Scotch

Nothing brings quite the same pleasure as a crystal highball glass partially filled with good scotch. If the glass is resting on a 100-year old, dimly lit wooden bar and backed by a tall glass of cool water, this particular pleasure can brighten the darkest of days. I can’t remember when I first learned of my compatibility with scotch. I try to forget all the unsuccessful early experiments. Some are wine drinkers, some beer, still others bourbon, it’s just my peculiar preference I suppose.

Writers characterize the taste of scotch as smoky or peaty. Depending on the region of origin, the taste runs anywhere from highland deep, smooth and rich to talisker shrill and piercing. (Some would disagree due to personal reasons but for my money, you can take talisker and fuel your zippo with it, truth be told). With its reassuring amber glow and sublime aroma, a glass of good scotch elevates the senses while simultaneously lowering defenses. Life resumes after just one long, slow appreciative sip.

I am not a scotch guzzler. I drink scotch infrequently and usually stop after one glass. To overindulge drinking scotch is to flirt with destroying the intimate relationship it offers. I enjoy savoring the experience a good scotch provides and would hate to lose that through abuse.

I have no particular preference for scotch, save my real dislike for talisker. So long as the product is well made, I will drink single malts, blends and also mutants. Michel Couvreur produces a blend of 54 different malts that’s very tasty. That this scotch is produced in the Burgundy region of France doesn’t bother me although for some it may cause a raised eyebrow. Macallan is an excellent choice for its reliably subtle explosion of aroma in the glass, wonderful feel in the mouth and warm glow as it finds it way down the gullet.

Tonight I’m meeting a friend for dinner in the city. I look forward to catching up with all the news, sharing a laugh and thoroughly enjoying a pre dinner dram of something golden from the Isle of Islay.