This one has a muted nose. There’s a subtlety and quietness strongly suggestive of the truth expressed in the maxim, “still waters run deep.” In fact, it is rather like the girl in the back corner of the classroom. Her brown bangs hang low, nearly covering her eyes, making her intelligence invisible—until the first assignments are collected and you tremble at the fecundity of her mind.
What the Glen Grant offers is lemon chocolate-chip pie. But these being quiet, normcore lemons, they insisted upon free trade carob chips to the chagrin of the baker. Elysian fields of fragrant, blossoming soybeans, where vegan pacifists run along to the beat of their own umbrage.
Poppy seed muffins drenched in lemoncello. Against the dictates of propriety and common sense, they are deployed at La Tomatina in Buñol. Thick clots of yellow muffin explode amid the sprays of orange-red, to the shock of the participants. It’s like when the girl in the back of the classroom removes the veil of her hair to reveal heterochromic eyes and heteronormative opinions.
This is the best selling whisky in Italy, Stephen tells us, as the finish begins to overspread my palate. I want to say it’s a happy finish, neither too powerful, nor too profound. There’s a hint of almond tea cookie in there, one that his broken in half by one child while the other closely inspects which half is larger. Can we call it la dolce vita of whiskies, and if so, would this make it la dolce uisge beatha?