Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 45

Review – Cutty Sark, Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated) 40%

Why do I do this to myself?

I know, right? It’s not like I have to. I’m not being forced to write these reviews. I’m most certainly not getting paid to do what I do here.

I like to think that I’m doing my readers a favor, but hey, after a few “I do it so you don’t have to” rendezvous with some really hideous whiskies, I’m less inclined to put myself in front of that bullet.

So, again, why do I do this to myself? I mean, this was a voluntary action, right? I can’t blame this on anyone else. No one gifted it. No one. I reached for the bottle myself. I took it in my own hand and I carried it to the cashier. I gave the bedraggled party store attendant $16 from my own wallet.

Yeah. $16.

Okay, so, I’m here now. You, Cutty Sark, are here now, too. Whaddya say we just get this over with, huh? You go ahead and be crappy. I’ll twist your cheap cap and taste the crappiness. And then I’ll try to write something witty about how Cutty Sark, while its namesake ship may have been a worthwhile import vessel bringing Asia’s teas to the English, the whisky itself should be met out on the midwaters by pirates and dashed to the ocean depths.

Okay, here goes…

Hmm. I smell… is that… is that ginger ale? And apples. What the…? The nose of this whisky is almost like a Redd’s Apple Ale. Not my favorite beverage, but also not medicinally horrible as I expected.

This is weird.

Okay, let’s give it a sip.

Light. A little bit of malt. No, wait. The malt is coming around a bit more strongly. It’s carrying a low tide of something sweet. It’s the ginger. And a very sweet apple.

What the heck is going on here?! This is supposed to be appalling – chemical – terrible! I don’t necessarily like whiskies this sweet, but c’mon, this is, well, thirst-quenching. Oh my. Cutty Sark, a cheap blend, is… drinkably acceptable! What the heck?!

And the finish is light, too. There’s not much too it, although I’m sensing something like caramel and peaches, or maybe it’s the syrup in the peach can. I can’t tell. It was gone too quickly.

Okay, okay. Keep the $16 and I’ll keep the Cutty Sark.

No, I’ll probably never consider it a go-to whisky. As I said, it’s awfully sweet. I almost feel like I need to get one of those little foo-foo umbrellas for my glass before I wash this down.

In the end, I guess I will say that if I’m ever miles away from my own cabinet of whisky treasures and I’m in a pinch for cash, the Cutty Sark won’t be out of the question. I’ll be shooting for something better, of course. But if as I am picking my pockets clean, looking through the seats of my car, scouring the sidewalks for extra change, and maybe even playing my guitar for alms on the street corner and I only make it to $16, I guess I’ll be okay.

Do me a favor, will you? Keep this to yourself.

Review – Glenfiddich, Bourbon Barrel Reserve, 14 Years Old, 43%

“Do you just want to go home?” I asked.

There was a moment of silent contemplation. Heaven, earth, and all four of our children held their breaths.

“Yeah,” she said, “let’s go home.”

After about five minutes or so of disappointment expressed through tearful complaints, while Mom and Dad tried to explain that sometimes things just don’t work out as planned, we were finally able to pack up what little we possessed and made our way out a side door of the hotel and out to the car. We were home in ten minutes.

A couple of weeks ago, we were all sitting at the dinner table and fondly remembering our vacation in Florida. Surprisingly, I get a little sick to my stomach when I think about it. It’s not because I didn’t enjoy the vacation, but because it’s so far away from anything we know in our everyday lives. To give you an idea as to what I mean – my back always hurts. It hurts every day. Some days it takes everything in me just to get my shoes on. I walk on the treadmill when I finally get home at night to loosen up, but that is temporary relief. It’s always there to greet me in the morning. But while we were in Florida, when I left everything behind and had nothing to do, my back didn’t hurt once. I was fine for ten days. But when I walked onto that plane to come home, it started tweaking and I was right back in the grind. I get a little sore in my gut because I have to imagine that somewhere and in some way, the levels of life’s concerns don’t have to be like this every day.

Anyway…

At dinner, I’d made the suggestion that perhaps we could get away for a day, maybe spend the night in a nearby hotel. The kids could go swimming. We’d order pizza and watch movies. The next morning, after gorging ourselves at the complimentary breakfast buffet, we’d go swimming one more time (after waiting a half hour, of course), and then we’d go home.

I could barely finish presenting my plan before everyone was calling out in agreement. We were going. Jen was already on the phone booking the room.

We just got back from the little getaway. It didn’t work out as we planned.

We got to the hotel in the early evening before the dinner hour and the first thing we did was change into our swim suits. Everyone was excited to go swimming.

“Looks like no one’s here,” I said as we made our way into the humid room. We had the pool all to ourselves. This was going to be fun.

There was a reason no one was enjoying the pool.

Madeline climbed in and screamed. The water was ice cold. Ice cold.

I got in. Madeline, Harrison, and Evelyn so bravely forced themselves in. But after a few minutes, I could see that their lips were turning blue. They tried. I tried. But we couldn’t stand it anymore.

Shivering and disappointed, we all traipsed back up to the room.

“Hey, guys, let’s just watch movies,” Evelyn encouraged toward the evening’s possibilities. The pool elapsed from memory.

Once in the room, I remembered something I’d forgotten – check for bedbugs. Jen had departed from the pool area before us, and so while the kids got changed and sat down to watch TV, I pulled back the bedding and lifted the mattresses. So far so good. Until I came to the last corner of the master bed. Just under the headboard corner was a tiny dead bug. I didn’t know for sure if it was a bedbug. Jen didn’t either, but it sure looked enough like one that we weren’t taking any chances. And so we gathered up everything and set it up on the top shelf in the closet. I checked with the front desk to see if another room was available, and the attendant assured me that there was not.

The pizza came, we ate, and then we broke the news. The kids pleaded with us to reconsider. I pleaded with myself to reconsider, but the mini-vacation was just not to be.

I sit here now, comforting myself with the Glenfiddich Bourbon Barrel Reserve 14-year-old. Jen is beside me reading a magazine and watching the news. The children are playing video games upstairs. The consoling gesture we presented was that they could all stay up late playing video games.

I suppose that this particular offering from Glenfiddich is a sufficient salve, although I’d much rather be enjoying it next to a pool about ten miles from here. Nevertheless, it certainly does, in its own way, relieve the day’s summation by offering a consoling bit of summertime nectars in the nose. I think I smell a sugar plum… and something else. Apple spice, maybe?

The oak is more than apparent in the palate. And there’s more than a hint of the apple spices here. There also seems to be a clementine sitting somewhere on the fringe, waiting to become more outspoken if only the oaky snip would quiet down a tad and give it a chance.

The finish doesn’t see this happen, although the sugar plum returns and stays through to a medium degree.

Well, I guess things don’t always “finish” as you would expect.

Only 28 more weeks until we go back to Florida.

Sigh…

Review – The Balvenie, DoubleWood, 12 Years Old, 43%

I’m sure that I’ve shared with you before that I’m not one to participate in trends. Certainly I follow them to some extent in order to understand the ever-fleeting cultural context in which I am definably entombed, but I rarely succumb to their pressures to participate. They knock at my door, doing their best to present a tantalizing allurement, pleading to come in, but I’ve been blessed with an immunity to the sirens. I rarely find anything tantalizing about them at all.

Now having said all this, there is a current trend that seems to have slipped through, although you need to know that it was something that I willingly accepted long ago, long before it was ever classified as a trend.

I’m speaking of the beard.

I’ve had one before. I’ve always liked it. My dear bride has not, thusly, it comes and goes with the seasons.

The great thing about beards now that they are trendy is that it is not only much easier to convince my wife that I should be allowed to own one, but for a guy like me, they provide for a near perfect combination – that is, I can cut my morning bathroom routine nearly in half while at the same time knowing that such half-hearted expediency leads to being considered fashionable. Yep. Lazy and chic.

Well, maybe not chic. Such a term implies a certain caliber of handsomeness. My wife reminds me often that when I grow a beard, she begins to feel as though she’s married to a lumberjack. And when she kisses me, she complains and prompts that she didn’t intend to marry a Wookie.

And still, because she loves me, as the saying goes, “Let the Wookie win.”

With the beard comes the ’stache. I think that this is my favorite part of the beast because while I’m sipping a fine Scotch, it isn’t uncommon for a portion of the dram to climb aboard and provide for a longer term nosing that I hardly find unacceptable – most especially when I’m tipping The Balvenie 12-year-old DoubleWood.

This particular edition has become a standard line amidst a vast Balvenie catalogue. And as is true for most all of this whisky’s kindred editions, The Balvenie’s master distiller, David Stewart, proves himself to always be before and after the trends with something that has staying power.

Aged in Bourbon casks and then finished in Oloroso Sherry casks, the DoubleWood’s nose is a gentle graze of apple and cherry fruit syrup joined with the signature honey. The palate dabs the honey and follows with a pronounced sweet sherry but a mere mentioning of the Bourbon. It’s slight, but it is there.

The finish is short, clean, and delightful. Or as Jen would probably say, the opposite of my beard.

Oh well. She just doesn’t know. Maybe I’ll hop on the internet and order some testosterone tablets to drop into her breakfast cereal. If she could just grow a beard, too, I’m sure that she’d understand. Heck, she might even suggest we pack up and move to Kashyyyk, the Wookie home planet, so that we can be among others who trendlessly embrace the furry truth.

Review – Ardmore, Legacy, (No Age Stated), 40%

I’ve not been a big fan of Ardmore. I know that some pretty notable whisky buffs are quite fond of it (Dave Broom, to name at least one), but I just haven’t seemed to cross paths with one that convinced me that it was anything special.

Here’s one way to consider it.

The Balvenie is pretty much always a sunny day for me. The Laphroaig is a cool evening by a fire with the full moon shining. The Glenmorangie is a spring morning. Ardmore is, well, a cloudy, no big deal day. The sun is out, but it’s not like you can see it or anything. And so maybe it will be warm. Maybe it will be cool. Maybe it will rain. Maybe it won’t. Who knows? It’s just a no big deal day.

But then there’s the Ardmore Legacy.

Not all that long ago, I was sitting in the driveway watching the kids play. It was an Ardmore kind of day. The overcast sky was seamless and gray. I’m far too positive to ever say that any day in which I may be found outside enjoying life with my children is unpleasant, but again, the day itself was just blah. And yet, at one point, the sky opened just enough for a potently warm sunbeam to stream a perfectly golden crease through the expanse to the earth. It was crisply defined and quite breathtaking. And just as I was about to call the children’s attention to the display, Evelyn, the six-year-old, called out, “Hey guys! Look! A heaven hole!”

Yep, a heaven hole. I’d never heard it called such a thing before, but hey, I get it.

For me, when it comes to the “blah” that is Ardmore, the Legacy is a heaven hole.

I read recently that the Legacy is meant to replace the Traditional Cask. Good. When you need a stiff drink, the Traditional Cask is there for you. It will do the job. Nothing too special about it, but also not so bad that I’ve ever felt the need to rip on it. Read the review and see for yourself.

The very attainably priced Legacy edition (about $45), however, appears to be an attempt by Ardmore at improvement.

The nose is the first of the billowing day’s surprises. The gray opens to let down the scent of a sun-warmed sugar-syrup very gently wrapped in peat smoke. When the inhabitant below begins to drink it in, the palate is enlivened with that same sugar-syrup, now revealed as warmed milk, butter, and sugar well on its way to becoming caramel. All of this is served on a spicy oak plank just barely charred at the edges.

The Legacy gives what you suspect at first is a medium finish, but then the almost-caramel sensation crosses the medium/long threshold a by way of the peat smoke that has most certainly coated the tongue and a distinct alcohol nibble.

I guess I’d say from a meteorologically poetic perspective that heaven holes reveal the sky’s joyful potential. I hope that the Legacy edition is doing the same with regard to what we may expect from Ardmore.

Liberté, égalité, fraternité.

Smokehead, (No Age Stated), 43%

Bedtime was swiftly approaching. I’d urged with a usual sternness that the children get moving and gather up all their things and put them in their proper places.

Evelyn, my six-year-old, began stretching and reaching out into multiple directions, grasping at nothing as though it were something, pulling and gathering things close that none of us could see.

Intrigued, I asked, “What are you doing, Evelyn?”

“My tummy doesn’t feel so good. I’m gathering up all my farts to take then with me.”

Only a few paces away, waving her hand and chiding with disgust, Madeline added, “You missed some over here, that’s for sure.”

“Would you get them for me, Maddy?” Evelyn asked with a curious solemnity. “My arms are full,” she pressed and then skipped off to her bedroom.

I didn’t say a word. I was stunned. I was frozen in the moment, only watching and listening with incredulity as Madeline replied with equal seriousness, “Sure.” And then just as Evelyn, she reached into the nothingness to collect her sister’s invisible things for storing away in their proper places.

You’ve got to be kidding me. And then I smelled that Maddy had missed some, too. Covering my mouth and nose, I muffled a yell for both girls to put the others away and come back for the rest before they got away.

This reminded me of the response I sometimes get from my wife when I open up one of my smokier whiskies. She can tell where it’s been because it leaves a footprint of sorts, a gatherable aura wherever it has been carried. She doesn’t like this at all, and it isn’t beyond her to mandate that I take the whisky to another room and then “come back and get its stench.” After watching my daughters, I think that it may be possible to fulfill my wife’s directive. I’ll just need to ask the girls how to do it properly.

This was the scene when I opened the Smokehead. I opened the gate and almost immediately came the gliding of smoke and freshly cut grass. I liked it, but I think Jennifer was offended. That’s a good thing. It means that this finely laced smoke maiden would be all mine.

But the nosing isn’t everything.

Having retreated to another chamber, I sipped and savored with glee. There’s no age statement on this particular edition, but it’s toddlerhood is more than evident in the initial harshness that meets you in the first mouthful. I’ll admit, though, that the palate continued the outdoorsy sensations, except this time an earthy summer humidity was added to the freshly cut grass. The weight fastened itself to my tongue and compelled me to consider starting an autumn bonfire in the backyard. Too bad it was almost 10:30 p.m. and the morrow was beckoning.

“Not what I expected,” I thought.

The medium finish brought along an agreeability that was on its way to stellar – on its way, but not yet arrived. Nevertheless, I was drawn to pour another dram almost immediately in order to give it a chance to get there. And so I did. But sadly, it did not. It remained an adolescent still hoping to mature to fuller individualities.

In all, for its suspected youth, the Smokehead isn’t all that bad. I’m sure that once the distillers figure out what else is needed, it will get better. But I suppose the bigger dilemma is figuring out where exactly in my daughter’s bedroom they are storing Evelyn’s farts. Knowing the sensitivity of both of these tender damsels, it is most probable that they are opening their bedroom window and setting them free.

Having been there to smell the ruinous vapors, for that I am thankful.

Power to the Whiny People!

This isn’t typical to my preferred content, however, I’m annoyed enough that I figured I’d share.

I sure wish the current “protesters” would just get a life.  Truly, you lifeless — nay, witless — zombies need to quit chasing down and consuming your fellow man.

God willing, you’ll reap the rewards of your effort. Sometime in the near future, somewhere down the line, you’ll say or do something in relative innocence at work or in the company of friends and you’ll be eaten alive by an itinerant zombie accusing you of racism or willful offense.

Review – The Glenlivet, 12 Years Old, 40%

I could tell that her appearance was very important to her, and of course, I certainly don’t begrudge anyone for such things. I say, do your best and present your best.

Her hair was tightly fitted to her head, set with broad curls pulled up into a professionally styled mass above a face colored with carefully applied eyeliner and deep red lipstick. Her tight Italian fashion didn’t quite fit the humble surroundings of little ol’ Linden. Each and every passerby affirmed this.

The gloss-white high heels made climbing into the pitch black Escalade a wobbly exploit, and yet she managed the ascent as she’d done a hundred times before.

Vehicle in reverse, the brakes were firmly applied, blinking on and off – on, off, on, off – as the tiny pilot uneasily lurched the behemoth from the parking space. I’m sure that every last bottle of carbonated spring water in the seat beside her was ready to pop from the trauma.

I was preparing to take her parking space, so I waited. She turned to look this way. She turned to look that way. She edged back a little further, and then looked again. And I waited. Was it only coincidental that “Highway to Hell” was on the radio?

Once the vehicle was clear of the space, she began tumbling across the wheel to straighten the car and proceed upon her way – brake lights on, off, on, off through the parking lot.

Would you be surprised that the Escalade had a significantly damaged front quarter panel? Would you question that any of the other panels were hardly untouched by bumps and gashes as well? The Escalade had clearly been abused by this little, fashion conscious woman.

One can hardly argue that The Glenlivet has some pretty esteemed label designers. The whisky, no matter the particular edition, is always dashingly decked and ready for public presentation. The problem, however, is that the contents of certain well dressed editions – like, say, the inexperienced 12-year-old – lack the skills to steer the whisky’s reputation without denting incidents.

For this reason, I own this bottle only when it is gifted. I rarely spend my own money on it.

The nose is empty and pale, much like the whisky’s color, humming only a drivel of something sweet but not all that discernible.

The palate exposes the sweetness – a dull and retreating ginger, almost silent, as if embarrassed to speak too loudly and be noticed beside such company.

In the finish is a clean warmth that highlights a honey not noticed before. Unfortunately, the finish is very short, being whisked away in an uneventful hurry – unlike my friend in the Escalade.

Pulling into the empty space that I felt as though I’d waited a half hour to acquire, I said a little prayer for the parking space’s previous inhabitants, petitioning humbly that they would make it home safely and that no one would be unfortunate enough to leave an impression on the Escalade’s frame. I moved toward the party store’s door with no plan to buy a bottle of The Glenlivet 12-year-old.

Review – Laphroaig, Cairdeas, Amontillado (2014), 51.4%

The investigative conversation with myself went a little something like this…

————

“Don’t you have some sort of a plan?’ he asked. “A schedule of whiskies to review, or topics, or something?”

“Not really,” I responded.

“You mean you just get on the treadmill and start typing?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” I could see that this particular acquaintance who fancies himself a writer was getting rather frustrated. I took another sip of the Laphroaig Cairdeas sitting near the edge of the table. “I just turn on the computer, press number four on the treadmill, and see what happens. So far, something always shows up. The routine seems to produce.”

“Do you prepare anything, maybe use an outline?”

“Nope. I do leave myself little notes on my phone’s voice recorder every now and then as a way to remember things I see during the day that would make for a great post, but even those are never forced to fit. Sometimes I use them. Sometimes I don’t. Everything just works out. I really can’t explain it. Well, actually, I’ve explained it before like…”

“Do you ever get worried that you’ll end up with writer’s block?” he interrupted. I went ahead and took another sip.

“I suppose there have been a few lulls in the past few years, times when I felt a little dry.” I could see that he was strangely relieved by this answer. “But still, those were mainly because I was far too busy to do much writing. When your mind is preoccupied with a gazillion other priorities that have nothing to do with writing, you get those hammered out first, and then you get back to it when you can.”

“You were going to say,” he said giving me a chance to finish my previous thought.

“I wrote a post a long time ago when I first started the blog, but it’s no longer on the site. It was more of a theological paper, but I used it introduce myself. In it, I essentially confessed somewhat tongue-in-cheek that I have a writing addiction. I must write.”

“You must write?”

“Yes,”I confirmed. “I must write. As a pastor writing sermons, I write at least a five page paper pretty much every week. In a single year, with special feasts, weddings, and everything else, I will have written close to eighty or ninety sermons. That’s a 450 page book every year, and that’s not even taking into consideration writing assignments from other sources. But in the end, it still isn’t enough for me. I need to write more. The only way to explain it is that I sometimes feel as though my head will split open and spray words all over people if the pressure is not in some way released. Starting a blog was something that my wife suggested, and once I got into it, I couldn’t stop. Angelsportion has become for me an incredible release valve that lets me reach into every corner of my brain as a human and not just the theological bins.”

“If that’s how you feel, I can see how the blog would help,” he decided.

“And besides,” I said volleying my own interruption, “writer’s block is nearly impossible in my opinion because there’s always so much happening. As long as you are looking around and paying attention, there’s always something to write about. There’s a lot of stuff in all those others bins.”

“Would you like to get paid to do what you are doing?”

“That’s a good question,” I answered. “Regina, my agent, is shopping the book manuscript to some pretty significant publishing houses right now, and that’s really cool. I a good contract gets landed, I will work really hard to make it successful – both literarily and financially, but in the end I have to agree with my wife. She keeps reminding me that as doors open to be careful to do what I’m doing because I love it and not because I’m selling it. In fact, maybe that’s where writer’s block could be a danger — when you get into areas where you are forced to write as opposed to the way I’m doing it now. So, I don’t know if that answers your question, but I guess if I get paid, great. If not, that’s cool, too. I’ll keep on writing and doing what I’m doing either way.”

—————

Okay, that’s plenty of sharing. I think you get the gist of the self-reflection.

The whole time this discussion was unfolding, the Laphroaig Cairdeas Amontillado was fumigating the room – filling the immediate space in a way that suggested a campfire was just outside the window and the neighbor was burning a lacquered bunkbed. I didn’t necessarily mind it, but I could see that my fellow conversationalist, the one who prefers the cleaner, more defined whiskies, was struggling a bit. Although, he should be commended for staying the course and not saying a word about it.

You can see from the first photo that I didn’t buy this one. It was sent to me as a gift from a friend and fellow whisky drifter, Nathan. Good man. He likes the smoky beasts. I am liking them more.

Nathan knows I’ll be honest, and so as I noted above, the whisky’s nose isn’t the greatest. I wasn’t necessarily off put, but I’ve had much better from Laphroaig.

The palate was doable, a little salty at first, and this was a confusing sensation because a subtle sweetness crawled up beside the oily lick and became something like warm fruit punch. I’m guessing it is the sherry influence teetering out of balance. Weird, but then again, stimulating.

The finish was shorter than expected, except I should add that perhaps the stranger unsteadiness combined with the higher concentration of alcohol could be at fault. In my experience, a higher ABV often translates into a longer finish, but this time it seemed to burn out the palate like a bottle rocket that only reached half of its promised altitude. I didn’t try it, but I think a drop of water would have brought it into stability and the finish probably wouldn’t have sparked out.

Hold on a second. I’m going to try it…

Nope. Still fizzled. My bad.

Don’t misunderstand. This is another Laphroaig most worthy of space on the shelf. If I can find it here in Michigan, I’ll probably buy my own bottle, but I’d suggest going to it only if the 10, 12, 18, or Quarter Cask are empty.

Thanks again, Nathan!

Review – Ardbeg, Auriverdes, (No Age Stated), 49.9%

My son Harrison is brilliant.

Yeah, I know a lot of parents pridefully declare this of their children. This time it’s true. Harrison is brilliant.

He’s eight years old and has a mastery of the English language that I rarely see even in adults. He can spell any word you present to him. He’s an incredible problem solver. We see this not only in his skillful math work, but in his ability to solve puzzle games. He’s an even better problem creator in the sense that he can take an immediate topic at hand and create a relative off-the-cuff joke; you know, one of those “What do you get when you cross a such-and-such with a this-or-that?” And don’t be surprised if in that same moment he comes up with a play on words or a knock-knock joke that stumps even the quicker witted intellects in the room. Many of them are pretty corny, but hey, he’s configuring his surroundings in creative ways and I’m always amazed as it happens.

These same cerebral capacities translate into logical script. He writes in his journal every day, talking about the day’s events, noting descriptively what he had for lunch, sharing stories about school and home life. And a reader can actually follow and understand because his handwriting is impeccable, not the typical scratch that would befit the average student his age.

But these are chiefly mental things, which is why I noted his handwriting. This is evidence of a physical competence that is just as absorbing.

He’s definitely a gifted musician. He’s been taking piano lessons for a little more than a year now and he’s very close to mastering the theme orchestration to the “Pirates of the Caribbean” films. Right now he’s working on a piano rendition of “Stairway to Heaven” during his free time. Interestingly, there’s a public park nearby, and on the main play structure is a set of rainbow colored chimes. It isn’t uncommon to hear “Mary Had a Little Lamb” being plinked by various children here and there. We were there a few weeks back, and it wasn’t too long into the visit that I heard Harrison tapping the infamous Led Zeppelin tune on the little metal chimes. He tapped each one to know its sound, and then he went into his rendition.

I’m convinced that if he doesn’t become a famous musician, he is just as likely to proceed toward a dazzling upland as a writer. Maybe he’ll even be kind enough to take up the Angelsportion.com mantle when I’m wrestling with my sanity in a home somewhere. Who knows?

There is another combination of skills that gather into a single entity that I know well and appreciate only a little less similarly – the Ardbeg Distillery. Certainly it isn’t as close to my heart as that of my son Harrison, but because it is the steady producer of some phenomenal Scotch whiskies, it is a very close second.

Each time I try an edition from Ardbeg, it almost always proves itself for joining the ranks of Reverend Thoma’s darlings. This remains true with the Ardbeg Auriverdes.

Released in 2014 in celebration of Ardbeg’s long-standing and yet self-established “Ardbeg Day,” this whisky exists to stir the hearts of the loyal Ardbeg disciples. And it does.

The sugary smoke plume is the first thing to greet you. It chars the senses in ways that disclose that it has a curious nature, but that you ought not to underestimate it. Nevertheless, the further into the cloud you go, the more you may be drawn by a distant chorus carrying you to the malt and vanilla noted in the labeling.

On the palate, as you arrive at the cloud’s center – a hearty peat drenched in thick spices and coated with barrel char – the beast shows it’s playing a fully orchestrated version of Metallica’s “Of Wolf and Man” with your mouth chimes. Forget the “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” stuff. Sure, the bottle is a pleasant enough green (verdes), and the contents are a shimmering pour of gold (auri), but don’t be fooled. It’s here, it’s skilled, it’s multifaceted, and it means business. The other kids, the lesser peat monsters, gather entranced with the hope to become this in later years. Some may, but most probably won’t.

I would imagine that the finish is probably going to be too long and too imposing for most casual whisky drinkers. In fact, I’d say it’s likely to be an all-around turn off to anyone unfamiliar with the various Ardbeg offerings. But if you do try it, give it a chance to wrap up its performance by handing out smoked chocolates to everyone in the audience. You may find this to be just the right conclusion to an otherwise unfamiliar and yet captivating presentation. For the rest of us Ardbeg fans, it’s another display of multiple skills coming together in a singularly vibrant whisky.