The Irishman: Founder’s Reserve

Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day. On 3/17/2015, at about 7 am local time, my father and I touched down in Dublin for our all too brief visit.  In that time we covered many miles, decided to completely change the course of the trip toward the sunny south, and drank many a lovely dram. It is with this fond memory that I write now, looking back, and I hope looking forward to that lovely land, and those lovely people.  To all ye over in Ireland, I raise a glass, sláinte!

Which leads us to tonight’s libations, The Irishman: Founder’s Reserve.  My quick and distracted research (one laptop streaming Netflix and writing while browsing on the other like a master of the multi-task) leads me to a bit of information about The Irishman, first that the founder for which this is reserved is Bernard Walsh, father of the brand.  I’ve also learned that the brand themselves does not do the distilling, rather they’re a 3rd party blend and bottle outfit, which doesn’t have the stigma in Ireland that it seems to have here.  This blend, so the bottle tells me is a blend of 70% single malt and 30% single pot straight whiskey, which my fantastic internet pseudo-journalism tells me, may have at least partly been sourced from the famed Cooley distillery. I can prove none of that, and don’t really give a damn.  What I care about is the taste, and this Irishman doesn’t let me down.  I’ll cut the bullshit.  Here it goes:

Irishman

The nose leads with a strong wave of tart and mouthwatering green apple which really takes some cutting through, before you’re rewarded with softer honey notes and just the light hint of spice.  The first sip cuts back that green apple immensely, leading strong on the honey, with a very warm pear pie thing going on about the mid-palate and bit of peppery spice on the finish, with just the right amount of burn.  As it finish the warmth really hangs resilient on the tongue, with a clinging warmth to get you through a chill drizzly night.  I happen to be typing in just such a night.

So, as you all paint shamrocks on your faces tomorrow and get right pissed, I beg of you to do one thing, to make the holiday a touch more Irish.  Okay, a few things.  One, don’t drink piss beer dyed green.  Two, take a minute to sniff your drink, taste your drink, fuckin’ enjoy your drink.  Finally, say cheers when they give you the drink and sláinte when they give it to you, that’s the proper way.

West Cork

Sunday morning, waking up.  Slight headache, perhaps that last one before bed was a touch much, but I hadn’t timed my Netflix to drink ratio properly.  Rookie mistake.  Breakfast, things to do. Shower and all that shit.  Sweet glorious coffee.  I told my father that I would come over for dinner and the fútbol games and all that, free food, good company.  Good plan, good day, sunshine, all of that.  As the caffeine starts to take hold my brain begins to fire on all 5 cylinders, like an Audi or something.  I’m not sure why they use 5 cylinder engines, but I also know I’m no V12.  Full speed ahead Sunday, sort of, not too fast.  I seek fresh air, beauty, nature.  32 degrees is lovely flannel weather, these woods are lovely, dark and deep, and this is a pleasant but small mountain and…holy shit what a view.  I crack open a Smutty and marvel at my glorious decision to trek through the snow on a crisp winter’s day.  Sunday morning coming up into a lovely afternoon.

Anyways, I carry on to the stated goal and make moves, hustling down the icy slopes to the valiant steed Cecelia and onwards to father’s home.  My father is a good man, good conversation and the like.  The Patriots are playing like absolute shit, and I assume Benedict Arnold must have something to do with it.  Fortunately I don’t really care, it’s football, and my mind is on the prize.  Bangers and Colcannon.  Wild Boar Andouille and po-tay-toes.  La vie en emerald, I shall wash it down for authenticity with Guinness extra stout (the bottle as stout as the contents.)  I gorge myself, as I am wont to do, yet I must also hit the road and I know.  With fare-thee-wells I hit the road and wend my way home to rest and digest.  In the event of pleasant day, crack bottle and nightcap—today’s prize needed to be one to suit the diet of the day, Irish Whiskey, which brings me (sadly only figuratively) to West Cork.

West Cork Distillers is a relative newcomer to the Irish Whiskey biz, one of many fresh brands to invigorate a once threatened, and still under-rated market.  Since their founding in 2003 it seems the Distillers have grown immensely, while sticking close to the roots and their own methods.  In under 13 years (at this writing) West Cork has expanded to include a second distillery, and has expanded sales into 35 countries across the globe, including, glory-be, the Democratic Republic of New Hampshire.  Also of note, as I steal all of this information so thoroughly professionally from their website, is that they are the only distillery in Ireland to malt their own barley, and one of few to use fresh spring water.  (In-text citation, plagiarism.)

Tonight’s West Cork offering, which I highly doubt will be my last, is their base-model blended.  The nose on this (mine is a touch stuffy) is strongly of citrus, to the point where I must ask myself if there is lemon oil in the soap I used to wash the glass—no?  Well then, lovely light lemony liquor with a hint of warmth at the base so faint as to be a possible mirage.  Shockingly I have confirmed I am not drinking straight lemon oil, which is a relief, because what I am drinking is quite pleasant.  The taste is lightly of biscuit, with a base of sweet grain note I’m inclined to call “sconey” because I’m rather fond of scones.  There is a light and pleasant vanilla, which after this many whiskey articles is starting to seem like a worthless thing to say, but it’s there dammit and it’s delicious. The lemon which dominated the nose is present, tingling round the edges of my tongue and flashing a tad with a deep breathe, truly a vaporous entity of the whiskey.  Finally, that warm note hiding so cleverly in the nose again is lightly present on the finish a touch of light brown sugar, and even a dusting of spice, which I can only attribute to the possibility the bourbon barrels they age in once head a high rye jewel.  Baseless accusations, I know.

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In short, this was the perfect ending to a pleasant day of Irish culinary delights.  Except I the bangers we had were far from traditional Irish, more Creole or something.  I have noted before, and I will note again, that Irish whiskies can be very difficult to rate, because they play a fine game of subtle eloquence, like a liquid Yeats.  As an entry offering, West Cork has done a lovely job of offering yet another fine piece to the canon of Irish liquor-ature, with a distinct and balanced blend, which only entices me to further explore their catalogue.

 

Uisce Beatha Real Irish Whiskey

Every thirty seconds the slow wash of tires passes across my right shoulder, over to the left, behind my neck, out my left ear into the hallway.  Spinning forward to my right periphery a red illumination shines from the grove of a black disk, spinning, spinning, spinning, and moaning… “you betta come on / / in my kitchen / / babe it gonna’ be rainin’ outdoors.”  It’s a misty, chill December shower.  Inside, in the mellow warm candle light with Marrakesh smoke on the air, every thumping bass note on old Bobby Johnson’s thumb seems to urge the floor to tickle the increasingly numb souls of my feet.  The draining circulation in my fingers makes for spasmodic and pained typing.  Perhaps more pained because I’m still not sure what I mean to say.  It is rare this late in December, in this Northeastern clime, to still be awaiting our first snowfall.  And yet we are.  And still—warm enough to rain, winter enough to frost—I’m ready to embrace an instinct familiar to other mammals, hibernation.  This in-between weather, this wet and confused New Hampshire December, I imagine is how most of winter must pass in Ireland.  As ancient coal stoves burn, turf stoves, even, I imagine many among the Irish fight the mammalian instinct of hibernation in turning to one more human.  I imagine on a night like this, sometime in the 14th century, some tonsured monk drink a fluid warm from the still, and he said to his brethren, “this is the water of life,” uisce beatha.

 

From these words, uisce beatha, comes the modern word for the sweet nectar and societal scourge, that is whiskey.  Of course, if you’re reading a whiskey blog in your free time, I probably don’t need to tell you that.  But if you learned something, well, the more you know.  Why do I bring this up, with unnecessary verbosity and noir musings?  Well, because someone done gone made an Irish whiskey, and guess what they’ve called it…yousebetya, Uisce Beatha.

 

It takes a fuckin’ fully functioning spleen to go and brand your whiskey as its etymological root. Before you say anything, the spleen does have a purpose, look it up, smartass.  Now while we’re on the point, I’ll give you some brief background.  Apparently this whiskey, Uisce Beatha, *redundant* is a product fresh from the mind of John Paul DeJoria, who is best known for bringing the world Patron Tequila and Paul Mitchell shampoo.  One of these things is not like the other.  I think I’m just going to leave your mind lingering on that without further comment.  Anyways, the Patron Mitchell guy happens to be a cofounder of a company called Rok Drinks, which has decided to churn out whiskey under its original moniker.  Sadly, I cannot figure out where the juice these “Rok Stars” are using to make this whiskey, but they have clearly disclosed that it is blended of whiskies aged at least 4 years in former bourbon barrels. That’s about is far deep as I’m going a googling tonight, so let’s get to the point—I’m seriously flagging in the life department and giving that hibernation thing some consideration.  Let us put some life in my blood.

Uisce Beatha

The nose on this is delightfully rich, honey was a given based on the color of the whiskey, but there are pleasant dimensions of richer molasses and dark fruit, a touch of spice and maybe even a hint of hazelnut.  The base note which seems to first hit the tongue and then lingers steadily throughout the palate is something akin to a sweet but gristy whole grain muffin.  On top of this are layers of flavor, including a more fully expressed cinnamon spice—which I’ll be bold enough is from the barrel of a high-rye bourbon—some light citrus, and the ever Irish honey sweetness which is more than usually subtle in this expression, I imagine due to the bourbon barrels. The finish is very light, with an almost cold breath around the edge of the tongue passing and leaving just a grassy sweet reminiscence of loving life on the tongue.

So, does this young upstart, new to the market from the mind of a tequila slinging hairdresser live up to its Gaelic name? Well, it certainly is whiskey, that’s an accurate start.  Beyond that, it’s a pleasant whiskey, distinct from the many other expressions in the field, with a refreshing complexity for its youth.  Yes, I do feel a bit less like sinking into hibernation, I feel a bit more blood running in my fingers and toes, and I may in fact be on the verge of having a touch more life.

Ireland: A Whiskey Retrospective

I recently returned from a week in Ireland, the land of some of my ancestors, rolling hills and millions of sheep.  The weather was uncharacteristically pleasant, with the sun illuminating the well watered fields every day, drying the streets, and blinding the eyes of the unprepared and nocturnal.  Joyce wrote over 900 pages about one day in the life of Leopold Bloom, and so it is fair to say I do not dare to recount my journey in full.  My goal here is to recount some notes on the whiskey I experienced and, to the best of my ability, to share what I learned from my experience (as pertains to the famous Irish tippling culture.)

My journey, or shall I say our journey, began as many in Ireland do, in Dublin.  Specifically 7am in the Dublin airport on 17 March, 2015.  My father and I collected our right hand drive rental, promptly got lost, and briefly panicked, then found our air bnb location that would serve as home-base for our first few days.  For lunch we enjoyed a hurling match and some sandwiches in a deserted bar, wherein my father laid upon me my first challenge, one that would set a trend.  He’ll buy me that Teeling Single Grain, if I’ll write it up.  I was hesitant. Basically this was tantamount to one of my single shot reviews, but on the fly and in public.  Eventually I took up the offer.  From here on out, when I had the mind to, I took to the trusty iPhone note app, and recorded my voyage—one whiskey at a time.

Teeling Single Grain Whiskey

The nose, my airport blown senses informed me consisted mostly of lemon, cocoa, vanilla.  The first sip hit with a sharp somewhat acid tang, with honey and a grassy herbal tendency to follow—overall quite light on the palate.  The finish tended more towards that acid / citrus note, with a touch of clove like spice that hung around long after the glass was empty.

On the evening of St. Patrick’s day—that most blessed of boozer’s days, my father and I bypassed the traditional tourist chaos of the Temple Bar District for a more reserved night in Jack Ryan’s Beggars Bush for some football and food.  Jack Ryan’s would become the first whiskey I would have, of what seems to be a thoroughly Irish phenomenon—true house whiskey.  In America we have house whiskey, in that a bar decides which whiskey is going to be the cheapest in the well.  In Ireland bars buy whiskey from the major distilleries, age and bottle their own product.  It’s a beautiful thing, and for me, these became the must note whiskies.  It seemed necessary, imperative, that if this whiskey were made for this bar, by this bar, I must have it, and I must record these memories for posterity.  As for Jack Ryan?

Jack Ryan 12 Year Old Single Malt

           

My boy Jack was very light and fragrant, with a buttery nose revealing a touch of vanilla bean and some nice peach notes, with perhaps just a hint of orange oil.   The entry was luscious honey and rich oily vanilla.  Again that orange peeked its head, and again a rich buttery, almost chardonnay breath on inhaling.  Somewhere in there I found an unusual herbaceous note, to quote myself: “…is that what moss tastes like?  If so I think I like moss.”  The finish was quite nice as well, with the viscous nature of the whiskey keeping it clinging hot to the palate like some kind of melted vanilla butter.

While staying on the subject I shall say that I had intended to take note on a couple more house Whiskies I had the luxury of tasting.  One was at the world famous Temple Bar, namesake of the district and home of some friendly barkeeps and an always lively seen.  Apparently I did not take any notes on that whiskey, which is a shame because I must have had 6 or 7 of them.  Similarly in Waterbury, I had the house whiskey of a very famous and quintessential pub, Henry Downes.  I believe I had 4 of those, however my father and I were engaged in conversation—as one so often is in Ireland—with some very welcoming locals, and therefore notes were cast aside.  I did manage to have another house Whiskey, this again in Dublin, at a truly brilliant pub and old institution, the Palace Bar.  Though during our time in the Palace Bar we did not find much luck in conversation, we did breathe in a rather literary atmosphere and, in my case, a very fine house whiskey.

Palace Bar 9 Single Cask

 

The nose on this whiskey can best be described as fat, with the omnipresent honey backed by rich port wine and plum notes, a crisp touch of evergreen and a bit of spice reminiscent of warm rye bread.  Truly unusual, and truly delectable.  This complex nose does not lie, as the first taste reveals a rich almost brandy like flavor with caramel that opens into dark fruit, leather, and a hint of what seems like orange bitters.  The finish hangs on with more dark leather, a hint of coffee and dark chocolate, and a thoroughly satisfying warmth.

Not unlike our house whiskies of Irish legend, there is the occasional purveyor of fine spirits who will age and bottle their own project.  One is Dublin’s Mitchell & Son, a store famous for creating two legends of Irish Whiskey, Green Spot and Yellow Spot.  Green Spot and her 12 year old sister whiskey, Yellow Spot have developed a bit of a reputation as the so called “Irish Pappy Van Winkle,” a whiskey rare balanced and sublime.  Well, rare they are not—in fact Green Spot has been available in the States for over a year and while I was abroad I hear Yellow Spot made its first landings.  Balanced and sublime?  Well that is a question I had to test myself…  Naturally, given the nature of my trip, I did not take notes on Green Spot—though I remember having quite a few in the wee hours at Tig Cóilí.  I did, in the pleasant bar of the Ballsbridge’s Schoolhouse Hotel, have the wit to jot some notes on Yellow Spot.  For the sake of rendering the experience as honestly as possible, I shall share these notes unabridged.

Yellow Spot

The Nose is incredibly light, effervescent, honey, small amounts of vanilla and a touch of fresh sawn oak, perhaps?

The mouthfeel opens, almost melts over your tongue like a thick honey (maple syrup consistency, infused with lemon grass, and rare Irish sunshine) and leaving a rich lingering roll of…

Well, that’s where I lost it.  I suppose I was speechless perhaps, at the subtle and gentle notes of this whiskey that were so delicately balanced and almost challenging.  Expect this to do quite well on our shores.

At this point we come to one of the finer points of Irish culture, one which the average American drunk may find baffling.  Pricing.  Perhaps this point struck me harder than it has many Americans abroad, given that the Euro was basically at an all-time low against the dollar while I was in Ireland, but to me, drinks were cheap.  In Dublin a pint of Guinness runs around 5 Euro.  In the US it can be up to $8, and your average draft beer is going to be $4-6 a pint.  Plus the expected $1 per drink tip.  (Tips are not even remotely expected in Ireland.) The rest of Ireland whines that Dublin is expensive, much the way we make fun of $8 draft specials in New York City. For another example, the aforementioned Yellow Spot, a 12 year old single malt Irish that fetches $100 a bottle in the U.S.? That was 8 Euro for a pour.  For the sake of comparison, when you buy a bottle of Powers at the off-license (liquor store) it’s close to 30 Euro.  A pour of Powers at a bar?  4 Euro flat.  That’s about a 3 to 1 pricing ratio.  In the U.S. the bar pricing ratio is usually about 6 to 1, maybe even worse.  Need more examples?  You probably don’t, but I’ve got one.  When I was probably 22, I went to a very well loved Irish Pub style drinking establishment near my alma mater.  As a lover of whiskies, I ordered one of Midleton’s finer products, Red Breast 12 year.  I then got my $13 tab and choked a little.  I was kinda broke back then…Anyways, I ordered that same whiskey, I think it was in Ennis maybe?  I’m pretty sure I  paid 6.30 Euro.  The point being, drinking in a pub in Ireland is a crap ton cheaper than a bar in the states, even while drinking at home is more expensive.   The profit margin is several times less, but the social value is so much more.  It’s like the damn Irish government want you to do your drinking in the pub, ain’t that great of them? Oh, and about that Redbreast 12 year…

Redbreast 12 year old

 

The nose leads with a touch of crisp pear or apple notes, a little honey center and a bit of orange zest and nutmeg.  That honey note, as perhaps should be seen as the defining touch of Irish whiskey by now, comes to dominate the first rolling drops of a sip, warming into a lovely spiced pear, maybe some caramel apple and an unusual citra hop note? The finish of this fine dram lingers with a bit of juicy pear, honey, and just a hint of tart lime.

Given the nature of this pub centric culture, perhaps you may expect that drinkers of every stripe and type would be enjoying all nature of drinks in all of these lovely drinking establishments.  You would be wrong.  At present it seems the Irish microbrew movement is just starting to get some legs.  I enjoyed quite a few when the opportunity presented itself.  As you’ve probably noticed, there is a plethora of fine whiskies—Irish and otherwise—available across the board.  I clearly had a few of these too.  As with any bar, it seemed that every bar had a full stock of assorted liquors and cocktail ingredients available as well.  Given all this variety, and the wide variety of people, tourist and local, you would expect people to be taking full advantage, and yet it seemed that everyone was drinking a Guinness, a Heineken, or a Beamish (another Irish dry stout, a tad roastier.)  I think I saw one or two gin and tonics consumed, as well as a fair few ciders.  I think I saw one other person drink a whiskey, and that’s because I helped make the selection.  Maybe this was an aberration. Maybe I was just blind drunk all the time.  It seemed to me, however, that the reason the Irish are seen as drinking heavy weights is because everyone is slowly nursing 4% beers.  Sure, that old man started at 1pm, but he’s only had 4 Beamish during that last 2 rugby games, of course he isn’t trashed like a sorority girl.

Reading this over, I probably haven’t given you any insight whatsoever into the Irish drinking culture, or really too much factual information at all.  One of those reviews wasn’t even finished; I’m such a lazy bastard.  Oh well, at least I wrote something—better than you, sitting on your ass reading about whiskey online.  Slothful alckie.  I think the takeaway point here is that you need to get moving, get a plane ticket, and see Ireland yourself.  Even if you’re observing it from a barstool it’s a lovely country, with warm and welcoming people and a fuck ton of whiskey.  On that note, here’s one more review for you—a Jameson I didn’t even know existed.

Jameson Caskmates

 

These caskmates (whatever the hell that means) start with a nice floral bouquet, a touch of lavender and vanilla, which is underscored by an acidic lime rind type note.  Kind of a gin and tonic feel…The body of this whiskey is rather rich, though not in the traditionally prized oily way, something closer to a velvet consistency, like a pint of its Irish cousin.  Flavorwise, honey is predominant, with a bit of that floral note coming up, some grainy malt sweetness, and a light caramel finish that evaporates to leave a soft honey and what I can only describe as “green” finish.  Perhaps that’s just the turf.

Bushmills 10 Year Old Single Malt

I have had a remarkably productive weekend, for me.  Yesterday I worked my second job for 8 hours, which means that I read a Nabokov book. After that I went out and replaced my phone, which had been broken for several months, and had a nice dinner with family.  Then I came home and enjoyed some fine beverages and Netflix programming while setting up said phone.  Today I woke up at the crack of 11, went out for breakfast with the family, and cleaned my bedroom top to bottom.  I then drank some beer, made some banana bread, took a hot bath and beat the Indianapolis Colts 45 to 7.  Wait, was that not me?  Well without that it looks like I just kicked back, ate too much and took care of a few things.  Well bollocks, I’ve earned a reward for all that anyways.  My reward tonight?  See title.

Let’s flash back some four or so years—a young man is turning 21.  Said young man may, and this is not an admission of guilt (you can prove nothing,) have been known to have a premature fondness for the brown spirits.  At that time, this young nameless man was in the practice of keeping on hand a bottle of bourbon, a bottle of Irish and a bottle of cognac about, finance permitting.  So, come this young man’s 21st birthday, a generous benefactor / my father’s girlfriend, gave said young man a bottle of the title spirit—Bushmills 10 year Single Malt.  It was wondrous, eye opening even, for a fella who was used to your standard Irish blends.  That bottle was a revered treat, saved only to start a special night—one that more than likely involved listening to Bob Dylan and contributing nothing to society.  I…ehhhmmm…our anonymous subject, received a different kind of education alongside his college studies.  For some reason (read: college debt) this young man never bought another bottle of that sweet nectar, and yet has continued (I’m an omnipotent 3rd person narrator) to remember it fondly.

Well, that young man still has not bought another bottle of that sweet stuff—but my dad has.  And for the sake of that young man, so innocent and lost, let me steal a dram off my old man, and pour it out in his honor.  Right down my gullet.  Without further dudes, let me imbibe of this wee borrowed dram, and catch a couple notes.

New camera is gunna step up my photogue game

New camera is gunna step up my photogue game

From the nose I find some lovely light orange oil notes, with a very complementary dose of clove and some floating vanilla notes, to really tie the room together.  Once you sip of that golden sunshine, oh lawdy lawd—soft honey washes into miles of smooth vanilla floating on streams of chocolate milk which leave, yet linger and somehow leaves you feeling as though your palette is cleansed.  It’s lovely, almost…poetic…

In County Antrim did Sir Thomas Phillipps
a stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Bush, the sacred river, ran
Through stills measureless to man,
Down to sweet whiskey.

Just one dram, and you too can rip off Samuel Taylor Coleridge! Anyways, this is truly a beautifully subtle whiskey, and a perfect introduction into the world of Irish Single Malts—one that you will be likely to remember fondly, as did our young protagonist for he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of Paradise.

 

Happy New Year and a Touch of Tullamore Dew

“Let grasses grow and waters flow
In a free and easy way,
But give me enough of the rare old stuff
That’s made near Galway Bay,
Come gangers all from Donegal,
Sligo and Leitrim too,
Oh, we’ll give the slip and we’ll take a sip
Of the rare old Mountain Dew”

Well, it’s not actually made near Galway Bay, rather Country Cork—but that’s aside from the point. It’s not made in Tullamore either… But we’ll forgive that as tonight’s review is one of the classic, ubiquitous Irish Whiskies, Tullamore Dew.  On the political scale of things Tullamore Dew is known as a classic Catholic whiskey, proper Republican as it were, but let us not linger on the conflicts that divide us, but rather the ties that bind.  These, my friends, are whiskey and song—and these happen to be two of Ireland’s finest exports. Why do I raise the subject?  You didn’t think I would get to it, did you: New Year’s.  Yes, I’m a tad late.  As they say I got proper knackered on the eve of the New Year, and I didn’t write you all.  Don’t pretend you care.  Well, if any holiday is about liquor and song it’s New Year’s Eve with its champagne and “Auld Lang Syne.” Well I had a bit of that meself, the sing along to the old Scotch tune.  I’ll be honest and say I drank far more than whiskey—beer, Akavitt, champagne, whiskey, more whiskey, a sidecar…some water.  I spent the evening with my dad and his buddies and my sister, they sang karaoke, I hacked my phlegmatic lungs in for a song or two, but as 2015 rolled in I found myself atuned to the likes of the Pogues and the Clancy Brothers, and the juice of the barley.  Perhaps the booze inside me was resonating as that frequency.  Right, well, happy New Year and Merry Christmas your arse, I pray god it’s our last. That’s a lyric, I don’t mean that. Maybe I do, anyways here’s the review, which is probably why you’re reading.

Nose:  A light wisp of alcohol, some light green apple notes and an ever so slight hint of vanilla.

Palette:  Very light, with an almost chardonnay like buttery note, faint vanilla and some grain notes

Finish: Like a light buttered white bread with slight hint of lingering citrus…I think?

So what do I have to say about Tullamore Dew?  Well it ain’t no Rare Auld Mountain Dew, it’s on every liquor store shelf for about $20.  And at that price it’s brawling with the other big names of the Irish as a daily drinker, as your shot and a pint, as a quick tipple.  It’s not exceptional, but I highly doubt it’s supposed to be.  It’s a competitive easy drinker, a singer’s lubricant, and another kind drink to bring us all together in the New Year…until the goddamn meddling tee-totalers start more wars and silence the singers, bleeding bastards.  To sum up this mediocre review:

“And all I’ve done for want of wit, to memory now I cannot recall.
So fill me to the parting glass. Goodnight and joy be with you all.”

Mandolins, menorahs and my dear departed Irish Nana.  Seemed appropriate.

Mandolins, menorahs and my dear departed Irish Nana. Seemed appropriate.

Single Shot, Bam!—Jameson Black Barrel

The newest member (I’m pretty sure) to Jameson’s diverse line of Irish whiskies.  I have previously noted the role of the Irish in introducing me to the wonderful world of whiskey, and I’ll admit to quaffing my fair share of their main spirit, which is perhaps America’s best known Irish.  But I’m not reviewing that.  I’m reviewing the Black Barrel, Jameson’s more rebellious and slightly more expensive next step up the ladder.  I say next step up because there are so many products in their line that I have really lost track. Anyways, what distinguishes the black barrel is its considerable age jump over your standard Jame-O to 12 years, and the time that it spends its hibernation time splitting time between a bourbon barrel and a sherry barrel…like a somewhat damaged child of divorce.  That got dark (pun intended.)  So yeah, full disclosure, this is a single shot review, because dear ol’ dad and I drank the rest.  In the spirit of the single shot review, and in the furtherance of ending my sober rambling, down the hatch!

Jameo

Nose: Sweet, with vanilla, cherries, a bit of must, partly from the barley I suspect.  Maybe some spice too.

Taste:  The entry is very soft with some light vanilla and some nice round fruity notes, maybe that cherry I smelt, I suspect, and maybe something a bit lighter…apple? Pear? The flavor fades out clean with a bit of grainy grassiness before leaving just the slightest tad of oak on the tongue.

Final thoughts? A worthwhile jump from the $23 standard to the $35 Black barrel.  It’s delicate, infinitely quaffable, and while it has a level of complexity it’s very approachable, both in flavor and price; which I think is the point.  If you’re used to thinking of Irish Whiskey as a shot, perhaps this could be a nice next step on the ladder to appreciation for you.

Author’s note: I don’t actually down drinks for the single shot series—I’m a liar and a phony, and kind of need to take a few sips to get my thoughts straight. 

Review: Knappogue Castle 12 year Single Malt Irish Whiskey or Sherlock Holmes and the Mystery of the Floating Cork

Knappogue Castle lies abounding the verdant hillsides of County Clare Ireland.  The great stone walls darken by the year with the thickening centuries of lichen.  Built in 1467 the castle has survived centuries of war, rebellion and rolling fog.  Behind the exterior of this imposing structure is a thin layer of paper, beneath that, robust glass. At the center, the keep.  Whiskey.  Bobbing in this goldenrod liquid? A chunk of cork, and debris from the great disaster that lay it there—but alas! How?  What evil has fallen upon this noble kingdom?!  Okay, the title is misleading—there is no mystery.  My dad came into the living room laughing the other night, stating that he went to pour himself a glass and nothing happened.  The cork broke off into the neck of the bottle and, desperate, he resorted to stranding our little friend for eternity into the bottle.  Sorry for the dramatic vignette, but I needed something to fatten this review up. Back to the point…

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See the broken cork?

The whiskey.  Knappogue Castle 12 year single malt, Irish.  The title wasn’t completely misleading.  Price? $25, on sale.  Knappogue Castle isn’t one of your bigger selling Irish whiskies like the Jameson you probably shot down at some pub (whose price has been skyrocketing in recent years).  Knappogue, however, should not be overlooked.  Colored, and flavored, by 12 years in Bourbon barrels Knappogue develops a pale golden hue and highlighted by light vanilla flavors, strong lemon notes and a certain pleasant grassiness.  I guess that makes it lemongrass?  On the finish the tame 80 proof limits Knappogue’s burn to a slight warmth that adheres to the tongue and leaves you with just a hint of the robust charred interior of the barrel, which a sparking flicker of burn intrigues the upper throat. This is certainly pleasant, smooth and interesting Irish Whiskey.  In fact, buck for bloody buck, I’d say this is the best buy Irish Whiskey.  It’s 12 years aged, single malt, deliciousness is just a buck or two more than the simple and sweet Jameson, and makes each sip so much more interesting.  So what am I saying?  I’m saying St. Shitfaced…I mean St. Patrick’s day, is coming up  and you damn well better be drinking Irish.  So why not drink better Irish?

Review: 2 Gingers Irish Whiskey

Ahh, there’s nothing like drinking a bit of whiskey on the 80th anniversary of the repeal of Prohibition.  The warm feeling is enhanced by the feeling of history.  I’m currently watching Ken Burn’s documentary “Prohibition” in honor of the occasion, and, as the title of the article suggests, drinking 2 Gingers Irish Whiskey.  The whiskey is probably why you’re at this site. Now I could go into the marketing concept of the whiskey, how it presents itself as an outsider in the market started by two fire haired and passionate Irish women. That ground has been trodden.  Honestly, most of what I write has been trodden, but here you are.  So I may as well indulge your curiosities by telling you what you want to know: should I buy this whiskey?  Well that’s up to you now, isn’t it?

I’ll preface my note on this review before I even get into it.  I’m starting to get the feeling that the Irish whiskey market is perhaps a bit more subjective than many of the bourbons I usually indulge myself with.  You see, there doesn’t seem an Irish whiskey that is clearly rotgut.  I’ve drank rotgut American whiskies. I’ve drank whiskies knowing that they were of such low quality that I was going to get a hangover from the first sip on.  There are swill scotches, swill bourbons, Canadian whiskies.  I haven’t really seen that with Irish whiskey, I’ve seen that the is a massive spread in the category, and some are more complex, more enjoyable–but I’ve never felt that drinking this Irish whiskey was possibly a bad idea.  What I’m trying to say is, given all these presuppositions, I think it’s possible I’m bad at judging Irish whiskey.  But I must soldier on, drinking and (poorly) writing myself into martyrdom for your taste buds.

The reason I made all those excuses is because I’m not sure what to think of 2 Gingers.  The color is an almost electric yellow, to my eye, which is neither here nor there.  The nose is soft and fruity with soft pear like notes.  Once in the mouth it seems 2 Gingers is best compared on the spectrum of the standards.  In this sense, 2 Gingers is on that grainier side of Irish whiskey, veering away from the “smooth” sweetness of King Jameson toward the more hearty Bushmills.  2 Gingers in particular seems characterized by robust barley, green apple notes, and an acidic citrus towards the back of the palate.  This isn’t my favorite Irish whiskey, the acidity is a bit cutting—but I won’t say I’m not enjoying it.  I am.

The way I see things, with many so Irish whiskies in the same price range, none of which are at face unpleasant, you have to taste around.  You have to explore Irish whiskey with a keener eye, and perhaps a bit more sensitivity to that certain something in your gut, because when it comes down to it, we won’t all have the same favorite.  That’s why there are so many of them.  When it comes down to it, even a whiskey that isn’t your favorite is a glorious luxury that sinks warm into your stomach and squeegees the day from your head to your toes leaving the tenseness behind. 80 years and a day ago (two by the time I put this up) that feeling was illegal.

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Review: Bushmills Irish Whiskey

The poor people of Ireland have seen more than their fair share of conflict over the course of history.  Under the English Crown the Irish suffered hundreds of years of brutality as the Brits sought not only to rule the Irish but to exploit them and ultimately to crush their cultural identity.  The Irish rebelled against their condition quite often—even following the Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921 granted the Irish a semblance of political independence.  I don’t have the time or knowledge to fully expound on the centuries of conflict in Ireland, because I write a post about drinking.  So how does Irish history relate to drinking? First off, you should know not to order an Irish Car Bomb in Ireland.  That would be like ordering an Afghani IED in an Army canteen.  It’s recent history, and the tensions still exist.  Second off, don’t order a black and tan.  The black and tans were the British military force place in Ireland in the early 20th century to establish order.  They did this in much the way the brown-shirts did in 1930’s Germany.  The third thing is what we’re here for today: know your Irish whiskey (it’s spelled with an “e” there too!).

The word whiskey comes from the Gaelic word uisce beatha, meaning “water of life.”  You’ve probably already heard that.  Irish Gaelic was the language of the historic language of Ireland and is still spoken by some on the island today (though rarely a first language today as a result of the centuries of English), so whiskey is their word.  To be fair the Scottish also spoke Gaelic, Scottish Gaelic, so it’s their word too.  I’m rambling.  So how does Irish whiskey relate to Irish politics? Well the basic thing is there are 3 big names in Irish whiskey: Jameson’s, Bushmills, and Tullamore Dew.  Jameson’s is made in Dublin, and Tullamore Dew in Tullamore.  These are in the Republic of Ireland.  Bushmills is made in Bushmills, County Antrim, Northern Ireland.  That’s the UK–protestant country.  In Ireland, that still matters.  Violence still erupts in Northern Ireland, and though the IRA is officially dissolved, the factionalism has not.  Whiskey has often been used as a metaphor to examine this factionalism, representing Bushmills as the “orange” protestant whiskey and Jameson as a good Dublin true Irish whiskey.  John Jameson was a Scottish immigrant, and a lot of people have pointed that out, which makes Jameson’s not much of a true Irish Catholic whiskey.  So we’ll call that the “white,” neutral, whiskey.  If you hadn’t gathered I’m using the colors of the Irish flag here, which leaves me with our green, the Tullamore Dew.  It’s a neat little metaphor, but I say fuck it.  Instead of using whiskey to represent the divisions of Ireland I think we should use it to unite people, because that just makes more sense.

Ireland has a very broad definition of what legally makes an Irish whiskey, and while there are only 8 distilleries in Ireland, and several aren’t even selling their product yet, that broad definition allows for a wide variety of flavors for people to enjoy.  Let’s not divide our whiskies by religion and region, but by the joy they bring and their flavors.  Unfortunately I only have Bushmills on hand, and only a tiny bit left after wasting the rest as fuel for all the babble I’ve already written, so you won’t get the comparisons I wish I could do.  I’ll get to writing about more of them at some point.  For now, I’m gunna tell you why a good Irish Catholic might want to drink Bushmills.

Irish whiskey is lighter by nature, in flavour and in colour.  Therefore Irish whiskey really needs to be enjoyed for its character and its subtleties. A lot of people like Jameson’s because it’s smooth as hell and so sweet and gentle.  A lot of people like that.  In fact Jameson’s has become a massive brand because its gentle way of getting you hammered is loved by lushes the world over.  But if perhaps you’re looking for something a little more complex, with more grain character, Bushmills is a perhaps the budget Irish for you.  This whiskey starts with a light nose full of lemon zest aromas, which aren’t as forward when you take that first sip.  The predominating flavors are those of the gently sweet malts, and the light vanilla and fresh sawdust flavors from the barrel that fade of the back of the tongue.  I’ve heard this described as rough.  That’s insanity.  The word I think of is robust.  While it is dry and oily, with a bit of a late heat that Jameson doesn’t give you, that’s what sets Bushmills apart.  Does that sound like something you’d enjoy? Then who gives a shit if you’re Irish Catholic, or really a 4th generation Irish-American who dropped out of CDD and want to act like you’re really Irish—drink what tastes good to you, even if it is “protestant whiskey.”  So maybe whiskey, and the love thereof, can bridge the gap between Northern Irish and Irish Republican, Bushmills drinker and all other whiskey drinkers. You may say I’m a dreamer, but after a few whiskies everyone seems more tolerable to me, and perhaps that’s a peace plan.

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PS: I’m going to Arizona for a week starting tomorrow, so I won’t be posting, but perhaps I’ll drink something to post about later!