Hold this dram up to the light. The legs are not legs (Ceci n’est pas les jambes?), but rather a statistical data sample, complete with a fat margin for error. The nose is like a gunshot, if one’s shotgun shells were filled with smoked hazelnuts–and if that shot were aimed at a drying peat rick. But that description belies the sheer beauty of the nose here, as does the following one: it’s like sloe gin behind burning tires. [John: No, it’s creamier than that.] OK, sloe gin behind burning tires next to a dairy? At any rate, the mouth presents green Anaheim peppers and leeks on a grill, bright with flavor, but without sweetness, kinda like John when he’s in a mood. The mouthfeel is oily, like Molotov cocktail rags left over after we ran out of bottles. There’s something subtle and whimsical and evanescent on the mouth that contradicts the nose: the nose shouts Islay, while the mouth whispers come-ons. Come on, come on, come on to Islay… The finish slowly evolves from ginger snaps to Ricola™ cough drops to pencil shavings burned on a hookah filled with rosewater, offering a subtle finale that’s far from a fireworks display but is still something to behold.
The Kilchoman Machir Bay is this girl, picking a lock in under a minute–She’s not Mozart at (likely) five years old, but damn if she wouldn’t come in real handy in a pinch.
Our thanks to Sam Filmus and ImpEx for the sample!