The Talisker Storm

750 ml portable personal fuel tank

Tasting notes:
Before breaching the eye of the Storm, I’ll note that recently we ran an intimate informal poll: Which distillery that we’ve never visited should we next visit? Talisker was number one for each of us! So get ready, Talisker, the Mayan prophecies and the Malt Impostors are coming.

     On the nose, the Talisker Storm is caramel melting on the sticky hands of a delighted eight-year old; a child stowaway on a cargo ship departing North Carolina’s Cape Hatteras hoping to track down his father, whom his mother said “went out for a pack of cigarettes” three months ago. The crew finds him and makes him a cabin boy, but the good kind, under the protection of the exceedingly ferocious woman pirate, Jacquotte Delahaye. Note: She probably didn’t dress like this. [Stephen: Bill, your scene sounds like it takes place in the 1930s, but Jaquotte Delahaye flourished in the mid-1600’s!] Oh, Stephen, you always worry so much about dramatic versimilitude. Just go with your feelings, okay? We also got banana creamsicles run through wood chippers that had lately been processing burnt ash stakes used to kill vampires and the notorious crazy gangster Lars “Bananas” Foster. The overwhelming sensation is that of being Rip Van Winkle—alas, not his Pappy—and falling asleep at the base of an oak tree, and being enveloped by the cool, cool bark.
     On the mouth it’s sweet and syrupy; verily nectarilicious. If your backyard fairy rode a mini moped, it would probably serve as excellent fuel for it. (Mine drives a mini Tesla, so I don’t know what she’d pour into her mini tank.) It’s like going to the bathroom at a five-star hotel; it’s luxurious, the toilet paper is recycled Egyptian papyrus stolen from museums around the world, but it feels like you should be doing something else, too. In other words, you’re deeply satisfied, but feel a tinge of something amiss, like Neo at the outset of The Matrix
     The finish is not a storm at all—it’s sailing on a peat sea onto the shores of a safe harbor of lemon curd on your pie-serving schooner that’s carrying a shipment of hoppy trellises designed for producing premium Weizenstarkbier. The native women are clotted and clustering around: Land ho, indeed!

  

Rating:

–On the scale of oddly-anatomically-named weather phenomena–
The Talisker Storm is the eye of the storm–The eye is the calm hole at the center of all the action. [John: Watch him, Stephen, he might be taking this into maltgonewild territory…]  Relax, John. I like to imagine myself sipping my Talisker Storm in a serene cabana while all around me, all hell is breaking loose, and the storm just passes me by, and I just keep on sipping my dram.
   
  
    
  
     


                                                                      –Bill
   
    
    
     
    
   
–Our thanks to Hunter PR and Diageo for the sample!

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