All three of us, in our own idiom, went “Wow!” upon lifting our snifter to sniff. Mine was exuberant; the syrupy sweetness symbiotically colonized my nasal linings, forming a more perfect union. John’s was a stiff upper nose “Well, wow,” tokening a patrician protest against the requisite proper visas and stanps; a wish to return to the open borders pre-9/11. He also found freshly changed gerbil bedding, because of course he did. Stephen’s was a “Wow, whoa?” as he wondered about the herb-y green sweetness and the forthrightful, forthcoming, appealing resemblance to Justin Trudeau’s nose. I also got oranges juggled by orangutans, because of course I did.
The mouth is a bit thin—a tin whistle, fife, and canteen being used as a snare drum at political rally for a 3rd party candidate. The rye brio is here, but it’s a PG-13 kind of rye; you wouldn’t take young kids or agéd grandmothers, but pretty much anyone else is fair game and likely to appreciate it: It’s a crowd-pleaser. A Guardians of the Galaxy of the whisk(e)y world, if you will.
The finish is long and reverberatory, like Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow, except with fewer fatalities. There are some bitter rye bites along the way, and a roadster (1959 Porsche 356A Convertible) spinning gravel as it re-enters the highway. It’s the wedding toast at a ceremony to which the bride showed up 30 minutes late, scaring all in attendance—things are fine now, and they are rolling.
On the scale of super-nice Best Actor Oscar Winners–
The Canadian Club 100% Rye is…may I please have the envelope?…Jimmy Stewart!–Tom Hanks was, of course, nominated. If we’d restricted the rating to Canadians who’d won an Oscar, it would most definitely have gone to Walter Huston, who picked up his for Best Supporting Actor in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Father of John Huston, grandfather of Anjelica Huston: I don’t think they can take on the Barrymores, but Hustons, we don’t have a problem with you!