When I was young, I considered scotch an old man's drink. Well, now I'm old, and maybe I was right.
A couple decades ago, a wonderful friend, soccer teammate, decided to introduce me and a few others to the wonders of single malts. We met close to Robert Burns' birthday, and we've met once a year ever since, now for over 20 years. During that time, there have been kids, grandkids, divorces, remarriages, other invitees that just didn't quite fit in, and a couple near deaths. But the gathering remains.
We all get our food assignments (this is a dinner thing), and we all bring one single malt. We have to be sure to get a Highlands, a Lowlands, a Speyside, and an Islay, and one mystery scotch in the mix.
You'd think a bunch of guys getting together to drink would be raucous. Actually, it's pretty refined. Sometimes we have silly little mind games, we shoot pool, we read poetry (I was a hit one year when I found Robert Burns' "Cock Up Your Beaver," which of course was advice to a lad about wearing his headgear in a jaunty manner)(seriously!), and have a quiet even of camaraderie.
And the scotches. One of the guys confessed that it took him about three or four years to warm up to them, because up to that time, it was like sipping gasoline. But over the years, I've arrived at a few conclusions.
1) You can't go wrong with Macallan. Someone wants you to bring a single-malt scotch, you don't know what to do, grab a Macallan.
2) Lagavulin is sublime, and my favorite, but you have to like some bite of smoke and iodine. And apparently, I do.
3) Some "lighter" scotches of Knockandoo and Craggenmore are very, very pleasing.
4) Some scotches are overrated. There's nothing wrong with Glenlivet, but it doesn't live up to its price.
5) Some scotches punch above their weight. Highland Park and Balvenie Double Wood are great examples of this, and sure, go ahead and make up dirty jokes about the Balvenie. Hey, I already introduced the Burns poem.
Does anyone else like this stuff? Or is the newbie oldster standing along in this puddle of specialized yeast excrement? (And thank you, Kurt Vonnegut, for placing that term for alcohol in my head for the rest of my life.)
A couple decades ago, a wonderful friend, soccer teammate, decided to introduce me and a few others to the wonders of single malts. We met close to Robert Burns' birthday, and we've met once a year ever since, now for over 20 years. During that time, there have been kids, grandkids, divorces, remarriages, other invitees that just didn't quite fit in, and a couple near deaths. But the gathering remains.
We all get our food assignments (this is a dinner thing), and we all bring one single malt. We have to be sure to get a Highlands, a Lowlands, a Speyside, and an Islay, and one mystery scotch in the mix.
You'd think a bunch of guys getting together to drink would be raucous. Actually, it's pretty refined. Sometimes we have silly little mind games, we shoot pool, we read poetry (I was a hit one year when I found Robert Burns' "Cock Up Your Beaver," which of course was advice to a lad about wearing his headgear in a jaunty manner)(seriously!), and have a quiet even of camaraderie.
And the scotches. One of the guys confessed that it took him about three or four years to warm up to them, because up to that time, it was like sipping gasoline. But over the years, I've arrived at a few conclusions.
1) You can't go wrong with Macallan. Someone wants you to bring a single-malt scotch, you don't know what to do, grab a Macallan.
2) Lagavulin is sublime, and my favorite, but you have to like some bite of smoke and iodine. And apparently, I do.
3) Some "lighter" scotches of Knockandoo and Craggenmore are very, very pleasing.
4) Some scotches are overrated. There's nothing wrong with Glenlivet, but it doesn't live up to its price.
5) Some scotches punch above their weight. Highland Park and Balvenie Double Wood are great examples of this, and sure, go ahead and make up dirty jokes about the Balvenie. Hey, I already introduced the Burns poem.
Does anyone else like this stuff? Or is the newbie oldster standing along in this puddle of specialized yeast excrement? (And thank you, Kurt Vonnegut, for placing that term for alcohol in my head for the rest of my life.)
