The Whisky Blog: Part 2 .
Towards the middle of May, 2020, having run out of single malts—you might say the sun had set on them—we were forced to switch to brandy—temporarily, I assure you. The cognac we had on hand, probably bought originally for making brandy butter at Christmas time, was Courvoisier VS, sort of bottom of the range. But we liked it and decided to go a little more upmarket and try a VSOP. So we went to our very excellent wine shop in Kaimuki, Tamura’s, and with some expert advice selected a middling priced Remy Martin 1738. 1738 was the year that King Louis XV gave a reward for excellence to Mr. Remy Martin. It is rated low on fruitiness, high on smoothness, and medium on opulence and length. Sadly, length doesn’t mean how long the bottle will last during the pandemic but refers to the length of time for which the tastes are expressed after a sip. We enjoyed it. We’ll keep drinking it, but in order to maintain our loyalty to the malt, we did get at the same time three new bottles of proper Scotch whisky.
We’ve now tried all three and have some thoughts. The first we tried was new to us: Kilchoman (more or less pronounced kill-hōman, but if you start the very slightest of gags somewhere between the ‘l’ and the ‘h’, you’ve got it nailed). I’d never heard of this distillery which is understandable as it is really a very new small farm on the most westerly coast of Islay. They have two lines, Machir Bay and the one we bought, Sanaig, “named after a weather-beaten headland, north-west of the distillery”. I must say that I think it quite redundant to describe any headland on the west coast of Islay as ‘weather-beaten’, but there it is. The whisky has spent time (but not much, it is quite young) in Oloroso sherry casks, and an even smaller amount of time in bourbon hogsheads. It has a truly lovely Islay smokiness, but if you detect the claimed flavors of “burnt cocoa (I’ve never had burnt cocoa, so I’m not sure what it tastes like) apples, spice, a touch of cinnamon oil and hazelnuts”, you’re a better person than I am, Gunga Din.
The second one we bought was in memory of many a climb on the Isle of Arran to the isolated little loch called Coire Fhionn Lochan. About halfway up on that walk (when you are neither up nor down), if you stop, turn around, and look west you see for the first time on the other side of the Kintyre coast, two small bumps. These are the tops of the two hills on the Isle of Jura, known rather rudely, as “the paps of Jura”! So that’s why we had to buy a bottle of Jura. The only distillery there has been going since 1810. There is also one pub, one road, and 200 residents. Our malt is called Jura Seven Wood. This is because it has been matured in seven different types of oak barrels: ex-bourbon American white oak, Limousin, Troncais, Allier, Vosges, Jupilles, and Bertranges. Except for the first one, these—as everyone knows—are all different oak tree forests in France, in which the nature of the wood contributes different properties to wine. They then cleverly sell their old used barrels to the 200 residents of Jura. According to the tasting notes, you get hints of ginger, coffee, caramelized peach, chewy liquorice, with just a suggestion of sea spray and smoke in the aftertaste.
Thinking it best to leave the western isles, our third choice was a delightful gentler malt we’ve had before back in New Zealand: Dalwhinnie. The name derives from the Gaelic for ‘meeting place’. Thank god they didn’t actually use the Gaelic word itself: dailcoinneeamh. The distillery is in the central Highlands on a windswept Grampian hilltop. It has a heather-honey sweetness.
After I confidently made such pronouncements, Luanna, thinking I was full of b.s., challenged me to a blind taste test: the brandy and the three whiskies laid out in glasses in random order. The benefit for me, even if proved a fraud, was that I got four drams of spirit that night. Much to her surprise I correctly identified all of them. Some help came from the fact that the brandy is a distinct rich dark color and tastes different as well, the Kilchoman has an intense Islay peaty smokiness, the Dalwhinnie is a mild, sweetish, pre-dinner sipping malt, and the in-between one just had to be Jura!
Needless to say such challenges did result in all four bottles being finished rather quickly. And as the COVID19 restrictions were still in place and more extreme measure were being threatened, late in June 2020 we dashed off to Tamura’s for a new supply. To celebrate our anniversary on June 27, and bot being able to go out to eat, we bought an outrageously expensive cognac, Martell XO, in a fancy bottle that must have been half the cost, but as this is a whisky blog, I’ll say no more about it. And happily at that moment our son Ezell had sent us a bottle of Scapa, which I have described before and may well be our very favorite, not just for its romantic Orkney Isle location, but because it is complex without being overpowered by percentage ABV (‘proof’ in America).
So the three new ones are firstly a different bottle of Kilchoman. We thought we’d give this wee distillery a second chance and try their other offering, Machir Bay, named after Islay’s “most spectacular beach”. Let me assure you that a spectacular beach on the north west (Atlantic) coast of Islay is very different from a spectacular beach on Oahu (Sandwich Islands)—like you can actually swim in one of them. Although proud of the fact that they only use barley grown and malted on their farm on Islay, I have to say this is our least favorite single-malt tried thus far. The claimed “citrus sweetness balanced with tropical fruit” is rather overpowered by peat smoke, iodine, and sea-weed laden sea spay. Maybe they have never tasted the tropical fruit on Oahu!
The next try-out was very successful: Mortlach, sometimes known as “the beast of Dufftown”. Dufftown is a burgh in the Moray region, a little to the east of our relatives in Nairn. This makes it a Speyside whisky, but what makes it a beast, I’m not sure. Maybe its effect on those who drink too much of it? I feel that if you say the word “Mortlach” with a pretend Scottish accent, a well rolled ‘R’ and a good throaty sound to the ‘CH”, often enough, it begins to sound like the name of a monster in Lord of the Rings. The distillery is very proud of the fact that the spirit criss-crosses between six different copper stills that have never been replaced or repaired. The final still, Number Six, is the smallest and is known as ‘The Wee Witchie’. I’ll let you decide why it got this name, but it is useful for confusing Luanna when she asks which single malt are we having tonight, I can reply, mysteriously: “Och, ta’nite, it’s the wee witchy!” It’s a very nice whisky, rich and bold.
Our third new bottle was an old friend. It has long been the favorite of another old friend, Dr John Durocher. We always had to keep a bottle in the house on Beartown Road, Port Crane, NY, and again in Hamilton, New Zealand. What I think he liked about it, and certainly what I like about it, is that you have to call it “THE Macallan.” You may not say, ‘I’ll have a Macallan, please’, or ‘forget the wee witchy, I want a Macallan’. No, it is The Macallan; ours is the 12 years old matured in sherry oak casks. It’s a really smooth drinkable whisky and if one is trying to acquire a taste for single malts it would be a good one to move onto after initiation with Dalwhinnie, which you can just glug down. The Macallan is a rich gold color from the Oloroso sherry casks from Jerez, Spain. It is slightly fruity, spicey, and a classic Scotch whisky, and it’s also from Speyside (i.e., classified as a Highland whisky). Highly recommended.
As all three bottles (four including the Scapa) are now very light, and as the coronavirus shows no signs of departing our fair islands any time soon, we are going to have to pray that Governor Ige and Mayor Caldwell will soon declare Tamura’s an ‘essential service’ and allow it to re-open. Otherwise there will be much sadness in One Waterfront Towers, Kaka’ako.
Ian M. Evans
Honolulu, Hawaii, 9/16/2020
The Paps of Jura Machir Bay, Islay (I think the blue sky has been photoshopped)
Scapa, on a typical day Orkney islander, met a Viking back in the day