Review – Fuyu, Blended Japanese Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40%
There’s never been any question about whether I’m a whisky connoisseur. I’m not. The word has been used on occasion to describe me, but it has been used mistakenly. I’m a whisky enjoyer.
I cannot tell you the histories of the various distilleries. I cannot name the Master Distillers that orchestrate them. I can barely extrapolate the whisky-making process in reasonable detail. Admittedly, I may know more than most about these things. But that’s to be expected from anyone who appreciates something enough to write about it. Still, I do not own the title “connoisseur.” Again, I’m an enjoyer.
Having said this, I’ll admit I exist in an in-between space, a whisky limbo of sorts. I’ve passed on to another place beyond the typical imbiber who might sip a dram and say, “Wow, that’s really smooth.” In fact, when I hear someone describe a particular whisky in this way, I’m reminded of the world I left behind—a world that experiences the divine but cannot describe its swirling activity. Still, there’s another world beyond this, and it’s owned by the connoisseurs, which, again, I am not. I haven’t reached their saintly tier. I remain between worlds, albeit equipped with strange senses I never knew I possessed. Until, one day, I did. (Many thanks to the London shop owner who made this possible.)
My only genuine offerings to the whisky world are a keen sense of discernment and the ability, nay, my need, to tell a story. I can parse a whisky’s peculiarities—the nose, palate, and finish—and I can do it in a way reminiscent of Raymond Babbitt counting toothpicks. However, I somehow know the story behind the toothpicks, too. I once attempted to describe what I mean in the introduction to The Angels’ Portion, Volume 3. I wrote:
The stories are never applied to the whiskies. The whiskies reveal the stories. In other words, the stories are already there. I imagine each as awaiting retrieval from a lockbox on a shelf in the storehouse of my mind. Each whisky serves as the inimitable key to its own box. In the process of sniffing, sipping, and finishing a dram, the story is fetched, and the whisky’s heart is rendered. Sometimes, the story includes Darth Vader. Another time, there may be a shark named Gary or an unfortunate brawl with Santa Claus at Walmart…. As far as I know, no one else reviews whisky this way. This makes The Angels’ Portion matchless in the field of whisky-related literature.
I’m not a connoisseur. I’m an enjoyer. And can you see why? With every new edition, there’s a new story to experience. Whether the whisky is good or bad, there’s always an enjoyable narrative lurking beneath its amber surf. Indeed, even the bad whiskies can be a treat, if only for the stories they tell.
For a snippet example, the Fuyu small batch blended Japanese whisky was less than impressive, and yet, it stirred a completely tangential thought. With a nose more like a chilled but dry Cabernet Sauvignon that died on the shelf in a dank wine cellar, and a strangely hostile palate of salt-ginger and charred soy, all culminating in a long and angry finish, I was reminded of how much I hate winter in my home state of Michigan. Michigan winters are crisply dark, thickly coated in road salt, and seemingly unending in their hostility, lasting at least three-fourths of the year. I’ve never sipped a whisky and immediately thought, “Michigan winters are the devil.” And yet, as it turns out, Fuyu means winter. Go figure.
Regardless of the whisky’s drinkability, its associative story was useful, even if only to warn: measure all property purchases in Michigan in the same way you’d consider purchasing a bottle of Fuyu. If you like winter’s perpetual sadness, go for it.
Finally, there’s something I simply cannot overlook. Say the word “fuyu” (foo-yoo) out loud. Now, imagine the following. You’re in Japan. Thirsty for an obscure but native dram, you travel to a local liquor store. You see the uniquely labeled Fuyu in a dimly lit corner. You throw down some yen. You take it back to your hotel. You sip it. Realizing your mistake, you return to the store, insisting you accidentally purchased toilet bowl cleaner and demanding a refund. The non-English-speaking proprietor laughs snarkily and replies, “Fuyu,” shooing you away from the counter.
A coincidence? I wonder.
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