We here at the Malt Impostor have yet to run across the scotch or whisky reference work that states the accurate measure of one “swallow”, but we figure it must be roughly equivalent to one unit of the equally obscure “gulp.” As a result, we took it upon ourselves to taste the MacCutcheon 60, of which we are certainly not worthy (if Hume isn’t worthy, there’s no way we could ever be), in the fashion prescribed for this rare malt. As one prepares to gulp, there’s an odd clicking sound on the nose, presaging something ominous, but nonetheless fascinating. On the tongue, an odd stillness overcomes the drinker as he holds this incredibly valuable volume of whisky—roughly the volume a cricket ball might displace (when we gulp, we really gulp)—on the tongue. It’s on the finish that one appreciates the truly singular character of the MacCutcheon 60: something wells up in the stomach, something best described as a thick, self-directed column of black smoke, discharging jagged electric flashes along its sides, pulsing and flowing through one’s innards. Ultimately, we can sum up the MacCutcheon 60 in the following phrase: when it gets a hold of you, you know it. You might not be sure exactly what it is that’s gotten a hold of you, and finding out might feel like it drags out longer than any reasonable person would tolerate, but you know it’s happening…whatever it is.
The MacCutcheon 60 is John Locke/Jeremy Bentham–never before has anyone confused or conflated these two thinkers, but the oddity of the combination is somehow appropriate to this show. And we wouldn’t be surprised at all if a guy named Immanuel Kant or Samuel von Pufendorf walked out of the woods in one of the last episodes.