The Tormore 29 Year 1984 from The Exclusive Casks (30 ml ineluctable mini)

Tasting notes:
      If Big Brother watched over the Tormore 1984, Big Brother got it right. The nose is moldy Bartlett pear, a sweet over-ripe note that in a different universe might be a harbinger of a new anti-biotic. And yes, John, I suppose in another universe still it could be President Jed Bartlett of the West Wing, gone moldy and pear-shaped. Beyond the pear, I get the ballroom floor of Count Radbot of Klettgau’s House of Habsburg mountain fortress, fountainhead of the dynasts taking their name from the fort, destined to rule most of Europe for centuries! And no, Stephen, I didn’t mean Hopsburgh, Oregon, a (fictional) mid-state Cascade town, home to fields of heirloom offshoots of Tettnang hops, cultivated again only recently since their recent discovery by several troops of lost boyscouts foraging for herbs to season their pine bark and moss soup.

[Stephen: Focus, Bill, focus. Please?]

     Still on the nose, a tasting event’s worth of used burgundy glasses and the artisan vattings of fermented honey-suckle home to frolicking house-broken ferrets and otters. Lime twist out late at night, looking for a cocktail or even just tonic water. The world’s finest butterscotch topping, mysteriously containing neither butter nor scotch, and for that matter, not topping anything. Gnats, having just flown through a blossoming cherry orchard. (Not the fictional one of Chekhov, either. And not the Star Trek Chekhov, either.) Light mist of mango nectar.
     On the mouth, exalted lemon drops and a Fabergé apricot with Gouda soldiers standing at parade rest inside it. Dominican Republican tobacco leaves immersed in applejack, lighting a brief fire at the tip of the tongue. Heat? No. (And definitely not the Miami Heat.) Spice? No. Rather the well-earned haughty arrogance born of the ineluctable knowledge of exceptionality.
     The finish is a long, long hand-knit Angora muffler on a cold, cold night. That is to say, your gladness and gratitude know no bounds, no limits, and no gravity. It’s a symbiotic parasite that ennobles its host, your palate. It’s lions and tigers (no bears) and oryxes rolling around in chopped, fermenting savannah grass. The long yummy tummy finish inspires Whitmanian bombast, Joycean prolixity, and Seussian exuberance.