Review – Grangestone, Sherry Cask Finish, (No Age Stated), 40%
The sign in the restaurant’s window was relatively large. No passerby would miss it. What’s more, it was apparent that its creator took a lot of time and offered great care in its design. It was meant to be seen, read, and understood. Its bolded one-word title and font were grand by comparison to its simpler three-word subtext beneath, and its varying colors confirmed its thoughtful formation.
Still, I did not understand its message. The restaurant’s doors were locked. Hands cupped around my eyes, I peered through the front windows. It was a dim and motionless space. But again, why? I looked back to the window’s sign. I studied its meticulously crafted message, hoping for something, a clue, I may have missed. And yet, bafflement remained.
What does “COLESED” mean, and why will the establishment remain in this mysterious condition until further notice? I searched for an explanation.
Certainly, the message’s creator didn’t mean “closed.” What’s printed is too gross a misspelling for this to mean “closed.” Besides, with such a carefully crafted sign, likely viewed by more than its creator, it seems impossible for such a glaring error to have been overlooked, even by a manager. With that, as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle spoke through the character Sherlock Holmes, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Perhaps “colesed” is a precision term used among restauranteurs. In other words, as we, the everyday patrons, might simply say someone experienced food poisoning by eating some bad coleslaw, a proprietor might record the unfortunate incident as a “colesing,” or in another way, someone was “colesed.” In the case of cottage cheese poisoning, they would report the person was “cottaged.” Such precision might assist the Health Department with its investigation, thereby speeding the re-opening process along.
But how would this apply in this instance? The message’s structure assumes an ongoing condition of colesed until a decision is made to be uncolesed. Could the message mean something else?
Could it be that the Australian supermarket chain “Coles” acquired the restaurant in a corporate takeover? Or maybe Coles has merely assumed indefinite management of this small restaurant for another reason. Either way, it could thereby be labeled “Colesed.” That would make more sense. Although, this was a restaurant and not a supermarket.
I looked at my daughter beside me and asked, “What does this sign mean?” She gave no reply. Therefore, because the lights were off and all was tightly locked, we assumed a knock at the door would do very little. We left for another establishment.
Later that day, still troubled by the enigmatic message, I reached for something that spoke in delightfully uncomplicated ways: the sherry cask-finished edition from Grangestone.
For many whiskies, the tasting notes provided on any given canister or label are most often deemed a subjective suggestion by those with reasonable senses. Relative to this edition, this is not true. Everything an imbiber needs to know is clearly communicated—no careless scripting resulting in misspellings, poor punctuation, or secretive terms leading to misused grammatical designations. The distiller tells you what to expect.
The nose offers vegetal scents and dried oak. This is true. The palate is a pleasant wash of spice, caramel, and premium sherry grapes. This is true, too. The finish is a medium drag of the palate’s spice. Again, this is true.
I’ll keep an eye on the restaurant I mentioned. If it reopens, I’ll at least pop in for a quick clarification and then report back. Doing so is certainly akin to my need for information—and the need to experience my family’s blushing embarrassment.
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