We at The Malt Impostor do not operate as a hive. There is no queen. There are no drones, only independent contractors, as in unconstrained capitalism, yielding an unfocused and unconstrained sham of an economy pulled in countless different directions at once by the unfettered and uninformed egoism of each participant. But I digress. My point was that at The Malt Impostor, we all have our own opinions. But you know what opinions are like. Especially Bill’s.
On the nose, John and I noted honey butterscotch, artificial cherry flavoring, and floral notes muddled with a slightly astringent note. Bill found the nose off-putting and after a moment set his nose down and walked out.
On the mouth, John and I thought the light mouthfeel belied a rich flavor profile that’s limber like an Olympic gymnast one of us has obsessed about for a little too long now. On the back of the palate on the way to the finish, we also detected a note of peppery, dark red zinfandel wine. Then Bill came back and announced that the nose was like honeysuckle in a field of poppies in which the Cowardly Lion falls fast into an apnea- and flying monkeys-interrupted sleep. We let him finish, then told him we were already on to the mouth. He said, “Fine,” then likened it to drinking bad Calvados. John misheard this last bit as “bad Calvinist”, and immediately made a snide comment about the Synod of Dort, which sparked the usual recriminations (“You don’t even believe in what’s predestined for you!”), despite the fact that John is a Presbyterian. Once I pried John’s thumbs from Bill’s eye sockets, we all took a breather after which we got back to work.
Bill began by snarking that the finish was sort of Balblairian but without being remarkable. As if every Balblair were remarkable (#LogicFail). John responded by deeming Bill himself to be, at that moment, unresnarkable. John and I then went on to note that we found the finish light with a hint of bitterness like you would come across when accidentally chewing on a banana peel. We also found lovely honey spice and pepper as the medium length finish burned itself out. By this point, Bill was ignoring us and had moved on to nosh on a bit of trail mix. Oh, to be a queen bee!
–On the scale of hive-like collectives–
The Wemyss The Hive is a beehive–It’s internally harmonious, but unable to force assimilation on others as more advanced collectives, like the Borg, can. Actually, it’s also apparently liable to be disrupted, as we all are, by a strong-willed child exercising its power willy nilly on an unsuspecting and undeserving world (i.e., whacking it with a stick).
–Our thanks to Karen Stewart and The Wemyss Malts for the sample!