I have a soft spot for scotch. I like its sultry, smoky aroma, the way it oils around the ice cubes on its way to your tongue, the way it gets up your nose with a little soda behind it. I like scotch, but I don’t drink it, because I have learned that, even sipped in moderation, it gives me . . . not a headache exactly; more a pinched sense of brain clench, which persists the better part of 24 hours.
I have that feeling right now, but without regret, because it was brought on by an experience serious scotch fanciers would—and do—pay through the nose for: a sampling of six (or was it eight?) superpremium single malts imported to the U.S., most of them for the first time, by that fine old firm Schieffelin & Somerset of Park Avenue, New York City.
The portfolio in question is titled “Classic Malts of Scotland,” but it came about for anything but classic reasons. High-end scotch drinkers, it seems, are a competitive and fickle lot, always looking for a Next Big Thing to rouse the envy of their rivals. What’s a grand old distillery like Talisker, Dalwhinnie, or Lagavulin to do to prevent its customers from being tempted away by ever more obscure, rare, small-lot offerings? The clever answer: Issue your own special, inimitable, one-time-only bottlings, each in itself a collector’s item, never to be seen again after the initial issue’s gone. And charge accordingly.
People who think of single-malt scotches as just more vehement, idiosyncratic versions of the more-common blended varieties would be startled by the variety found in the S&S collection. The 16-year-old Lagavulin (around $52) is as peaty and smoky as anyone could ask, but the 15-year-old malt from Dalwhinnie ($40) has a flowery, honeyed aroma and is as subtle and gentle on the tongue as a fine old brandy. The three bottles bearing the label of the Isle of Skye’s Talisker—10, 20, and 25 years old, respectively—are as different as three stalwart sons got by different fathers on a single mother. The 10-year-old ($50) is a chameleon, yielding different profiles when sipped alone, with water, with food; the 20 ($150) is all dry herbs and spices; the 25 ($200) like a liquid chocolate-tobacco toffee.
The biggest jolt came from sampling each with food. Perhaps it’s no surprise that scotch would complement a rich, mild cheese like Cambozola, or even finely sliced prosciutto, but oysters? The 32-year-old Oban ($350) threw its damp-wood-smoke-scented Harris-Tweeded arms round a tender, trembling raw Kumamoto so protectively, the poor thing feared nothing even as the teeth did their work.
I envy the people who will purchase these bottles. But even if I could afford them myself, even if I didn’t suffer from brain pinch, I wouldn’t emulate them. Great scotch is so complex, appreciating its opalescent impact is so preoccupying, that food is really only a distraction.
And maybe it’s just the unregenerate prole in me, but if I were going to spend time with any of the S&S portfolio, the mild, genteel (and comparatively inexpensive) Dalwhinnie would be my choice. It’s a fine thing on occasion, encountering robust idiosyncrasy, but for long-term companionship, give me laid-back every time.
