The “A Speyside” 23 Year 1991 from The Exclusive Malts

60 ml ventriloquist's mini

A-Speyside-23-Year-1991-from-The-Exclusive-MaltsTasting notes
“Dammit, which distillery is it?” I plead. This might be turning into a familiar refrain John’s and Bill’s ears.

Bill clearly doesn’t care. The Whisky Fairy brought us good hooch, and he sees no reason to look a gift fairy in the Tinkerbell.

“Jeez, man, that came off really creepy,” John notes. “Just couldn’t settle with ‘horse’ and ‘mouth,’ huh?” John also doesn’t care about the actual matter at hand. But in this case it’s because he’s devoted far too much mental energy to Deflategate and has none left to fashion critiques of the multinational mega-drinks corporations that protect their brand names like a nearly criminally liable helicopter parent “looks after” her kid.

“Fine. We’ll never know,” I concede, all too aware that none of us are ruffian whisky savants qua The Angel’s Share. “Well, then I guess we should just enjoy it.”

“Now we’re talking,” said the hedonist (that’s Bill). “On the nose, I get a crushed velvet velour suit worn by an extra on Saturday Night Fever.”

“A cantaloupe Vinny Barbarino lacquered in woodshop,” I add.

“That was Welcome Back, Kotter, not Saturday Night Fever.”

“I know, just riffing on your thing.”

“It’s a jewelry chest relacquered in the last week, but now it’s holding devalued Central American currency, raw sheepsmilk cheese, and a slice of rye,” adds John, picking up and running with my rapidly deflating football.

“Wow. I get the reference from before, but again, really creepy sounding.”

“Sorry. Moving on…”

“The mouth is Salvador Dali’s short-lived woodcarving stage, filled with arabesques and disappointment.”

“The mouthfeel is a bit watery, but at the same time it burns.”

“The mouth is a complexity wrapped in a complicity. Like being told, Say Goodnight, Gracie, when you’re Gracie.”

“The finish is flowers pressed between floorboards.”

“Waxed hay in a pelican’s nest.”

“We are rolling, and so is this finish. It just goes on and on and on…”

“Who said that last part?”

“Really, who cares?”

“After a certain point, does it really matter?”

“No, no, it doesn’t.”


On the scale of works of literature that don’t always make clear who is speaking–
The 23 Year Old “Speyside” from The Exclusive Malts is Toni Morrison’s Jazz–Have a character refer to herself in the third person. Make her “crazy” as well, and you’ll really throw people off. In the end, does it really matter for the novel? No, no, it doesn’t.





–Our thanks to ImpEx for the sample!



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