Ah, Glenmorangie. Ahhhh, single malt. Like any fresh convert to its splendours, I’m a gusher.
Unfortunately, I was introduced to Glenmorangie Nectar D’or, which spends the last two years of its life resting in Sauternes casks. It’s extremely rare and difficult to find. I have been known to drag hapless family and recent friends around liquor stores in search of it, to no avail.
So today I thought I might try the sherry ripened kind – not a fan of sherry, me, so I’ve avoided it til now. But tough times call for tough measures…
So I’m gazing at the box and saw the tag line, “perfected by the sixteen men of Tain” and couldn’t help a wee fantasy nip to hobbit land. Who are these noble sixteen men? Why sixteen? Why not eighteen or twelve or fifteen? I can visualize them, muscled men in leather jerkins, joking as they work, sharing a cup at the end of the day, heading home to thatched huts where they grab their women and…well, never mind.
Is it warm in here?
Alas, the Glenmorangie site isn’t really clear on the mystery of the men of Tain.They mention that traditionally they’ve employed sixteen men to make their whiskey. Any further explanation is missing. In fact, there isn’t even a leather jerkin to be seen, let alone a thatched roof house. I don’t care. I have my fantasy…
I have to say I love the mystique of single malt. I love the secretive traditions, the special glasses, the careful instructions about drinking techniques.
The taste, well, that’s nectar of the gods.
The Lasanta will wait til the sun dips over the horizon and I’m suitably ready for an imaginary wander through Scottish moors.
I really think I should travel to the distillery and try to clear up the mystery of the sixteen. Maybe one of the men has a secret dream about a short roundish middle aged Canadian girl….nah, probably not.
Still, maybe there are free samples…
Of the whiskey! Whatever were you thinking?
I’m a relative newbie at the world of single malt scotch. My mum used to like scotch but I spent years equating it with paint thinner.
Then I met single malt.
Since then, we’ve had a warm, wonderful, and comforting relationship.
We sit together on a cold evening, and scotch warms my heart and fingertips, curled as they are around him. It kisses my lips, fills my mouth with sensations I’ve never had before, causes my insides to spin about in delightful eddies.
It’s not a perfect relationship. I had a previous fling with the very sensuous Glenmorangie aged in sauterne casks. I’d met him at a conference – introduced by friends, we hit it off immediately. But then he vanished and I can’t find him anymore. Does one ever forget one’s first love?
So I’ve settled for other scotches – some short term flings, like the oaky Jura, which I still long for on a windy day begging for peat fires…some longer term, like my current affair with Macallan.
He’s smooth, soothing, but expensive to keep.
Sometimes I wonder if I should settle for a lesser drink.
But no, never settle, I tell myself. A little of a good scotch equals much more of a lesser vintage, yes?