O, dastardly demons that haunt me while I sleep, neither letting me rest nor allowing me comfort in my disposition toward honesty. Yes, I know I did not write a favorable review of The Dalmore Sherrywood 21 year old, and I care not that you accuse me and hold me at odds with other reviewers. I won’t, I shan’t take to a posture against the pavement in regret or sorrow. I was not impressed. Now, away from me! Leave me be, O, vilest torturers of the conscience! I will commend the well-deserving Dalmore distillery with an ever-ready willingness to embrace any and all drams born from her bosom-stills, but I simply cannot rejoice in a less-than worthy victory. And so I tell you foul lemming-beasts with oily black blood coursing through your furry hides and woven with leathery vessels, “I will not recant of my words! Away from me, for you have in mind the things of men and not of God!”
And for the record, how could a reputation remain completely unscathed when you purport and even perpetuate the rumor that as an above-all-others distillery you have bowed in reverence to the world’s impositions by merely changing your “Cigar Malt” edition to “Gran Reserva” because smoking is frowned upon? Is not such fear and foreboding unfamiliar to the greats? Perhaps such trepidation was stirring deep down in the hearts of those who first concocted the 21 year old? Perhaps as the cask was opened, this demon of post-modern subjectivism was set free to unleash and wreak its wreckage upon The Dalmore?
Okay, so maybe I’m going overboard. But that sure was a wonderfully refreshing rant and an unabashed recommitting to providing integrous reviews, wouldn’t you say? And so now, I should also say… I’ve consumed and reviewed the Cigar Malt and I have now tiptoed within the Gran Reserva’s confines. I am unwilling to confirm the rumors that they are one in the same, except to say that they are both exceptional.
The Gran Reserva’s nose, a splash of citrus and a kiss of sherry. The palate, well, at first I thought I sensed smoke, but when I did it again, it just wasn’t there (or should I say, yes it is there, just not in the palate). But what did return was a spicy nip of caramel and perhaps a little bit of bitter honey, which I sort of liked. The finish reveals the smoke and then brings back the sherry just in time to keep befuddlement at bay.
And so, my demons, my netherworld bullies, feel free to join me around a glass of The Dalmore; but again, I tell you, if you are genuine, I shall serve the Gran Reserva in gentle kindness. If you remain hostile, I will most certainly keep such a better gift to myself and give to you Scoresby that your purgatorial ignorance may be complete.
Okay, I’m going overboard again. No one should ever have to drink Scoresby. In fact, isn’t the only liquor store that carries it located at the corner of “Death” and “Animal Urine” in hell?