you like, Chuck? Maybe we can suss out a theme.
One of my high-school friends actually became a whisky writer. Check out his site at http://www.whiskyguyrob.com/
Thanks for the write-up on this! I was excitedly following your tweets.
I tend to really like a nice smoky, peaty Scotch but I’m all over the board. Looking over the ol’ liquor cabinet I see I’ve got two bottles of Laphroaig (a 10 year and a “Quarter Cask”), a bottle of Talisker 10 year that is sadly down to its last inch, some Bowmore 17 year, and some Tamnavulin 12 year that I’ve barely touched. (There’s also a rogue bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label in there that mysteriously appeared, probably after some cocktail party or other.)
I find that bars tend to stock Glenlivet or Glenmorangie and am always pleased if I can get an Oban or Macallan for some variety.
One of the first birthdays I spent in Seattle, Chris took me to a Scotch bar and bought me a Macallan 18 year which I loved. Ray Winninger did the same (after a multi-course dinner with wine pairings) for my 40th but unfortunately I was so far gone by the time I got to the evening, don’t even remember what I ended up being served.
I’ve got a bottle of the old standard, Glenlivet, downstairs. It serves the purpose.
Isle of Jura was nice; been a while since I’ve seen it at the PA liquor stores, tho.
Johnny Walker tastes like piss-covered razors, though I’m sure that’s not true if you go blue.
I like a balanced scotch — not too smoky, not too on-the-nose with the fruit.
As noted — scotch noob, for the most part.
– c.
Let’s also talk about “peaty” as a descriptor.
What does that mean? I know what “peat” is, obviously — how does that transfer to taste? How does that hit the tongue?
– c.
Matt, tell your friend to resume blogging. I read a half-dozen of his posts this morning and I’d like more, please.
Nicole, your cabinet sounds awfully good to me. To the best of my knowledge, I’ve never had Bowmore or Tamnavulin — if you say they’re good, I’ll try them soon. Right now I think my goal is to get my hands on a bottle of Talisker and sort out its flavor a little bit more.
What I’ve got in my house right now is, I think, two fingers of Scapa spread across two bottles, which I can’t bring myself to kill. One of these is five years old, now; bought on my honeymoon.
Chuck: Peat. I’m not quite good enough yet to tell you exactly where the peat flavor is, except that I could show you some peaty Scotches (like Lagavulin) and then something less peaty (like a Glenkinchie) to show you the difference. Peatiness is connected to smokiness in most cases, since the peat-fire is the heart of the smoking process. The peat is some of the bitterness in with that smoke, the earthiness, and affects the quality and richness of the smoke. Peat tastes like soil, ’cause it’s soil. But it’s as much aroma and mouthfeel (if I can use that word) as it is flavor, really. Maybe moreso.
Here’s an article from Slate that talks a bit about peat, though it’s more about process than flavor. Just something to dabble with.
I got to try some of Craig’s Isle of Jura (which I’d never heard of before) a couple of weeks ago, and dug it quite a bit. If I’m remembering, it may actually be smoother than I usually like, but I won’t fault a scotch for being smooth.
Talisker 10 is my go to Scotch, although I’ve tried and enjoyed all of the bottles you mentioned. I once tried a Talisker 10 infused with the flavor of several varieties of hot peppers, and it was something special. Jeez, now I need to go on a Scotch run.
I’m a fan of the smooth scotch.
And “peat” — so, really, we could potentially substitute it with “earthiness?” Because I can envision that. Er, though “envision” and “my mouth” don’t go well together.
“Entaste?” “Enflavor?”
I dunno.
I can dig it. There. That works.
– c.
Talisker, I was told, is one of the base scotches use in the Johnny walker blends. I like Talisker a lot, but I only would ever drink Johnny walker gold or blue. As for scotch, I seem to share your enjoyment for the scotch you enjoy.
That said, one of my favorite scotch brands is Glenmorangie- anything older than 10 years. There is a trio of different 12 year olds that are aged in different casks. I remember port and sherry, but I forget the third. I drink the sherry cask one quite often.
Dalwhinnie is what I call a great brunch scotch that should be considered after a modest brunch with a mild peppery cigar. You could also use Dalwhinnie as a gateway scotch for friends who haven’t quite acquired the taste for scotch, buy are interested.
I have been a scotch lover for years, and one thing I like the most about it is how much I learn every time someone else shares their experience about it. Thanks for sharing.
Will, if you get a chance to try the 18-year Talisker, go out of your way to do so. It’s my favorite of the single malts I’ve had to date, and, while I’m no “whisky writer” or even a truly seasoned taster, I think it combines the best of all the various elements that make up what a good single malt is supposed to be: enough of the peat that you know you’re drinking scotch, but not as overpowering (or as medicinal) as the Islay whiskys can be, with a bit of sweetness, a bit of wine and wood and seaweed, and an excellent aftertaste.
The 10-year Talisker caught my eye in your post. I followed the link to malts.com and started playing with the “Malt Matcher,” which presented me with a menu of different foods from which to choose. I clicked my standout favorite, some Indian chicken tikka, and the site suggested I pair it with: a 10-year Talisker.
Must be fate.
Are you a tea person? And, if so, have you tried lapsang souchong?
Thanks for the comments, y’all. Sounds like I’ve got to get me a nice bottle of Talisker ASAP.
Ryan, I was a tea person for a while, when I worked at Starbucks, but I’ve forgotten more than I remember. I do remember quite liking lapsang souchong, though it’s been quite a while since I had it.
[...] post about scotch made me drink scotch. Also, learn what “peaty” tastes like. Which is different from [...]
I tried to get into Scotch a couple of years back, and was introduced to Oban first, which I loved… until I realized how expensive it was. Ruined me for anything cheaper, so I switched to Bourbon. I like Eagle Rare for special occasions; it’s got a real kick. Maker’s Mark and Jim Beam do me just right for regular drinking.
Talisker sounds interesting, though. Anything that pairs well with bacon and oysters MUST be good! Will keep an eye out for it.
Will, last week I had the best fish and chips in town paired with a dram of the 10-year Talisker at the new Irish pub in Decatur, Mac Magee’s. The place is well worth a visit.
Thanks for the heads up on the new pub, John. I hadn’t even heard of it yet. I’ve got to check it out!