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Even in the oppressive Florida humidity, you could smell the store’s fragrances around the corner, well before it came into sight.
The store is called “Basin” and it sells perfumed soaps.
Jen and the girls wanted to go in, but the boys and I decided we were going to wait outside on a bench in the shade provided by a small grove of palm trees. But after a few minutes, knowing the store was air-conditioned, we decided to go ahead and join the girls and investigate the store. Once inside, we tooled around for only a few moments before finding it necessary to leave. The artificial bouquets were so overstimulating to my youngest son’s allergies that we had to leave.
Just through the door and back into the Florida heat, I had a thought.
“Hey, Josh,” I said and nudged my sixteen-year-old’s shoulder. “There’s one thing I know for sure. You could totally let one go in there and no one would ever know.”
Joshua’s face became bright with a smile.
“Yeah, I know, right,” he said. “I totally just did.”
Leave it to Dad to imagine it. Leave it to the teenager to imagine it and then to act on it. And normally I would have given him some instruction on appropriate behavior in public places, but as I said, no one would ever know because the place was a redolent chemical factory, one where the scientists were most certainly hard at work trying to figure out the most efficient ways to kill you with concoctions of geranium seeds, lavadin oil, lemongrass, and almond butter. As long as it’s a quiet release, a little bit of methane wouldn’t make a bit of difference to the place.
Too bad the whisky shops haven’t figured out a way to paint their oxygen currents with the various scents of the editions they sell. That would be great, wouldn’t it?
I know where I’d supplant myself – over by the Balvenie editions, for sure. But then after getting my fill of the Aston Martin of whiskies, I’d move along to others, most likely stopping by the Glenglassaugh section to take a moment with the Evolution edition. It’s a pleasant enough whisky that it deserves a visit.
The nose of this dram is surprisingly weak. You’ll need to sit very close by and breathe deeply to get the best measure of its salt, buttercream, and grapefruit-like citrus.
On the palate, the Evolution gives an immediate tap of sour citrus, and then turns toward vanilla, whipped cream, and perhaps almond milk.
The finish is a medium stay of the citrus zip followed by what some might conclude is an unwelcomed alcohol chomp. I didn’t mind it so much because it provided a warmth that I felt had been missing from the rest of the experience.
And just so you know – if the whisky shops ever start scenting the scene with the bottled delights adorning their shelves and my son is with me and he happens to do what he did at Basin, I’ll smack him.
He’d deserve it.