The Macallans: 10YO and 10YO Fine Oak 40% Dram #s 38 and 39
It was quite warm on the lawn, but with a fresh breeze goosing the stiff, fibrous leaves of the ornamental cherry in front of me. This handsome tree partially obscured the house but I could still make out, between the branches, the gabled facade, the chimneys at either end of the black slate roof and the two turreted windows protruding from it. It was old-looking, functional, smart, and reminded me rather a lot of the iconic "chateau" of the Macallan. When I heard a cough behind me, and after turning faced two large casks, I knew that the house must be the very same one.
"Hello," said one of them with the suggestion of a spanish accent. "I believe we have met before."
I wasn't sure we had at all and said as much.
"Ah," it replied, "perhaps not me, but my contents."
Duly called for, a memory of a Macallan surfaced.
"You're right, it was the first malt I ever tasted," I confessed. "I wasn't too impressed, I must say, but that was Before The Glenlivet."
"Just so," said the spanish cask, "and I think a re-taste is in order, don't you?"
I said I was quite willing. "And who's your friend?" I asked, for the other cask had been sitting there quite shyly.
"Thomas John Albany. From America," the european cask supplied.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," said Thomas John.
I assured him that I hoped the pleasure would be mostly mine.
"We were separated at birth," the first cask went on, "and this shall be an experiment for you as to how a different environment may shape a personality."
I reflected that this was assuredly my favourite kind of scientific enquiry and when I looked again at the pair of casks, through wood craft of some sort, a glass had appeared on top of each containing a little measure of gold.
"Compare," said the spanish cask.
I raised its glass to my eye and found that the whisky's shade was a very pleasing ochre-orange, the yank's a pale straw gold.
"Smell," implored the first cask.
I eagerly brought the glass to my nose and was hit strongly by the complete Sherry note, then a crisp, wood polish zestiness. Sweet flapjack and honey appeared and shrank back, allowing the oak flavours to emerge and a natural complexity with flowers, leaves and herbs, especially lavendar, finally with a trip to the woods where cinnamon floated beneath the boughs. Here, I kicked up dark, heavy peat. I sniffed again, and the weighting of fruit and malt made another change.
"Don't forget Thomas John."
This cask's offering was very different: light, soft with more delicate, sweeter flavours. The lavendar was still thrillingly there, however. I marvelled at how dry the peat was and how artfully the vanilla mingled.
"You see a difference?" the first cask asked.
"Definitely," I said, although admitted privately that for all his pleasant combinations, Thomas John hadn't appealed to me as much as this forward Sherry cask.
"The difference is the Fine Oak in which he has been raised. I have been sired in Sherry and, I like to think, I show some of the spanish passion and heat."
I asked if I might explore a little more with some water.
"That is what the jug is for," said Sherry, and sure enough a water jug was found at my feet.
After having drizzled a little into each I commented on how it sweetened and lightened both while cake and icing charmed my nostrils. Sherry added butterscoth sauce while TJ distinguished between butter and caramel. I could smell the cask with Sherry and more of the peat while TJ became chocolatey and spicy.
"Good," said Sherry. "Now taste."
I did as I was told without complaint and after swallowing I was incapable of it. The Sherry palate was a team of complete malt grains charged with gunpowder acting like fireworks in my mouth. TJ reminded me of a richer, desert-like maltiness with shavings of dark choclate and apples. The peat structures in both were outstanding. For TJ, there was more dark chocolate in the finish as well as a firm oak presence; raspberries under a malty sponge and citrus. Sherry kept me entertained and warm. The mash notes descended slowly and the chocolate here was Milk. Currants and nuts alternated superbly. A spanish musical reprise played on the bagpipes.
"Well?" asked the Sherry cask.
"Quite incredible," I said. "The contrasts are so spectacular and extensive, I may have lost track of some. May I have some more..."
"No, you have enough to be going on with," said the Sherry cask. "We have to get back to bed now. Come back in eight years."
I promised I would.
And I will. If this pair are such exemplary Speysiders at 10 years, at 18 they should be very special indeed. Initially, there was a four-point gap between standard and Fine Oak in standard's favour but after a second tasting, the charms of the latter elevated it by one, and my initial attraction to the former was tempered only slightly. It is quite brilliant. In fact, on the nose, I think it is on a par with my favourite Speyside: the Glenlivet 18YO. The Macallan has plainly earned its reputation, as its adverts in some magazines laconically demonstrate. The proof will be in the tasting of the older bottlings, once I can afford them, of course!
It was quite warm on the lawn, but with a fresh breeze goosing the stiff, fibrous leaves of the ornamental cherry in front of me. This handsome tree partially obscured the house but I could still make out, between the branches, the gabled facade, the chimneys at either end of the black slate roof and the two turreted windows protruding from it. It was old-looking, functional, smart, and reminded me rather a lot of the iconic "chateau" of the Macallan. When I heard a cough behind me, and after turning faced two large casks, I knew that the house must be the very same one.
"Hello," said one of them with the suggestion of a spanish accent. "I believe we have met before."
I wasn't sure we had at all and said as much.
"Ah," it replied, "perhaps not me, but my contents."
Duly called for, a memory of a Macallan surfaced.
"You're right, it was the first malt I ever tasted," I confessed. "I wasn't too impressed, I must say, but that was Before The Glenlivet."
"Just so," said the spanish cask, "and I think a re-taste is in order, don't you?"
I said I was quite willing. "And who's your friend?" I asked, for the other cask had been sitting there quite shyly.
"Thomas John Albany. From America," the european cask supplied.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," said Thomas John.
I assured him that I hoped the pleasure would be mostly mine.
"We were separated at birth," the first cask went on, "and this shall be an experiment for you as to how a different environment may shape a personality."
I reflected that this was assuredly my favourite kind of scientific enquiry and when I looked again at the pair of casks, through wood craft of some sort, a glass had appeared on top of each containing a little measure of gold.
"Compare," said the spanish cask.
I raised its glass to my eye and found that the whisky's shade was a very pleasing ochre-orange, the yank's a pale straw gold.
"Smell," implored the first cask.
I eagerly brought the glass to my nose and was hit strongly by the complete Sherry note, then a crisp, wood polish zestiness. Sweet flapjack and honey appeared and shrank back, allowing the oak flavours to emerge and a natural complexity with flowers, leaves and herbs, especially lavendar, finally with a trip to the woods where cinnamon floated beneath the boughs. Here, I kicked up dark, heavy peat. I sniffed again, and the weighting of fruit and malt made another change.
"Don't forget Thomas John."
This cask's offering was very different: light, soft with more delicate, sweeter flavours. The lavendar was still thrillingly there, however. I marvelled at how dry the peat was and how artfully the vanilla mingled.
"You see a difference?" the first cask asked.
"Definitely," I said, although admitted privately that for all his pleasant combinations, Thomas John hadn't appealed to me as much as this forward Sherry cask.
"The difference is the Fine Oak in which he has been raised. I have been sired in Sherry and, I like to think, I show some of the spanish passion and heat."
I asked if I might explore a little more with some water.
"That is what the jug is for," said Sherry, and sure enough a water jug was found at my feet.
After having drizzled a little into each I commented on how it sweetened and lightened both while cake and icing charmed my nostrils. Sherry added butterscoth sauce while TJ distinguished between butter and caramel. I could smell the cask with Sherry and more of the peat while TJ became chocolatey and spicy.
"Good," said Sherry. "Now taste."
I did as I was told without complaint and after swallowing I was incapable of it. The Sherry palate was a team of complete malt grains charged with gunpowder acting like fireworks in my mouth. TJ reminded me of a richer, desert-like maltiness with shavings of dark choclate and apples. The peat structures in both were outstanding. For TJ, there was more dark chocolate in the finish as well as a firm oak presence; raspberries under a malty sponge and citrus. Sherry kept me entertained and warm. The mash notes descended slowly and the chocolate here was Milk. Currants and nuts alternated superbly. A spanish musical reprise played on the bagpipes.
"Well?" asked the Sherry cask.
"Quite incredible," I said. "The contrasts are so spectacular and extensive, I may have lost track of some. May I have some more..."
"No, you have enough to be going on with," said the Sherry cask. "We have to get back to bed now. Come back in eight years."
I promised I would.
And I will. If this pair are such exemplary Speysiders at 10 years, at 18 they should be very special indeed. Initially, there was a four-point gap between standard and Fine Oak in standard's favour but after a second tasting, the charms of the latter elevated it by one, and my initial attraction to the former was tempered only slightly. It is quite brilliant. In fact, on the nose, I think it is on a par with my favourite Speyside: the Glenlivet 18YO. The Macallan has plainly earned its reputation, as its adverts in some magazines laconically demonstrate. The proof will be in the tasting of the older bottlings, once I can afford them, of course!
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