Let’s get something straight right at the beginning: In any group of three people, one of them must be the shortest. And one must be the sweetest, and one must be the scallywaggiest. I’m sure that Stephen and John were choosing “sweet” and “scallywag” when they said that I had to write up this review, because if it was because I was the wee-est, well, that’d be rude. Say, is “wee-est” a federally-protected minority? Is there a lawyer who reads us?
Anyways, the nose of the Sweet Wee Scallywag opens like opening the door of the broom closet off the Oval Office in the White House. The cleaning implements there, which for two centuries have burnished the mahogany desk and all the finery of the President of the United States of America, have via molecular transference picked up some of that power, majesty, wax, wood, must, and sense of overwhelming dignity the office confers. Perhaps “wee” and “sweet” on the nose—certainly no scallywag yet.
The mouth is robust and bumptious for such a self-deprecating name: It’s bold, unmistakable spearmint, and after the gentle nose, a rather good pratfall or the explosive pseudo-flatulence of a whoopee cushion placed by a whippersnapper under the cushion of host’s chair. There’s something soft, too, perhaps the “wee” bit of the scallywag, and let’s face, an unmistakable sweet current like a drunk laird watching the swirling down the drain of the Chateau Y’quem he poured into the sink, because he thought a rogue servant had pranked him by bringing a glass of *ahem* pig egesta rather than wine. Foolish laird! That would have been, and this is, quite delicious.
The finish refuses to relent; the good will engendered by the dram continues to dazzle the back palate like the afterimage of fireworks imprinted upon the retina. The tongue-numbing is a welcome heat as the sweetness rolls down the gullet, continuing to announce itself like a summer thunderstorm’s rumblings in the distance.
–Our thanks to Brad Jarvis and Charlie Tower for the sample!