For someone who gave up drinking months ago, having one little drink is a lot. I'm a bit rusty at holding my liquor. Last night was a scotch tasting event in conjunction with the Christmas parade, which is today.
At the event, distributors bring in several of their single malts. Dewar's and Johnnie Walker were there as well, but moving on to the real scotch . . . There was Aberfeldy, Balvenie, Glenmorangie, Macallan, Laphroaig, Craggenmore, Dalmore, Dalwhinnie, Glenfiddich, Talisker, Glenlivit, Highland Park, and a few more that I can't remember. The tastes are served in thimble-sized plastic cups. So not really enough to make a full drink.
It's also used as a meet-and-greet by the local politicians. The mayor, various city council members, school board members, muckity mucks, they were all on hand. The food was, well, what's the word I'm looking for . . . forgettable. Unfortunately in past years the heavy hors d'oeuvres were enough for a light supper.
My usual ritual is to compare the less peaty ones as I work my way around the room. Why I continue to this I do not know. My favorites include everything from Glenkinchie to Dalwhinnie to Oban to Balvenie. Never ever put a dram of Laphroaig or Ardbeg under my nose.
After I determine my favorite of the evening, with two thimble fulls in hand, I make a beeline back to the Dewar's table that I purposefully skip. In my opinion, blended scotch isn't scotch but a travesty. At the Dewar's table, my request is simple -- two thimbles of Drambuie. All four thimble are swirled together in a larger cup (that they have for water and sodas). Four or five cubes of ice. Perfection.
That's it. I'm done for. Take me home, James.
The Battle is NOT Yours
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