Much like the invitation of a sexy, peg-legged paramour, the nose of this malt is full of uncommon possibility and oaky intrigue. As is so often the case with such promising beginnings, however, the experience ultimately disappoints–but in an unexpected way–as when that same lover turns out to be rather selfish in bed. The finish recalls unripe pear sliced and served in a bactine-soaked stump sock (but hey, that’s better than no finish at all, right?). Most confounding, however, is the oddly fluffy after-texture, a dry Sham-Wow laid delicately across the tongue. After everything else, it’s like waking up alone the next morning to find your wallet’s been replaced with a pocket Book of Mormon.
–On the scale of ubiquitous, multi-national, brand-name products–
The Glenfiddich 12 is Starbucks–it offers an aura of sophistication and a tantalizing variety of products, but the coffee kinda sucks.