Ignoble and successful as a bankrobber who gets away with nothing more than pockets full of coins, the inauspicious plastic bottle containing the Glenmorangie 10 apparently fails to prevent some evaporation. Shellacked honeycomb on the nose gives way to a hot, burnt, inorganic, and somewhat stinky flavor profile on the tongue, much like polyester pantyhose burning in a basement furnace in an attempt to destroy evidence of a bank heist gone horribly wrong earlier that morning. As with contemplating how one could be so stupid as to hold a dye pack in his mouth while fishing cash out of the bag the teller handed him, this dram is tough and gnaws at the back of your mind or your palate, whatever the case may be. There is a flowering bitterness here, like eating a dandelion by accident or realizing too late that a trigger-happy psychopath doesn’t make the best accomplice. The finish is marked by a bad kind of heat, the kind that inevitably comes from leaving behind a trail of dead bodies and bright blue footprints.
The Glenmorangie 10 is Les Fleurs du Mal–for Baudelaire’s collection of poems, Hippolyte Badou’s suggested title is the stuff of legend; but for the ubiquitous herbaceous perennial, it’s not a terribly flattering moniker. It is, however, better than being called a weed.