A FRIDAY NIGHT

I was in a local pub with friends on a Friday night. I was standing by the bar to order something to drink. An old friend, that I hadn’t seen for several years, came up and started talking. He’d had more than what is usually recommended by the health department to drink, and was talktaive, to say the least.
    At that time, I’d been drinking malts for some years and this pal from the past had somehow heard that I knew a thing or two about whisky. He always struck me as the kind of guy who’d go to a wedding in a t-shirt, jeans and sneakers, and who’d take a girl to McDonalds on a first date. He asked me about whiskys, not malts or Scotches in particular, but brands that he’d seen or more or less accidentally tasted. As the bartender served him his usual light lager, he asked me which whisky is the best. "I don’t think it can be determined which is the best”, I answered much to his dismay. "Then why do some people pay 150 000 SEK for one bottle?" He’d obviously read the articles Glenfiddich 1937 that went on the market a while back, and had understandably concluded that the higher the price-tag, the better the whisky. "It may sound odd but the fact is that that bottle of old malt whisky, may not taste as good to me as that one over there". I pointed at a Famous Grouse behind the bar man.
    The conversation continued for some half an hour and mostly on the subject of whiskies I thought he’d like. The light lager in his glass, his affection for cheeseburgers and casual taste in clothes, suggested he’d do best with something light, mundane and as challenging as a glass of stale Foster’s and as apetising as a mug of
"Some weeks later I was told by a friend of his that he’d started drinking whisky. Not just the Famous Grouse..."
amniotic fluid. I mentioned the Irish Tyrconell. A single malt that sells for the same price as a decent blend. That would suit his wallet as well as palate.
    We raised a few more glasses and chatted about days of yore, all in good spirits. The evening passed and we all went home and, come the morning, presumably faced with the same headaches. Some weeks later I was told by a friend of his that he’d started drinking whisky. Not just the Famous Grouse and Tyrconell, he’d taken a keen interest and had picked up a few things on regional differencies. "Boy, how did he get turned on to whisky when I recommended Tyrconell?" I thought with escalating embarrasment over my recommendation. Perhaps I should not have let my prejudices dictate the sort of whisky he would appreciate?
    The last I heard he’s a big fan of the 12 year old Old Pulteney. Not a mass market whisky but a damn fine malt that usually takes some time for a beginner to seek out unless he’s very lucky. I wonder where he’d be on his whisky journey if I’d suggested my usual beginners tip Highland Park instead. So much for "judge the book by its cover" when it comes to Scotch.
    For all I know, he could be taking a bath in Macallan at this very minute.








 THE PROUD HERETIC

I admit. I’m a heretic. I should be disbarred/expelled from the unofficial whisky community of the world, affective immediately. I’m having a drink of part alcohol, part mixer. Had I said it’s bourbon and Coke perhaps the unofficial judges of said community would have shown some leniency, but I’m afraid I’ll be sent straight to Hell: I’m having a Gimlet.
    It’s 6 cl of gin, 4 cl of Rose’s Lime Cordial over crushed ice, served in a tumbler. A great drink to have on a summer night as hot and humid as when I am writing this. Much better than – heresy number one – a 12 year-old Glen Elgin served neat in a tulip shaped glass. I’m surrounded by some of the greatest malts Scotland has to offer, yet I choose a clear spirit with a splash of sweet and sour mixer. This got me thinking of diversity, and how great it is. Had we lived in an Orwellian world we would only be offered “Victory Gin” or Cluny Blended Scotch to drink. Nothing else.
    Barring George W. Bush and Tyrconell, the US and Ireland have a vast selection of sparkling stars to offer, with glee. Respectively, it has a rich and mouth-filling Elijah Craig; a silky and fruity Bushmills; a honeyed and robust Wild Turkey Rare Breed; a mildly peaty Connemara. The purist in me cannot deny facts. I love bourbon and Irish as much as Scotch, irrespective of the crowd’s notion that Scotch is superior to it’s cousins (brothers). To my palate, this is both preposterous and erroneous. You simply cannot compare them.
    Without knowing better, for too long I adhered to that school of thought. Scotch is better than any whiskey produced elsewhere. Bourbon was considered good only for mixing with Coke and Irish whiskey was a "female’s choice". Now, some years later, I know better. All this political correctness amidst fellow epicurean drinkers reminds me of the silly rivalry among my classmates in 6th grade: either you were with the mean-looking Heavy Metal fans worshipping Iron Maiden,
"I know not all Scotch enthusiasts are like this. Far, far from it. But quite a few I’ve met are, and with my former prejudicial stupidity, discard bourbon and Irish."
or you were a short-haired electro-geek devouring as much Depeche Mode and Howard Jones your eardrums could bare. Were you caught listening to Erasure while wearing your denim-jacket with Judas Priest patches, oh my.
    Silly isn’t it? I know not all Scotch enthusiasts are like this. Far, far from it. But quite a few I’ve met are, and with my former prejudicial stupidity, discard bourbon and Irish. There are many gems to be found outside of Scotland. Without your solicitation, I ask you to go out on a limb. The next time you are ogling the shelves of liquor in your supermarket or favourite whisk(e)y store, try something new. Something not Scottish. Make it an American Rebel Yell, or an Irish Knappogue Castle.
    Perhaps it will outshine the first time you had Scotch. Who knows, maybe it’ll even surpass the pleasures you experienced when you got hot and bothered with the girl of your dreams.





A PASSION IS BORN

A few years ago, my oldest friend, who I at that time had not seen since I had started seriously exploring the wonders of whisk(e)y, visited me and couldn't help being amused as he perused the shelves of whisky bottles on the wall in my living room. He frowned, half puzzled, half envious, I suspected. As a beer, wine & clear spirits drinker, it was quite a task for him to understand how and why anyone could spend so much of his measly income on booze, which usually in a typical Northern Europe style is used as a drug to flee every-day gloom, not as a salivating piece of chocolate.
    "So, which one is the best?" he asked. "Depends on your mood" I replied, and added "My favourite is the one behind you in the cabinet, Ardbeg." He turned around, opened the cabinet, and looked at the bottles as if he was staring at a field full of three-titted Albanian transvestites.
    "I see. What's it about it that's so special?". I knew there was no idea going into details like I'd do if I was writing a tasting note. I'd feel like a pretentious all-knowing snob and maybe jeopardize his further exploration of whisky. I simply said that to my tastes it has everything in a Scotch I look for. He nodded, but I got the impression he didn't really understand. A shrug would have been more in place.
    Prior to his visit, I had stocked my bar with rums, gins, Drambuies, ales and stouts. We spent that evening having cocktails and Guinness. Discussing everything from the strife of everyday life and one's existentially impossible way out of it, to why it is better to let one's girlfriend visit every shoe shop she sees than not (how many fucking shoes do they need?!). Just like in the old days when we, as teenagers, were firmly rooted in the belief that a party meant alcohol, no matter what kind, and that it should be drunk regardless of taste just to spruce things up. Well, almost.
    While deeply involved in a discussion on which 80's metal band were the best and whose guitarists of that era had the best technique, I decided to pour ourselves, more for his sake than mine, a Glenlivet 12 year old. A dangerously drinkable malt for me, and a good introduction for a newcomer like my childhood-friend.
"I saw in the corner of my eye that he he drank it like a shot. Damned. That wasn't the point."
As I sat down after filling our glasses and putting the bottle back on the shelf, I saw in the corner of my eye that he he drank it like a shot. Damned. That wasn't the point.
    An hour later (it seemed like an hour, maybe it was 12 minutes?) I thought I'd stretch it a little and poured him a Bowmore 15 year old and, with my confidence ostensibly maximized by the cocktails we'd had prior to the clock striking midnight, started describing the joys of this particular malt. He downed it, looked indifferent, and said he liked it. I suspected it was the effect of it he enjoyed, not the taste. I really did not know where to go from there, knowing he always like all things full-flavoured, I ran out of choices and decided to rest my case for now.
    Some weeks passed and one evening he rang me up on a Sunday afternoon. "I had some whisky the other night!", he said ecstatically. Apparently I had planted a seed - there was no mistaking his enthusiasm. "Which did you have?" I asked equally enthused, hoping he had taken ample time with the dram this time, not regarding it as a Tequila that should be swallowed as possible to avoid the horrible taste. "I think it's called 'Lapp-rog' from somewhere called 'icelay' in Scotland and it reminded me of my grand-dad's fishing shed!"
    There was no mistaking his enthusiasm.
    He gave me the details of the event (in which he'd had lots more to drink) and "lapp-rog" seemed to have stood out. I was more than happy to fill him in on what other malts he was likely to enjoy just as much, and that I'd be happy to serve him all of them next time he visited, this time in more of a timely fashion, skipping the cocktails and concentrating wholly on the marvels of Scotland and that he should not hesitate asking me to pour him any whisky that attracted his curiosity.
    When we got together from then on, I offered him Ardbegs, more Bowmores, Balvenies and Black Bottle. He was thrilled tasting them all, but definitely had a bent for Islay. And he had slowed his pace considerably.
    His first steps on the path had been taken, and I had a part in it. A magnificent chest full of treasures had been opened exclusively for him to explore, and it turned out he - to use a hackneyed phrase - was, and still is, like a kid in a candy-store .
    I enjoyed it just as much as he did. In retrospect, I am Sure I enjoyed his enthusiasm more than he did. There's something truly envigorating and joyous being part of presenting new ways of indulging in life's finer things. I believe that opening a whole new avenue of pleasure to a friend (or a complete stranger for that matter) is perhaps the greatest favour one can do in this day and age, short of saving his life.
    And what better avenue to open than that of whisky.







A BRACING GLIMPSE OF NIRVANA

It was a bleak autumn night, the kind you wish you could just fast-forward. It was close to midnight and I sat with drooped head in my sofa with the TV on but nothing worthwhile to watch. I knew I had been reading too much Schopenhauer and listened abundantly to Leonard Cohen (a combination that, if taken in too great a dose, will give even the most euphoric optimist a bit of the blues). Life went by in slow-motion, hesitantly, aimlessly.
    Outside rain poured down, blurring my vision of the glaring lamp-posts and trees set in motion by the ferocious wind. It was lively out there, at least. But in my abode, not even Basil Fawlty, with his plethora of cynical insults (which usually cracks me up), could chase the gloom from my weary eyes.
    I decided to end the day by downing a sleeping pill. As I got my not very slim arse out of the sofa, I for no apparent reason cast an eye in the direction of my shelves on the wall that holds all my whisky. And then it dawned on me – divine intervention? – I have an unopened bottle of malt I’ve never tried before!
    It was a cathartic realization. Just the right energy-injection I needed. Oh dear, how could I have forgotten? Things were no longer slow-paced as I rushed to the kitchen and fetched water and glasses; pen and paper from my desk and, back in the living-room, the bottle from the shelf. It was a Clynelish
"Everything was now in place. I uncorked the whisky and poured a measure. Meanwhile, I sensed how the air filled with familiar and mouth-watering aromas."
that this evening would make my apocalyptic ponderings and weariness vanish as if it was not nothing more to it than to snap one’s fingers.
    Everything was now in place. I uncorked the whisky and poured a measure. Meanwhile, I sensed how the air filled with familiar and mouth-watering aromas. I got a big smile on my face. Hard to believe I was contemplating the end of the world only five minutes earlier.
    With glass in hand, I spent the next half hour nosing the whisky and taking notes. Each time I took the glass from my nose to jot down a note, I realized I was hearing the rain against my window and the wind. As I nosed again, the noise began to subside. When concentrating on the rejuvenating potion in the glass, everything else seemed to disappear. There was only the whisky and I.
    I took a sip and swirled it around my mouth for a little while, trying to ascertain the flavours, body, balance et al. My eyes were closed, and when I swallowed and gave it free reign, I knew that I was in a state of sheer bliss. If not before, I was then convinced that I had found a (spiritual) place of my own that no one will ever be able to take away.
    I headed for bed one hour and one more dram later, and as I turned out the lights, something Schopenhauer once said came to mind, “Treat a work of art like a prince. Let it speak to you first”.
    That night, Clynelish spoke volumes.







(WHISKY)PEARLS BEFORE (VODKA)SWINE

I often find myself taking a defensive position when I disclose to acquaintances or some stranger in a pub that I drink a wee glass of whisk(e)y several times a week, or even every day. More often than not, this comes as a shock even to those who are, as yours truly, in their mid to late 20's. One would think individuals in this age-group holds a more relaxed attitude towards alcohol, and would therefore sway from the older generation's swift condemnation of such a "self-destructive habit".
    The problem is, predictably, that they all think I knock back a truck-load worth of the amber nectar each month. It doesn't occur to them that a high proof spirit can be enjoyed and savoured as a life-affirming, highly enjoyable potion that can restore one's spirits (no pun intended) and be an impassioned every-day luxury even when consumed in moderation.
    Has cultural differencies and background to do with it? I suspect so. Sweden, my homeland, have for more years than I can remember had a rigorously Orwellian stance on the selling and consumption of alcohol. The only outlet available to us is the state owned retail-chain and every litre of alcohol is taxed 196 SEK (app. €20) on top
"I am rarely offended by the suspicious and oft-times derogatory looks and snarls I get when admitting I drink as regularly as I do."
of the purchasing price. If you are keen on a glass of Ardbeg when strolling down the aisles of the local supermarket on a Saturday night, you will not find this finest of whiskies neatly lined up on any shelf.
    There's a sense of guilt that permeates the view we Scandinavians have on alcohol and drinking habits. Therefore I am rarely offended by the suspicious and oft-times derogatory looks and snarls I get when admitting I drink as regularly as I do. "Hey", I’ll say, amidst loud voices and excessively Vodka-fueled bar-attendants, "One glass holding 3-4 centiliters of malt or bourbon doesn't put me in the same company as a near-death intoxicated Dennis Hopper, sloshed Dorothy Parker or any of the homeless winos lying in a ditch singing their praise to drunkenness." This reassuring remark doesn't settle well. "Uhum, yeah." they’ll respond and take another sip of their Vodka mixed with Red Bull.
    In retrospect, why the Hell do I bother? A sense of pride perhaps, as if I am the leader of a malt army and need to defend the troops consisting of struggling Speysiders, Islays and bourbons. I attempt to persuade others of the magnificence of whisky, I want them to see the light, too. To no real avail.
    To some extent I understand their doubts. The fact is that an alarming majority of Scandinavians use any type of alcohol for the sole purpose of being completely soused. Enjoy a liquid with an ABV of + 40 % and not using it as a means to an end? "C'mon." they snigger, "You sound like my granddad. Or are you using the stuff to impress the ladies?".
    The counter-move to this type of attitude has in recent years seen some success especially in Southern European countries. Single malts in particular have partly started to loosen up the meagre and sceptic attitudes of the average Fred and John who used to be familiar with Jack Daniels (wrongly calling it a bourbon) and maybe Famous Grouse. You don’t have to be middle-aged or a pretentious snob to appreciate whisky. For my fellow countrymen in my age and younger, there’s still a lot of work to do before any acceptance will be in sight. But don’t we know it: whisky, the finest of spirits, deserves to be recognized as a "means", and not an "end".
    In the meantime, I’ll confidently pour myself a glass of Ardbeg 1977, well knowing there is a world of difference between serene Zen-like indulgence and rampant binging. I’ll raise my glass and chuckle ironically, “Thank you, whisky-ignorants, for not drinking this liquid love. That means there’s more for me.”