The Compass Box Orangerie (50 ml holy water travel vial)

Tasting notes: 
Dutch undergarments?  No, it’s Scotch whisky infused with orange zest, cassia bark, and clove.  We’ve had occasion to remark on the ad copy before; we’ve seen the lovely art nouveau bottle at whisky events; and even had a memorable sip while bobbing in the Boston Harbor on a fog-filled night.  But as our palates have matured over the years and become refined through countless tasting sessions, we believe we are now ready to subject this offering to our uncompromising and thorough review process.  In fact so confident are we that we’re willing to pull the curtain back a bit and show you a transcription of our first encounter with the Orangerie which we chose not to publish at the time.
 
On the nose it’s orangey.  It’s the smell in my nostrils of oranges put into a fluid, perhaps a liquid.  On the mouth—yes, there is it again: the unmistakable taste of oranges.  Citrusy and really orangey oranges.  This time it’s like there is a literal orange wedge in my mouth.  The finish reminds me of nothing more than the feeling you get after eating several of those wedges that still have a lot of the white stuff on it.  What’s that stuff called?

Ah, youth.  At any rate, we’re ready for our more discerning review.  To begin, we noticed immediately the Navalino orange peels hand-zested by a crew of mostly right-handed zesters not all of whom were wearing plastic food-handler gloves (We won’t tell!).  But in addition, we found other, more complex notes. 
Pumalo sections muddled in a julep cup, then strained over Carr’s® Table Water® Crackers.  Calamondons ripened almost to the point of fermentation, then added to an allspice chutney. The whole of it is a triumph of subtlety.  We get a hint of blood orange, but a rare variant, like AB-negative.  And there’s a reminiscence of Terry’s Chocolate Oranges, but where—even at close range (the locker room, the boudoir)—Terry’s gender is indeterminate.  As for the Cassia bark, we had trouble placing those notes at first but then Bill realized the obvious: the tree from which the bark was used in our batch had, decades earlier, served as the slate for a futile declaration of love carved by a pocketknife.  That and the stress from Mottled Emigrant caterpillars perhaps muted the cinnamon’s trumpet and allowed the nutmeg’s overture to win the day.  As you can see, there’s much on offer here, and it will suit a variety of tastes.  For conservatives, it’s like a Grand Marnier to gift to Francophobes, and a marvelous complement to Freedom Fries.  For liberals, it represents the hope for a brighter future where good ideas jostle the tired postures of tradition.