When I was growing up, my Dad’s drink of choice was scotch. I was in the Trader Joe’s and saw that they sell single-malt Scotch whiskies, so I thought: what the heck?
I got Laphroaig, which is the same whisky described by a Lawrence Block character in a passage I have quoted before:
Slow sipping, that’s the way to do it. You take little sparrow-sized sips, and you keep telling yourself that you like the taste, and by the time you get to the bottom of the glass, it’s true.
. . . . Somewhere around the fifth sip, it had achieved the virtue of familiarity. I was accustomed to it, and the question of whether I actually liked it no longer seemed pertinent. It was like, say, a cousin. The man’s your cousin, for God’s sake! What do you mean, you don’t like him? You don’t have to like him or dislike him! He’s your cousin!
I tried a little this evening, with no mixer or chaser. Tasted pretty much like wood.
But I’m going to go give it another chance — this time drinking it like Tim Worstall suggests: mixed with an equal part of flat spring water. I’m nearing the end of L.A. Rex. Nothing like kicking back with a good book and a glass of liquid wood.
Any scotch lovers out there? What’s your favorite?