Remember that commercial where the cowboys discover that their salsa has been made in New York City? “New York City?” the cowboy chorus repeats with incredulity and menace. Well, I was tempted to have the same feeling about this Cyrus Noble bourbon from San Francisco. But it just tasted so great I couldn’t muster up any disapproval. Still, it’s fun to imagine the long-haired, dashiki-wearing scion named Cyrus Noble checking out a yoga class after his 4-min. Rom workout and burdock root milkshake. I bet he has a teepee in the Bohemian Grove.
The nose is a generous pour of cough syrup in a tiny acorn beer stein. Buttercream swizzlestick in a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks Inn at Hogsmeade. Lemons peeled and covered with rhinoceros hide, crudely stitched with twine. Vanilla scented drier sheets used to wipe down a changing table.
The mouth is round and malty. It has all the smoothness of the rakish fellow on the table tennis team who successfully asked out the quarterback’s girlfriend before the offensive linemen knew what was happening. Slightly corny note on the back of the finish, like an uncle’s joke told so many times it’s now endearing. Grilled corn with queso. Pork lettuce wraps eaten at a tailgate.
The finish is the resonance of a magical gong. You don’t hear so much as experience gentle waves of eardrum pressure. It’s orotund. Tintinnabulations on the largest bell in the church handbell choir. Blue Angel loop de loops over the Bonneville salt flats. BMX bikes in the Manchester velodrome.
–Our thanks to David Catania and Burke Distributing for the sample!