The Caol Ila 12 has a classic nose, but one a house cat pissed off from too much teasing had chomped hard enough to warrant application of a full-sized Band-Aid™ to staunch the bleeding. Oddly enough, the nose also presents with notes of the furnace room of the White House in 1812 before the Brits burned it down and spat on the floor. Caol Brittania? Nay, Caol Ila.
The mouth clears out the cobwebs in my brain, and harrows the white matter it finds there. Cavities in my teeth have scampered for cover; enamel extends to fill the gaps in an unprecedented dental survival adaptation. This stuff is like Chuck Norris used to be and Nate Silver has recently become: plaque, bacteria, and halitosis all commit ritual suipathogencide rather than face immediate and humiliating death at the hands of the Caol Ila 12. As the carnage recedes, it’s as though Drunk Nate Silver is swabbing an ulcer in my mouth with a Q-Tip® fashioned from spun salt. Oh, and he’s wearing a wreath of dahlias. Of course he is.
The finish is long, peaty, oily Dremel® moto-tool assault on my esophagus. But in a good way. Oh, and there are Gastarbeiters pulling sticks out of the peat. I don’t know why. That’s just what they have them doing. Overall, this singular dram is ideal for a cold winter’s night by the fire, where its bracing awesomeness can bathe you in alcohol-induced warmth and peat heat the likes of which you will not find elsewhere.
The Caol Ila 12 is, ironically enough, a set of clean-burning natural gas logs—I know, I know, but you’re wrong. Go try a set for one winter, never having to haul in dirty, wet wood from outside, and you’ll see I’m right.
Our thanks to Leah Eagel, Alex Conway and Diageo for the sample!