My interactions with Vodka, much like the men I dated, were devoid of any color or depth, any unique layers or unexpected surprises. Vodka was the absence of essence in my life. Fortunately, Vodka was just a phase. I have since moved on to spicier, smokier, sturdier, dark and handsome causes. I’ve found happiness in something that possesses an intriguing history, charm, and a sexy Scottish accent. Two short years ago, I fell into a relationship with Scotch, entirely by accident, and couldn’t be happier with the result.
Once upon a bar, my dear friend Ryan poured himself a glass of Lagavulin 16 Single Malt Scotch. I had spent the evening feeling particularly uninspired about booze and as irony often plays out, was turning to the booze itself to get over my apathy regarding it. It didn’t hurt that I also happened to be thirsty.
“Come on Kylee, just try it,” he challenged me.
I took a sip, felt the burn go up through the top of my palate into the back of my head, down my throat and out my nose. It was one of those moments where you’re not sure if this is the most heartbreaking slap in the face you’ve ever tasted, or the most compassionate kiss on the lips. It hit me with a kind of child-like uncertainty—one second my face was scrunched up into a ball of pure repulsion, only to be shaken off in the next moment as I got the chills, my mouth went numb, and I felt the most glorious little warm prickles travel up my spine to the very hairs on my head. I wanted to take another sip just to see if it would happen that way again.
Ryan shook his head at my dramatics and asked, “Ok. What does it taste like to you?”
And, right then, I knew I must have more of this thought-provoking libation:
“This tastes like Scottish man, mid to late 40’s. He has dark red hair and a red beard. He’s wearing a dark green wool J. Crew cable knit sweater in the color they call ‘vintage sage’ with a reddish-greenish plaid wooly kilt. He’s sucking on a menthol cough drop. He’s standing in a grassy glen, leaning up against an old and rotting wooden fence, and it’s drizzling rain. Oh and he has a sheep with him.”
Ryan raised a brow, “Most people would just say ‘peaty’ but okay, Kylee.”
And I was hooked by how this alcohol made me feel. It wasn’t about a buzz or losing control—it was about experiencing the subtle nuances and range of flavors I’d never been exposed to before. I felt intelligent drinking it—like I finally got a glimpse into the knowledge held by all the old men who’ve been drinking it for years. When I drank Scotch, I could say anything and feel like my words had value, if only because there was a glass of $25 Scotch in my hand and perhaps because it caused outsiders to presuppose that surely a young woman sipping Oban must know something profound. I couldn’t help but notice an unspoken exchange of respect between myself and the male bartenders when I asked, “So, what do you have in the way of a good 18-25 year Single Malt?”
Scotch became my own existential validation. It understood me, made me feel warm, and always paired well with whatever comfort food was necessary to accommodate my varying feminine moods; Scotch and chocolate when overly emotional and teary-eyed, Scotch and potato chips when carefree and carpe diem-ing. It was time to really commit to this spirit and so naturally I started asking questions of Whiskey genius John Coltharp at Seven Grand.
I laid it out for him: I loved Scotch and yet had to much to learn and understand about this spirit. He sensed my seriousness, my commitment, and took his time in sharing his knowledge with me.
First came its “genealogical” facts as he instructed me on a few major distilleries. He taught me how to read a label properly and all the jewels of information that could be found on each, like the cask, the strength, the date it was bottled and how many others of its kind are out there in the world. I learned about how true Scotch must contain only malted barley—how it is plucked from the fields, undergoes a “controlled germination” to be dried and distilled then turned into ale, how the ale becomes Whiskey and whence aged for a minimum of 3 years in Scotland, that Whiskey may finally become my beloved Scotch. As John whisked me through these specifics my head began to spin. Malted who? Pot stills what? But being the ever-accommodating bartender that he is, John knew what to teach me next. He climbed his ladder up into that library wall of Scotch, pulled down four bottles and lined them up in front of me as if to say, “Yes, yes, you love Scotch. But now you need to understand it.”
I knew my “bearded Scottish man” way of describing it was a unique, if not slightly inaccurate method, yet I wished to keep that open mindedness when going through this process.
I began with a taste from the Auchentoshen Distillery, the Dewar Rattray Cask Collection. A Lowlander described as having an “aromatic and sweetly spiced” nose with a “floral and citric, with honey” plate. To me, it did in fact taste a bit floral; a hint of soft flowers tickling the back of my palate. I tasted pears, grapes, and melons. My mouth processed these flavors and within a moment the profile changed again into something buttery with just the slightest breath of cloves and cinnamon.
Next, a Glenmorangie, The Original. Its tasting notes speak of “creamy vanilla, mandarin, essence of fennel and nutmeg, almond and coconut.” I tasted a spicy minerality, and it was slightly fruity but in the sense of roasted apples in the fall, ones dipped in a warm pot of melted butterscotch and caramel. The flavor from the Bourbon barrels in which it was aged came out, a little of its history in that small wooden aftertaste—almost like mealy apples, but not ones which have spoiled, rather ones that have fallen from the trees and people walk past and disregard, not realizing the wonderful flavors they still possess. I noticed a complete absence of peat, less sea saltiness and more of the heather flower.
John reached up to his tiered shelf and pulled down a bottle of Glenfiddich 15, the Solera Reserve. This 15-year is known for its nose, “full and fuity with delicate honey and vanilla notes” and its taste “elegantly smooth, with a deep flavor of fruit, spice and oak.” I tasted a sweet fruitiness and an earthy finish. It filled my palate to the brim, then quickly disappeared in a flavor of what I can only describe as Scotch-tape—a quick plasticky finish that is not offensive, yet rather comforting.
Then came my trusty Macallan 12, yet it tasted different than any other experience I’d had with it. Typically considered to experess “vanilla with a hint of ginger, dried fruits, sherry sweetness and smoke,” this time I tasted an anise undertone with the smoke. The nose had a sharp scent of the alcohol, yet once breathed in and slowly sipped my mouth became full with the warmth of stewed fruit like raisins and prunes and fall jams. The sherry from its cask came forward as well, giving a different juiciness to its finish.
It would be remiss of me not to admit the following: I was extremely hesitant to move forward to the Islays (pronounce I-la) Truth be told, I owe it to this region for introducing me to Scotch in the first place with the Lagavulin 16, but it will always mystify me in a way that makes me somewhat insecure. Do I love it, or do I hate it? John understood my hesitations, but knew that if I were to fully understand this uncertainty, I would have to whole-heartedly try more. He poured me a generous taste of the Ardbeg 10. This is not a shy Scotch, considering itself to have “deep peat notes, with tobacco smoke, strong espresso coffee, treacle sweetness and licorice.” I was first hit by the smoke. Peat smoke. Sea salt smoke. And if it could even exist, a damp wet smoke. The adhesive taste of Scotch tape only magnified— Band-Aids, perhaps. A sticky and definitively anesthetic taste with an olfactory bite. Yet, the peat moss flavor had a softness to it that made me not entirely dislike the experience. The jury is still out.
I was overwhelmed, rightfully so. John knew this had been a wonderful and exhausting road for me, and was waiting at the finish line with a prize for both actively acquiring knowledge and also being ok with what I discovered.
A final glass was placed before me, filled with Highland Park 18. It embodied all the things I love in a Scotch, but this time I didn’t bother to deconstruct how it tasted and made me feel, but rather just chose to savor and enjoy. It was like Macallan on its very best day. Like Oban drank while eating potato chips and laughing with friends. It was Thanksgiving dinner raisins and butter and smoke and salt all working together in one glass, with a finish lasting exactly the right amount of time to receive it and yet anxiously look forward to the next sip. It was “just right.”
Throughout this entire experience, this exploration, I have been reminded why I love Scotch. Even more importantly (as in any valuable relationship) I have grown to also respect it. Even the Band-Aid flavored Islays. In this discovery, I’ve learned that I have no resentment towards Vodka, because like any relationship turned sour, it usually brings you on to something better and if you are very lucky, as I have been, something you hope to enjoy for the rest of your life.