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Less Than The Angel’s Share [1]

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Date: 2022-12-05

On a summer afternoon a now distant fifteen years ago I went for a spin on a sixty foot ketch sailing out of Lunenberg, Nova Scotia. After two hours out in the open Atlantic, I was hooked on the flapping canvas and creaking wood, the salt spray in my face and the mostly graceful dance of tacking in the wind. After the excursion, I decided to celebrate my newly discovered passion, and stumbled into another. At a dockside pub I spotted up on the top shelf (before I knew what the expression top shelf whisky referred to) a bottle of 16 year old Lagavulin single malt whisky. This was a spirit that I had heard of, though I could not remember when. It was said that one would either love it or hate it. There apparently was no in between.

My drinking experience since adolescence had primarily revolved around ales, usually Canadian brands. In my thirties I discovered daiquiris, and shortly thereafter marguerites. In my forties I went through a brief period of shooting tequila shots, but then returned to my favorite ales, including my new and still all time favorite, Guinness Stout ( at room temperature, if you please).

I decided in that dockside pub that life was short, that my ability to find notable single malts was limited back home both by my inexperience and knowledge of fully stocked liquor stores. I asked for one ounce ($20 as I recall), sniffed it for several minutes, and then took my first sip. Words still fail me when it comes to describing the experience. Later I would learn the language; the nose, the mouth feel, the legs, the finish. But the taste that day was close to what I imagine taking communion at a high mass in the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris. It had a thick feel, a smoky, peaty taste, salty, and yes even seaweed. Yet I loved it. And back home, at the end of the year, my son bought me my very own bottle of this transcendent spirit.

But our God is an ironic God, and two years later I had triple bypass surgery. I was a very good patient. I am an optimist by nature, and the entire hospital experience was an adventure. My cardiologist gave me the news about alcohol, and I gave him the news about his patient. I said that at sixty years of age I had discovered sailing and single malts, and that I was not about to give up either. We negotiated some, and after making it clear that he would be tracking my numbers from my lab work every six months, I could continue to enjoy my whiskies if I could limit myself to an ounce per month.

This agreement has resulted in several practical consequences. The first quite obviously is that a standard 750 ml bottle lasts quite a long time. I try any number of new offerings by getting those little airline sized sample bottles. I am now officially a sipper. I am working my way through Ian Buxton’s 101 Whiskies To Try Before You Die, one sip at a time. I have learned what is available at most restaurants in our area; the ubiquitous Johnnie Walker Black, or the ever boring Glen Livet. After sampling at last count over 37 different brands or expressions, I have lately begun to appreciate the blenders’ art. Some blenders specialize in the peaty Islay scotches, while others work with the fruity and spicy Highland and Speyside malts.

The history of Scotch is a subject for another time, as is a tour of scottish distilleries now on my bucket list. Oh, and the Angel’s Share, the amount of whiskey which evaporates in the barrel as it ages in the warehouse, absolutely overwhelms my paltry sipping during the course of the year. I must remind my cardiologist of that fact at my next appointment.

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[1] Url: https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2022/12/5/2140253/-Less-Than-The-Angel-s-Share

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