Jim Murray's Whisky Bible 2013 Review

Christmas before last, the [then] soon to be Mrs Cake bought me my first Whisky guide; 101 Whiskies to Try Before You Die, which I have referenced on this blog previously, and even dissected in great detail. You may remember (or be interested to know, if you don’t want to read any of my previous pieces) that, while I found the contents of that book fascinating, I was finding its recommendations to be disappointing. It left me wondering where to turn for advice when it came to buying a new bottle (this was long before getting involved in the local Manchester Whisky Club), so when the missus asked what I would like for Christmas last year, I said a new whisky guide. She duly obliged, and what she came up with was Jim Murray’s Whisky Bible 2013.

I’ve dipped into this many times already, and wow, he sure has a lot to say. And boy, does he like whisky. I mean, I like whisky, but leafing through these pages that contain reviews (some brief, some less so) of over 4500 whiskies, I started to think that maybe I don’t like whisky all that much after all. Why? Notwithstanding that I would be bored of anything if I’d had to try 4500 varieties of it; the first thing is Jim’s scoring system.

He scores each whisky out of 25 for nose, taste, finish and balance, and combines these scores to give a total out of 100. I’ve been wondering why he scores them out of 25, and can only conclude that this is for the express purpose of combining to make a score out of 100 and when you think about it, when you have over 4000 contenders, awarding up to 5 stars just doesn’t seem adequate. Similarly, scoring each component out of 5 to make a total score out of 20 wouldn’t do; more separation is necessary.

Where this logic falls apart though (apart from the idea that four different components should be weighted equally), is that from what I’ve read so far (that’s all the section on single malt scotch, blended scotch, Irish whisky and selected highlights of the rest), the lowest score any individual whisky achieved was in the mid 50s – and that was an anomaly, most of the others are in the 80s and 90s. The next lowest is something like 68*. 

Now, 68% isn’t going to get you an A in your GCSEs, but it will get you a good second class degree and it isn’t that bad – in fact, you’d be disappointed you hadn’t gotten a first if you’d been averaging 68. It works out to an average of 17 out of 25 for each component, and I think 17 out of 25 is pretty good. If you scored that in each round of a pub quiz (probably the only other thing I can think of that could possibly be scored out of 25), you would probably win. I don’t see then, how there can’t be a whisky that’s so bad it only scores 32. Even Aldi’s Higland Earl, about which Murray says, 'I would have scored this higher if it had been labelled grain whisky; the malt is silent' scores 77.

Murray has written an editorial at the beginning, in which he bemoans the practice of using sherry casks that have been sterilised with sulphur candles. Apparently this has been going on for 20 years, and for some reason few people in the distilling industry are aware that it is ruining whole generations of scotch. Murray is well aware of it though. He can smell and taste the sulphur, and he says that there are a number of whiskies, aged in sherry casks, that have been ruined by this practice – ruined. Yet he won’t score any of them below 50 out of 100.

I’m not saying he’s making this shit about sulphur up. I believe him (though I’m yet to experience it myself). I just think maybe his scoring should be more reflective of that. Is it a bad whisky? Yes. So shouldn’t something that is actually bad be scored say, less than 50%?

Some time ago I received a particular bottle as a present which shall remain a secret so as to protect the feelings of the generous donor. I tried my very best to like it, but seriously, it was the worst whisky I have ever tasted. It tasted metallic, and that metallic taste just dominated everything.

I was keen to see what Jim Murray thought when I received his book, so it was one of the first things I looked up. I could see there are actually a lot of bottlings by this distillery, and many score in the high 80s and into the 90s.

Pretty good, but I can see that the one I had tried scored in the middle 80s. Surely that couldn’t be right? That’s actually better than a number of (to my mind) finer whiskies that I’ve enjoyed very much – like the Glenfarclas 10.

What’s more, it’s one of the Sherry Cask editions that received the lowest overall score of 50 something. So mine was supposed to be nice. I’ve checked, and sulphur isn’t metallic, so that’s probably not what I was tasting. So what does this mean? Presumably it means this distillery’s output  isn’t to my personal taste, and perhaps I should follow my original intention to avoid purchasing any further bottlings, at least until I’ve tried one that I like.

Murray goes on to say that many people can’t taste or smell sulphur anyway… perhaps I’m one of them? Though I’m sure I’ve smelled sulphur at some point in my life previously – it stinks doesn’t it? Like rotten eggs?

I suppose I still have to find out whether I’m susceptible to having my whisky ruined by sulphur. I don’t think I’ve tried many that have been aged in sherry casks, and I haven’t been able to detect it in the few I have tried. Some distilleries don’t use casks contaminated in this way anyway, but it seems the only way of knowing which ones do is by reading Jim’s book, so while it’s tempting to avoid any sherry cask whiskies, those have been the ones I’ve been enjoying in random samplings so… I don’t know what to do. I’m certainly reluctant to spend more than £40 on a sherried scotch anyway…

So as I said, Jim seems to love his whisky far more than I do. If I go to a tasting and try 6 different whiskies, instead of coming away with an idea of what I might buy next time, I come away with a list of 6 whiskies I’m not going to spend my hard-earned on. He’s a real enthusiast, with some refreshing viewpoints, occasionally witty, and he doesn’t come across as a whisky snob. What gives me that idea? He loves blends. In fact, he claims that he judges blends by stricter standards than single malts, since he thinks that in blending you should be able to achieve so much more.

I’m not sure I’m inclined to agree, since most blends include a hefty proportion of grain whisky (50 or 60%), that from what I can tell has a harsh taste that has somewhat tended to stand out  - or at least lope about conspicuously in the background - in many of the blends I’ve tried (I haven’t tried any particularly expensive ones as yet).

Jim should know better than me though, and that doesn’t bother him. He’s clearly a fan of the grain whisky too (he’s included a section for reviewing grain whiskies, and they also score well), but he’s especially a fan of the blend. Bells, Teachers, Aldi’s Highland Black, The Black Grouse… they all score really well – especially the Black Grouse, which manages a stunning 94.5. I certainly wasn’t that impressed by it, but clearly I must be an idiot. 

He reviews just about everything, and that’s part of what makes this book so accessible. If you’re something of a newcomer to whisky, and you pick up 101 Whiskies to Try Before You Die, you might find you’ve tried two or three, so you don’t have much of a reference point for the rest of the book, but you do have a lot of catching up to do. Because Jim Murray reviews everything (a further 1350 new whiskies were tried for this edition alone – did he try four a day for a year? And if so, doesn’t that cast some doubt on the reliability of the review?), there’s already a whole slew of things in there that you’re familiar with, and you can while away a good deal of your Christmas holiday downtime just flicking through it.

There is no price guide however, so you can’t really use it to plan your next purchase in advance, unless you happen to be accessing the internet at the same time. That also means that all whiskies are judged to the same standards, which is good in one way, but less so when you want to consider value because, let’s face it; it makes a difference. No, this whisky isn’t as good as that one, but this one was £13 while that one costs £100. I’m yet to determine whether any whisky can justify an astronomical price tag when I could buy one of my current favourites for £35 to £45.

You might find, like I often did, that Jim doesn’t rate your favourite whiskies as highly as you do, but you know, that’s fine. It’s actually refreshing how he’ll review something like Lidl’s own brand scotch, and score it really well. It gives you the confidence to buy that staggeringly cheap blend, and actually think that it might be ok because someone of his standing is willing to try it, review it with the same attention that he devotes to premium brands, and score it well.

But this is also the problem, though perhaps only for me. I don’t fall in love with every whisky I try. Perhaps I’m setting my standards too high, but if not disappointed, I’m often non-plussed when I try a new whisky, and all I’m doing is searching for that special and sadly rare liquor that I’m going to savour to the very last drop and perhaps even pine for when it’s gone – or want to buy again instead of trying something entirely new. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

Sometimes I feel I’m not even enjoying my glass of scotch, so I certainly wouldn’t be scoring nearly everything in excess of 80 out of 100 (that’s 4 out of 5, which if we were talking books, films or music would signify an excellent score – assuming you reserve top marks for the very select few, as I would).

Don’t think I’m having a go here, because this book is fascinating, but rather than answering all the questions, it leaves me with more.

Get this; it’s supposed to be a whisky bible, so you’d think therefore, that it will be a reference text you can rely on. But no. The impression I get from reading it is that Jim’s opinion of whisky can vary greatly over time – even on something as standard as a bottle of The Famous Grouse. He might say something like, “this has improved greatly since the last time I tried it…”

Now I know the quality of whisky can vary to some extent from one bottling to another, but you’d expect a blend to be pretty consistent. My enjoyment of a whisky can vary from one tasting to the next –from the same bottle. So Jim is clearly well able to rely on his tasting faculties, and treat his conclusions as absolute.

If I tried a glass of the Famous Grouse on one occasion and thought it average, but tried another one another time, and liked it, I’d assume it was something to do with myself or the specific circumstances. Jim just says, “this bottle is better than that one I had last time” – presumably because the method described in his tasting guide is so infallible.

When Jim says in his review of Johnnie Walker Red though, that he had one at an airport and he was overcome by peat, and that it was the earthiest he had tasted in decades… are we to assume he followed all the preliminary steps of his tasting guide, or was his impression open to the same chaos elements that are present when you don’t drink a strong coffee first, find a room with no distractions, haven't recently washed your hands, or have a glencairn glass (does he request one even in airports?) to hand?

Regardless of instances like this, how can you rely on Jim’s recommendation when you might be buying a bottle from the batch he didn’t like? How are you supposed to know?

Another problem is that sometimes it’s difficult to know whether you’ve got a particular bottle. Case in point; Bladnoch 10 yr old. He scores it brilliantly, which pleased me because I’d acquired a quarter of a bottle. On closer inspection though, he specifies that it’s a ‘Flora and Fauna’ bottling, which my bottle didn’t give any indication of being. Then I noticed that he had specified that his was bottled at 43%, while my bottle stated 46%, so clearly they weren’t the same. How different are they? Well, I don’t know, but I suppose it doesn’t matter too much because the bottle I’ve got is very classy; delicate and sweet (just how I like my women).

A look at The Whisky Exchange provided an answer – my bottle retails at around £35, while the ‘Flora and Fauna’ bottling, which is the last Diageo bottling is listed (at time of writing) at £75. It would be nice to know without having to do further research though – I’m used to books giving all the information, not just part of it. I’d also like to know, given that the Flora and Fauna bottling that Murray is reviewing gets 94 out of 100, what mine would score – but I’m not going to buy the 2014 guide to find out (I’ll just have a quick look in Waterstones…).

Examples like this are endemic throughout the book. Is this the bottle I’ve got? Is this the bottle I’m considering buying at my local whisky specialist? Is this the particular bottling I picked up at that distillery? He doesn’t provide quite enough information to be able to make you sure (see also Suntory Hakushu 12, later).

Again, I’m not denying Jim’s credentials. He certainly drops enough knowledge and has a lot to say. I don’t think you can fake that, it just means I can’t necessarily rely on the information in the book from one year to the next. What if next year, I buy a bottle of something based on Jim’s recommendation, but it turns out to be terrible, only I didn’t know because Jim’s review wasn’t current enough, or I got an older bottling, or perhaps he changed his opinion in 2014’s guide?

So as I say, extremely interesting, but perhaps a bible to be treated with the same reverence that a modern, non-church-going Christian would treat their Bible. That is, Adam and Eve? I don’t think so. Don’t be getting all Westboro Baptists’ Church about this.

Jim is drawing on 30 years of tasting experience, and he does point out that his scores are very personal, and based upon that. He obviously has a deep familiarity with many of the distilleries and brands that he is reviewing, and bases his score around what he has come to expect from any single producer – so there is ultimately little chance that you would agree with all that much.

To be fair, it doesn’t make the book any less useful or interesting, so I’m just going to have to take it for what it is, and get on with it.

Now, I still haven’t quite seen the point in adding water to whisky, as I know a lot of whisky experts tell you to do – except in the case of cask strength expressions, of course. I understand, and from experimentation with Caol Ila’s cask strengthvariety, agree that the strength of the alcohol is likely to overpower the subtle flavours and aromas in the whisky. One thing that strikes me as strange then about Jim’s book is that he asserts that he tests every whisky, as it is. He doesn’t add ice or water, and the rationale is that there can be no discrepancy between what he is tasting and what you are. That’s great until you think that he must be reviewing the cask strength whiskies under those same guidelines. So how can he provide a sound review of a cask strength whisky – some of which are more than 60% ABV, and intended for the addition of water – when most of its subtleties and nuances are being masked by strong alcohol? Well, presumably he can’t.

He could add half a measure of water to a double measure of cask strength whisky though, and specify that he did. But no. Surely, if his reviews are supposed to hold water (so to speak), he needs to try several stages of dilution and then comment on the overall quality, so that it doesn’t matter whether you add the same amount of water as he does. It’s just one of those things that you’d think a whisky aficionado would have to address – what’s the point in me reviewing this if I’m not allowing it to develop fully?

I suspect that Jim is experienced enough to be able to provide a full review of a whisky from one taste, whereas I would have to drink the whole bottle before giving a definitive (and admittedly less detailed) review.

I suppose the ultimate indicator of how good a guidebook is, is in the results of using it. Did you agree with its recommendations? I have had chance now to dip into it and use it for research when I know what kind of thing I’m looking for, and just require something to give me a definite push one way or another, and as I said, because it’s scope is so extensive, I’ve already formed opinions on some of its subjects, so let’s break this down to specifics. Here’s some comments on some of the whiskies both Jim and I have tried:

Laphroaig 10/Quarter Cask

Laphroaig 10 was one of the first whiskies I ever tried, and I immediately fell in love with it, but the Quarter Cask I actually felt was lacking in everything that made the 10 so great. Jim scores the 10 year old 90 (while noting that it is a favourite of Prince Charles), and the Quarter Cask 96.

Caol Ila 12/18

12 is one of my absolute favourites – sweet, smoky and luxurious – and as such provides a benchmark for the opinions of anyone that reviews whisky. What I’m essentially saying is if you don’t rate the Caol Ila 12, your opinion means nothing to me.  The 18 year old on the other hand was quite a disappointment, with a bitter finish that belied it’s extravagant price tag. That currently stands as the most expensive bottle I ever bought.

In Murray’s book, the 12 scores what is in my opinion, a modest 89 while the 18 scores only 80 – with the stipulation that there is too much oil. 80 seems quite fair, and consistent with Jim’s scoring system.

Black Grouse

This one doesn’t just come recommended by Jim; it’s also in the 101 Whiskies… guide. I just don’t get what all the fuss is about. Jim calls it “a real treasure” and scores it a 94. Frankly that’s shocking. If you read that, and then see you can get it for £18, you’re going to buy it, aren’t you? Sorry, but there is no way this is better than the Laphroaig  10 and the Caol Ila 12. No way – even when you take the price into account.

Talisker 10

Another that is almost universally recommended. I think it’s decent but I’m not overly enthused. Jim rates it almost as highly as the Black Grouse, with a 93. He also tastes some Cumberland sausage in there. For the record, I think it is way better than the Black Grouse, but would still score it below a 93… were I able to put numerical values on these things.

Glenmorangie Original

I was surprised to find I enjoyed this very much. Great value. Jim calls it one of the greats, and scores it a 94. I’m not sure it’s that good, but still…

Cutty Sark

I think Jim and I are actually in synch here. Distinctly average, I felt. Not bad for the price I paid, I suppose, but not worth the price you pay in the UK. Jim says it has a ‘nipping furriness’, which I’m not going to disagree with despite not having any way of truly knowing what he means, and gives it 78.

Glenfarclas 10

I enjoyed this very much, but here it scores only 80, and is described as “sweaty” with an odd finish.

Suntory Hakushu 12

I bought this based largely on Jim’s recommendation, though that recommendation was supported by a number of online sources. I did enjoy it, but didn’t quite feel it lived up to the hype. There are three Hakushu 12s listed in Jim’s book. The only way I could identify which one might be mine was by the ABV of 43%. That is actually the best of the three, scoring 95.5. It is apparently one of the most complex and clever 12 year olds in the world, though I felt it had a slight bitterness in the finish that detracted from its oily mouthfeel and sweet entry.

DYC 8

One I actually sought out, based on Jim’s recommendation. I can’t understand what he saw in it. 90 points, ‘clean and cleverly constructed’. I would score it much lower and change ‘clean and cleverly constructed’ to ‘aniseedy and weird’. I rank it as the worst blend I’ve ever owned and the second worst overall whisky.

Ardbeg 10

This is an immense malt and I can only agree with Jim’s glowing opinion of it. 97 points he gives it. I have no problem with that other than that there are only 3 more points a whisky can occupy to be better than it. So it can only possibly get 3 better than Ardbeg 10.

Ballantine’s Finest

A little research I did recently for an upcoming post featuring Balantine’s Finest found that customer reviews on whisky retail sites held it in high regard while bloggers and more formal critics… didn’t. For the record, I have been enjoying the Finest very much, and would place it at 3^rd in my all time blended scotch rankings. Jim calls it the work of a blender at the top of its game and scores it 96. I don’t think it’s quite that good – again, when compared with lower scores for Laphroaig and Caol Ila, and especially when he claims to score blends more harshly than single malts.

Conclusion

So what can you take away from this? Certainly that you can’t treat the guide as an all-knowing oracle that you could rely on to find you a delicious whisky, but you can still refer to it from time to time. It’s all about figuring out what you think for yourself anyway, isn’t it?

Jim has a lot to teach you, and will show you that you still have a lot to learn. He’s not going to reveal all the secrets of the universe but now at least now you know how big the universe is (fucking big). Go out and explore for yourself and see if you can’t discover a few things that aren’t even in the book.

*In fact, the lowest it gets is New Zealand's Kiwi Whisky which scores only 37.

That's it for this week. If you made it this far, thanks for reading. Next week, I promise, will be shorter. Till then.

Spirit Log: White Horse Blended Scotch

I had a pleasant surprise one Saturday, when a visit to my parents resulted in receiving a new bottle of whisky. Apparently my dad had been emptying out the pantry because they needed to find storage space for some things that had been displaced by the arrival of a dishwasher, and he found some booze hidden away in there – you wouldn’t get that in my house. I was invited to take a look – like one of those experts they get in on Cash in the Attic.

First out were 20cl bottles of Gordon’s Gin and Smirnoff vodka. Pretty standard, and no more than I had expected. I would have been happy to take these off their hands – I’m not a big fan of Smirnoff, or the whole genre of gin, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have requirements – nevertheless, my mum laid claim to those, for drinking with orange or tonic or whatever – she doesn’t normally, and actually had to ask me what she could mix vodka with. The answer? Nearly anything.

Far more interesting than those anyway, was what came out of the pantry next: White Horse blended scotch (40% ABV). It’s not a brand you hear much about, being as it is, more popular and readily available in overseas markets. I had heard of it though, from a brief perusal of sub-£20 blends on The Whisky Exchange (£18.55 + P&P, btw). Reviews were exclusively good so I’d made a mental note to keep an eye out for it next time I was looking to buy a blend.

It scores an impressive 90.5 in Jim Murray’s 2013 Whisky Bible, is made up of 40% malt whisky, and has as its base, the excellent Lagavulin single malt. I read somewhere though, that it is actually blended from around 40 malts in total. Does that mean each malt comprises only 1% of the resulting blend?

Where did this buried treasure come from? Apparently it all used to belong to my granddad… who died about 15 years ago. None of the bottles have been opened, so it should be fine – despite the fact that there looks to be a lot of air at the top of my bottle – perhaps some of it had evaporated? I’ve read before that whisky will taste as good as when it was bottled for hundreds of years, as long as the bottle remains unopened. And now this particular bottle belongs to me and there is no longer any chance of it remaining unopened for hundreds of years. I give it a week or two at most.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had this experience, but when my grand parents learned they were not much longer for this world, they started asking me if there was anything of theirs I wanted. I said that I would like whatever they specifically wanted to give me. The person is more important to me than their stuff. A word of advice for you though, if an elderly relative of yours asks you this question, think about saying, “I wouldn’t mind having your booze”. You never know, you might get something valuable. Worst case scenario: some bottles of booze.

Something else my granddad did as the end approached was to try to give me the benefit of some useful things he had learned. One was about changing a tyre, that I’ve sadly forgotten, and the other was about how to emerge from a shower cubicle in winter without feeling the cold.

White Horse, I see, is one of Diageo’s blends, though my internet research so far has not revealed for how long Diageo has produced this particular brand. Diageo was formed in 1997 from a merger between Guinness and Grand Metropolitan, and that’s probably roughly around the time this particular bottle was produced, though nowhere on it is the name Diageo mentioned, and to be fair, my granddad could have had it for quite sometime before he passed on anyway. It remains to be seen then, whether this bottle is representative of the White Horse brand you might be able to buy today, since I’ll need to buy a new bottle to determine that.

Have you ever inherited any booze? I remember now that when my Grandma died, I was given a litre bottle of Teachers so, you know, it would be interesting to know what gets left behind at the end of a person’s life. If you were proper into whisky you’d probably make sure you were finishing the good stuff in your last days – or maybe there are more important considerations for the terminally ill. Would you drink the good stuff, leaving the Teachers, or would you save something special for the end?

A Few Weeks Later…

So, what about this White Horse, then? I broke the seal and gave it a first tasting the night of the Confederations Cup Final, and was impressed right away. In the glass, it looks simply beautiful. There’s something about that rich hue that shimmers invitingly in kitchen lighting conditions. Incidentally, I'm sorry but I don't seem to have taken a picture of the bottle. I don't know how that happened.

As I said, it is supposed to be founded on Lagavulin, and while I can’t say I detect that in there specifically, there is a definite feel of Islay. This is a nice blend – not as great as the Jim McEwan’s Symphony that rocketed right to the top of my blend league – but approaching that level of complexity and refinement.

After a couple of tastings I started to detect vanilla on the nose – like the Bladnoch 10 that I had some time ago. Grainy elements also started to show through on the finish, where I hadn’t been able to detect them before. In spite of that, on the blended scotch scale it sits closer to the delicate sweetness of the Jim McEwan’s Symphony than it does to what I consider standard budget blend fare where sweetness is lacking and instead the spirit seems rough and unpleasant .

Perhaps not one to bring out when the single malt snobs come round, but I wouldn’t use it for mixing. It’s definitely one to consider if you’re looking for a decent blend on a budget.

I see from looking at my stats today that this is my 100^th post. Go me. Thanks everyone that has popped by whether it by to read, look at a picture or whether it was entirely by accident. And apologies for my tardiness. I’ve not been so good at posting regularly of late, but I’ll keep trying. See you next week (or later this week) for something else.

Glencairn glasses; I can smell things too!

well spotted. One of these is not a Glencairn glass. So?

I’d like to revisit a theme now that last cropped up in my Am I becoming a bit of a snob? post – the question of whisky glasses. I had started to bemoan the fact that whenever you order whisky in a pub, it seems to come in either what are known as ‘rocks’ glasses or even in small straight glasses – like what you’d normally expect to receive with a bottle of J2O.

Whisky though, is renowned for being a very complex spirit that can impart a huge variety of scents and flavours, yet the kinds of glass that most people seem to begin their whisky journeys drinking out of don’t facilitate the experiencing of this complex spirit to the full. Anyone who’s anyone in the world of whisky knows that there exists a glass that supposedly will help you make the most of your whisky tasting experience – the Glencairn glass, which first came into production in 2001, so quite recently.

This blog has up to this point been a journey of discovery for me, so that should explain some of my naïve questions and opinions. I’ve been somewhat sceptical of all those things people report experiencing in their whisky because I just enjoy whisky, and a part of me wanted to continue doing that without having to get all finicky about details like glasses and techniques, and am I tasting what you’re tasting and all that. The other part just felt like a teenager that had discovered a new favourite band and wanted to absorb all their recordings and discover their influences, and just immerse themselves in it.

When I heard about the Glencairn glass (£6.90 on Amazon – why are they not available in like, John Lewis or Debenhams or Ikea?), it didn’t really occur to me that there was any point in getting one, but then, as you might have read in previous weeks, I visited some distilleries in Islay, and not only did all the tastings involve Glencairn glasses, but also they were just throwing them at me, so I came home with five – branded with Lagavulin, Laphroaig and Caol Ila. Honestly, you get more of these in one day on Islay than you get napkins in two visits to a fried chicken joint – here’s your massive box of greasy chicken that you have to eat with your fingers, and here’s one single play napkin the size of a postage stamp.

Can I have some more napkins, please?

No.

I decided it was time to put the glasses the test, and started using them. Now I can give you the results of my experiments.

So how good are they? Well, let’s get some aesthetic and practical considerations out of the way first. They are small, and they aren’t exactly masculine. Nor are they particularly comfortable to drink out of, since my nose gets in the way when I tip one back, which means I also need to tip my head back.

However, they are comfy to hold – they sit nicely between my index finger and thumb, and the base then sits pleasingly on my curled middle finger. You can swirl your spirit vigorously around the glass, and it doesn’t spill out the top as it might in certain other shapes and styles, and the bulb shape makes it easy to pour a suitably sized measure consistently without having to use a measuring cup; should you be concerned about such things, just pour until the liquid reaches the point where the curve begins to turn back on itself. And despite having to tip your head back a bit, the shape facilitates getting just the right quantity smoothly into your mouth for enjoying.

The important considerations though are:

                Is there any improvement in terms of nosing my whisky?

                Does it make the whisky taste any better?

I’m not going to keep you waiting here; the answer to both of those questions is a resounding yes. Seriously. They are not making this shit up.

I think there might be a tiny element of the immersion in scotch on the Island of Islay having a positive influence on my enjoyment of whisky overall, but I now feel that these Glencairn glasses really help me to enjoy my whisky to the fullest extent. Let me give you some examples.

Firstly, I’ve never really been able to identify any individual scents or tastes in the whisky I’ve drunk beyond smoky, salty, peppery – to me those are very basic. When it comes to blackberries, chocolate, honey - I don’t know, some people can find anything in there – I was all at sea. Straight away though, I started finding things.

The first whisky I tried on my return home from Islay was my Balvenie 12 year old, double wood (40% ABV), earlier impressions on which you can find here and here. Immediately, on the nose I detected liquorice and vanilla, while on the palate I could taste oak, mint and (later – not on the same occasion) strawberries. I went from being non-plussed about this malt to being im-pressed in just a couple of tastings.

With the last of my Grant and MacPhail bottling of Scapa (43% ABV), I got tobacco on the nose and citrus on the palate. Sadly that was it, there was none left to analyse any further – but that’s still a massive improvement.

Next I moved on to my Woodford Reserve bourbon (43.2% ABV) and found caramel and dark chocolate on the nose, with sweet apple juice on the palate that actually took me right back to a school trip to the Jorvik Centre in York, where part of the tour takes you through a strong smell of apples that is supposed to represent the Vikings’ cultivation of orchards.

The most I’ve experienced in a single glass so far comes from a bottle of 10 year old Bladnoch (46% ABV). It’s a real delicate and mellow scotch that doesn’t give away its above average strength, and on the nose for that one I got something quite weird. It was incredibly familiar, but I couldn’t quite pin down what it was at first. Finally it came to me; ice cream cake, like your friend’s mum used to serve at birthday parties. I know, it sounds silly. Perhaps that’s the vanilla that everyone’s always finding. Then there was tobacco, and later, cheese – though not as strongly as Bruichladdich’sOrganic expression.

The palate was spicy and contained a hint of orange, followed by chocolate truffle.

Finally I was starting to see what everyone was talking about – not because I had to really strain and grasp in order to convince myself that I could detect these things, but because they were just sitting there at the top of my Glencairn glass, and (inexplicably) on my tongue. How the glass could possibly affect the overall flavour, I don’t know – perhaps this is the Islay immersion’s effect – but all I know is that I definitely noticed a difference.

Oddly though the cagiest whisky I’ve tried so far in terms of giving up distinct scents or flavours is my Caol Ila Distillers Edition that I’ve been enjoying immensely. It’s sweet like nectar, but I’m getting nothing familiar from it – excepting the mellow peatiness that causes it to act like God’s own room odouriser, and on my 6^th or 7^th tasting, a mild suggestion of sizzling bacon.

Previously I simply enjoyed whisky (among other spirits) very much, but the Glencairn glass has opened up a whole new layer of possibilities for me to explore, and that’s pretty exciting, so I’m not exaggerating when I say I’m delighted. However, in some small way, the universal laws of physics are reflected here, in that there have turned out to be drawbacks – perhaps not to the point of an equal and opposite reaction, but just drawbacks.

Firstly, you can forget about enjoying a nice glass of whisky on a night out anymore. You’ll just be throwing your money away, paying over the odds for something that you’re not going to get the full benefit from.

It’s getting a bit silly really. I was thinking about buying a half bottle in the Duty Free at Manchester Airport to take to Vietnam with me, and I started thinking, but they won’t have the right type of glasses in Vietnam… Honestly, what a geek.  Did it anyway.

Secondly, these glasses only seem to work with whisky. I’ve tried my 20 year old Armagnac, my 10 Cane rum ,and my Blanc e Neri grappa and neither of them has benefitted in the slightest, which only goes to reinforce the supposition that whisky is the most complex spirit there is. Previously I loved all kinds of spirits, but now I can’t help feeling that in some way they are all inferior to whisky, and that maybe this matters. And that’s no way to be!

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I feel like so much of my whisky tasting up to now has been a waste of time, and that perhaps I need to try so many of them all over again – the Black Grouse, Aldi’s Highland Black, definitely the Highland Park 12 year old. Whether it’s because I think maybe I didn’t like them when I might have, or whether it’s a case of if it was that good, imagine how good it could be… it doesn’t matter; I’ve wasted so much time! And money! And words!

Ah, whaddaya gonna do? Life goes on, so get on with it. Whisky is awesome with or without fancy glasses. If you want to know exactly how awesome it can be though, just get one. Totally worth it.

Vintage Ale - Beer-in-a-box

As part of last year’s Christmas festivities, Mrs Cake decided to elevate her festive enthusiasm to new heights by creating an advent calendar for me. It wasn’t two bits of card with flaps concealing uninspiring chocolate in the shape of generic yuletide objects though, it was five carrier bags of presents that represented a treat a day – small things mostly; there were at least three Mars bars and Dairy Milks on separate days, but there was also a pack of cookies, a bag of Opal Fruits, chocolate money, Twiglets, Brannigans crisps, and… five individually wrapped beers.

Don’t get too excited, they were all from Aldi, and some bore the legend, “bottled exclusively for Aldi”, but cast your snobbery aside. They were all nice, and Mrs Cake tells me, only £1 each (with one exception). These were of the premium beer variety, so in Tesco you’d be paying at least double for something similar to these.

The most interesting of the beers though, was this one; Bateman’s Premium Vintage Ale. This one was so special that it came in its own box – which led to some confusion at first, since I accidentally found it in the ‘calendar’ too early. “No!” cried Mrs Cake.

“That’ll be a pretty special beer if it comes in a box!” I exclaimed, while actually thinking it must be a small bottle of whisky. I didn’t want her to know I knew, and secretly made sure it was the right way up so that the cork wouldn’t damage the bottle’s contents.

So when 24 December came and it was finally time to open it, it turned out that it had been a beer in a box all along. I wasn’t disappointed though, as Mrs Cake had already put her proper presents under the tree, and one was definitely a bottle of whisky.

Also, I don’t think I’d seen a beer in a box before, and this one said, “limited release – Vintage Ale”. In fact, it was even numbered (out of 5000), though I didn’t make a note of what number it was – it was too high to be of any interest to me.

Vintage ale – I don’t think I’d heard that term before. It suggests it’s old, a supposition that was to some extent reinforced by the information on the box, which included a rather charming story about some cases of barley wine (strong beer) being forgotten about for thirty odd years, then discovered and found to be delicious.

 

Exciting stuff until you read on and discover that the bottle you’re holding isn’t one of those. It is inspired by the discovery of those cases. There’s no information on Bateman’s website, and the information on the box was incomplete, but this blog fills in the gaps. It seems the brewers attempted to recreate the old brew, and aged it in oak casks for a comparatively brief seven months. It all ends with your favourite grocery store and mine, Aldi, being pleased to distribute them. They still had some in stock at £3.29 a bottle for some time after Christmas, but sadly I’ve been too slow getting this post out, and by now I’m fairly sure they’re all gone.

The word ‘vintage’, I have since found out, doesn’t necessarily mean ‘old’. The term actually relates to the year in question, so you could easily have a 2013 vintage – that would be a beer made using malt and hops from this year of our lord 2013.

Stuart Bateman, the MD of Batemans reckons this is the best beer he’s ever tasted but, you know, he probably would. What do I think of it? Well, I’m no expert on beer, though I have been known to dabble with them from time to time, and er… well, I’ll tell you in a minute.

My friend Paul is a bit more enthusiastic about real ale than I am, so I thought he might appreciate the chance to partake in the tasting. I took it along therefore, to his house and we poured it into two glasses.

It’s a satisfyingly strong 7.5% ABV, so it gets points for that straight away, but what can I say other than it tasted like a strong British ale? Sure, it was nice, but the best beer I’ve ever tasted? No. I don’t remember it being that good. Yeah, I’d already had a few drinks, and was no doubt slightly distracted, chatting with Paul and Victoria and the wife, but if it was the best beer I’d ever tasted, I would still have noticed. I don’t think Paul was particularly taken aback either, but I’ve quizzed him since and while he doesn’t remember much specifically, he’s was quite positive about it.

I was a little perturbed by the incomplete nature of the information on the packaging, which made me sceptical as to the overall quality. Alcohol brands are full of impressive sounding boasts that on closer inspection are hard to validate, or not that impressive after all, so you’ll have to excuse me for being a little cynical.

It was still interesting to try though, and I couldn’t say at the time whether I’d tried any ‘aged’ ales before, though I’ve since learned that cask ales can often be aged for from as little as a few months to around a year, helping them to develop fully. There is still yeast in the cask or bottle with real ale, and this enables the brew to undergo a further fermentation process, so in theory the ale can get better and better, as long as you don’t open it and begin the dreaded oxidisation process.

I have had a fair amount of real ale in the past, though I don’t remember ever learning how long any particular beer had been maturing – I’m sure many will have been a good few months old nevertheless.

As someone who finds aged liquor fascinating (just the thought of it sitting there in barrels for years – or months in this case – is interesting to me), I was intrigued by what this bottle would reveal. In conclusion though, it tasted like many other ales I’ve tried previously, so perhaps the only question is why hadn’t I heard of vintage ale before? As I say, I’ve drunk a lot of beer over the years and been to a fair few real ale festivals – I shouldn’t have to actively research this stuff in order to find out about it.

Don’t get me wrong here, it was a nice beer. It’s just that my excitement at the prospect of something I thought was quite unique faded when I realised firstly that the story on the box was only part of the story, and secondly that this would not be the first time I had ever experienced ‘vintage’ ale. Seems it’s just about how it is packaged and presented.

This blog sure is turning out to be educational (for me). I expect a good number of people who happen across it already know a lot of this stuff anyway, but thanks for stopping by! I hope you will do so again. Next week I’m planning to reveal the results of a tasting of five whiskies that I did recently - it is subject to change depending on how I feel about it at the time, but come by anyway. I’ll try to make it interesting.

I’ll be indulging in more drink-related activities this weekend as usual. I’m looking forward to this evening in particular because I plan to polish off my bottle of Bladnoch 10 year old, and I’ve told myself that once that’s gone I’ll allow myself to open a new bottle. I’ve decided to make it a blend because I have a bit of the Dewars 12 year old double aged left in my hip flask, and I’ll be able to do a comparative study. That should probably be “study”. The blend in question is one that I picked up on my recent distilgrimage to Islay, but I won’t mention it now because I want to save the details for my travelogue (“travelogue”) that should be coming up in a few weeks. Opening a new bottle is one of my favourite things. I am such a geek.

You make sure you have a good weekend now, ok? See you soon.