Tomatin: A Guided Tour

My own experience has been that the tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whisky.

It is said that F. Scott Fitzgerald used to drink gin because it was harder to detect on the breathe and by all accounts, Hemingway pretty much just raided the liquor cabinet. But if I had to invoke a personal patron saint of writing and drinking, I’d probably go with Faulkner. While it’s true that he was probably drinking “whiskey”, instead of “whisky”, he was at least in the ball-park and had a hell of a batting average.

By tradition, “whisky” is the Scottish version of fermented and distilled grain mash, usually “smoked” over a bed of smoldering peat. It is said that, for a time, the Scots’ version of this drink was so bad  that the English and Irish changed their “whisky” to “whiskey” to create a distinction in the markets. Over time, that reputation has been repudiated and now, years later,  we have…Tomatin.

Imagine a thin caramel running into your glass. If you swirl it, it clings lightly to the edges and quickly settles. It has a light antiseptic and smokey aroma to it, but not in an unpleasant way. In fact, once you begin to really enjoy this “uisge beatha” (Scottish for  “breathe of life”), you begin to subtly associate it with flavor and being to salivate a little in anticipation. You tilt the glass to your lips and breathe it in. In through the mouth, out through the nose…slowly. It calls to you. Like a forgotten love. Full of smoke and fire and passion and richness. You tilt the glass…ever…so…slightly and a drop hits your tongue. At the very first, the split second after you imbibe, it sits like cool water. Then it twists away from you and suddenly seems to grow heavy in you mouth. The tip of your tongue feels slightly numb and as you roll the whisky around your mouth it is peppered with a pleasant tingle and smokiness. Then you swallow. Again the sensation of merely drinking water is quickly followed by the warm glow of a whisky ember flowing towards your stomach. A small part of you is sad to leave the previous moment…until you realize there is more in your glass…and the bottle beyond.

It would be fair to call me a bit melodramatic in this post, but only if you’ve tried Tomatin and know what I am talking about. For the price ($24), I would dare say that you could not find a better bottle of 12-year single malt Scotch anywhere and I’ll curse the man who says otherwise, unless he’s buying.

Review: Isle of Jura

Empty Jura

I have just come to appreciate Scotch. Maybe it’s that I am turning a year older soon, maybe it’s that my pallet is broadening, but a few weeks ago I was sitting with Ken in the bar and simply decided “Hey, it’s time for me to learn about drinking Scotch.” Ken and I shared a Glenlivet (12 year) and suddenly, I had a new epicurean pursuit to be passionate about.
The first bottle of Scotch I ever bought for myself was on Ken’s recommendation. It was a great intro to the terribly complex world of Scottish whisky called Tomatin. But that’s a review for another day…

Today, finding myself out of Tomatin and having no time to make the trek into Racine, I stopped at the local liquor store and perused the shelves. Frankly, the pickings were slim. I could plunk down $70+ dollars for the recognizable names or take my chances (and spend a hell of alot less) with the lesser know names.

Realizing that, at this point in my whisky education, I wouldn’t KNOW if I was getting ripped off for $70 a bottle, I decided to try something that seemed different. Tomatin was a Highland whisky and I’d read about Lowland and Speyside whiskies, so when I glanced at the top shelf and noticed the 16 year, single-malt “Isle Of Jura” (pretty nice website), I was fairly intrigued. Especially, because it came in at the much more reasonable $30 price point. “One of the things that will have to be included in my whisky education” I mused , “is the geography of Scotland.”

Up close with Jura

According to www.jurainfo.com, Scottish deer on the island out number the Scots themselves by a 25:1 ratio. I tried not to let this fact cloud my judgement in regards to my taste test, but after drinking the honey-brown libation it’s hard not to think that, with all those deer running about and with so few people to guard against them, perhaps a few found their way into distillery and took a little swim in the vats.

To be fair, Isle of Jura whisky had a very enticing aroma and look. It stuck nicely to the edge of the glass and had a slight coffee, caramel, and buttery smell to it. I have to admit that, in thinking back on the smell, my mouths waters a little even now.

But sadly, this scotch seemed to fail in the taste department. It started out with that wonderful tang that hits the roof of the mouth, but after that, instead of mellowing and turning buttery, it’s flavor rode high on the palate and seemed to simply burn there. There was no secondary flavor to match the enticing aromas. It all seemed very “meh”.

Don’t get me wrong, I really took this Scotch for a test drive (as evidenced by the empty bottle above), but I just couldn’t seem to get excited about it. For that reason I’m going to give this a 3 out of 5 “Angry Scotsmen”. Not awful, but not great. Generally not very memorable.