Single malts of 2004

Here’s starting a tradition. Each yearend I should list down, and honor with considerable annotation, all the single malt whisky bottles I’ve downed throughout the year, especially the fresh friends among these. It’ll be sort of like a reverse New Year’s resolutions list. That is, it should make me resolve to scour more of the global duty-free shelves, cigar and single malt bars, and that special cache of buddies’ collective goodwill to get deeper into the infinite storehouse of distinctive, character-laden malt whisky.

On Oct. 16, 2003, I was inducted into Scotch Perspectives, a global society of single malt whisky fanciers who meet every summer on an island in the Hebrides. I missed joining the group last June, but look forward to an invitation for 2005, if only to prove that my induction last year was no fluke.

The happenstance served itself right in my appointed room at Villa Serbelloni in Bellagio, Lago di Como, Italia, where I enjoyed a writing grant from the Rockefeller Foundation. I had made quick friends with a Scotsman in the scholars’ group, Nicholas Wade of the University of Dundee and his research partner in visual psychology, Hiroshi Ono of York University in Toronto.

They practically forced themselves into my room, not because it had the best view of the lake and the extensive villa grounds, but because I had mentioned over dinner that I had brought along a bottle of Old Course Clubhouse, a rather rare 12-year-old that had been bottled as a commemorative special to honor St. Andrews Links.

Nick and Hiro knew their single malts, but had not yet tasted what I had chanced upon at the NAIA Duty-Free shop upon egress from Manila. They were upstanding members of the society, to which they said I could be accepted that night once we broke the bottle. Of course there had to be a simple ceremonial rite, to be documented by a digital camera, the result of which was to be posted in the society’s website.

Per club rules, three members had to be present at a new member’s induction. Thankfully, Hiro’s life partner Christine was on her last night at the villa. My club name became "Old," short for the bottle I had introduced. And I was marked down as "Ladies’ Toilet Attendant" to honor my declared area of incompetence. Soon I found our ceremonial pictures and reportage on my induction in the SPHP or Scottish Perspectives website. Finally, an org I could be proud to be a member of.

Since then, however, I’ve been remiss in reporting my single malt finds to the society, as I believe we’re expected to do. Maybe I’ll have a better chance of being invited to that summer get-together if I were up-to-date with such reports. Not that I would enjoy the mountain-climbing exercises which Nick said went hand in hand with the single-malt tasting parties.

In any case, here’s the opportunity to update the club members on my enviable exploits as a gender-biased loo attendant when it comes to flirting with happenstance. Or, as the fine Fil-Am writer Lara Stapleton has described in a story my Ateneo class in fiction discussed recently, as "the obscene swallow of the toilet." Let me assure everyone however that far from obscenities, what results from imbibing single malt whiskies is nothing short of epiphany.

Now, in the manner of thesis writing, I will telescope my punches and list down the new single malt finds I’ve had for the year 2004. These are, by order of intake: the surprising Japanese 10-year-old KaruiZawa; the 10-year island malt Tobermory; the 10-year The Balvenie Doublewood; the 10-year Bruichladdich from Islay; the 12-year Speyside malt Tamnavulin; and the 10-year Isle of Jura.

If I’m to count the pure malts I’ve had, then let’s add a couple more of the Japanese species: the 17-year Taketsuru of Nikka and the 12-year Yamazaki from Suntory.

Now here’s how this gentle parade of single malts came to invite me to march along on the road to unadulterated delectation; well, save for tap(dance) water as chaser.

Started the year right by attending Jimmy Dick’s birthday party in January at Dasmariñas Village. Jimmy, whom I believe is Irish but frequents the cigar and single malt bar Forth & Tay at New World Hotel, does business out of Hong Kong and Japan. At his party, which gathered the usual suspects among cigar aficionados, there were the usual bottles of Macallan and Glenlivet. But he pulled me aside and said he had a special bottle, of a Japanese single malt whisky that he only managed to purchase a couple of, right at the village where it’s crafted by a whisky master who had studied the art and science in Scotland, and imported everything needed for his spirits except for the local spring water.

KaruiZawa was hardly available in Tokyo; only specialized dealers carried it in a few shops. Jimmy Dick had spoken to the distiller himself, who was a venerable old man infused with the very Zen of whisky-making. I didn’t have a chance to ask Jimmy if Scotsmen approved of the Japanese titling of their product as whisky, since when it’s distilled in Ireland or Kentucky, the producers have to add that "e" familiar to bourbon drinkers. Something like champagne only allowed to come from the Champagne region in France.

I must say, however, that KaruiZawa tasted great – dark and strong but smooth and subtle like seaweed, if I were to simulate the kind of literary notes that serve as enticing handmaidens to single malt bottles. As for nosing notes, well, I’ve got a cold every day, which is why I’m obsessed with whisky in the first place.

Suffice it so say that the incurably hospitable Mr. Dick not only allowed me more than a wee dram, or just a couple of doubles, neat, but actually demanded that I take the bottle with me, with still half of its precious, dark-golden liquid. Yeah, January of 2004 sure got me going.

In March I visited Chicago for a writers’ conference, and got together with old buddy Willie Sanchez, poet. One night he said he might have some whisky stored somewhere; faint memory dictated that he had kept a gift of yore. It turned out to be a glorious find, from a box of stuff under a staircase. Not single malt, but blended, and yet a very fine whisky indeed: The Glorious 12th, which I was totally unfamiliar with. Here are the literary notes:

"One of Edward VII’s favorite pursuits was shooting, but not even the king was permitted to shoot grouse until the 12th of August. Hence he dubbed that day the ‘Glorious 12th.’

"John Buckmaster blended his first mature whiskies to royal standards, and his heritage lives on today in every bottle of ‘Glorious 12th.’

"This is an elegant, exciting whisky. Its distinctive pale color and fragrant character tell the true Scotch whisky connoisseur that it is a subtle blend of aromatic highland malts with the finest lowland malt and grain whiskies..."

I suppose I’m not exactly committing sacrilege by praising something other than single malt, as this blend, like a few of the truly vintage ones, did taste like "one of the rare masterpieces of the whisky blender’s art." Or was it just the nostalgia time spent with Willybog? Maybe both had a hand in the experience.

From Chicago I transited for a week in Los Angeles, where a younger sister lives. As well as another dear friend, the world-class equine artist and nude portraitist Salvador "Dodong" Arellano. Whenever we get together, of course the nostalgia time harking back to San Juan days as rowdy youths can only be celebrated with hard drinks. Deferring to my preference for single malt, he took me to a wine and spirits shop that had four or five brands of the favored brew. Since I hadn’t tasted it before, I chose Tobermory.

And what a find it was. Delicate, supple. From The Single Malt Whisky Companion: A Connoisseur’s Guide by Helen Arthur: "Pale, straw-colored… Tobermory is made from unpeated barley." Oh, whatever. It certainly took me up to la-la-land, especially since we drank the Isle of Mull produce with crispy-fried soft-shell crabs courtesy of dear Monina.

Then back home I got word that New Yorker Luis Francia, another fine poet, was vacationing with his wife in Tokyo. I challenged him to look for KaruiZawa. It was his Japanese father-in-law who found a bottle. And as Atenean friends go, Luis made sure to drop it on my lap when they went through Manila. Still owe him one, or two or three, for that Ignatian brand of generosity.

Sometime during the year, too, the young writer Patricia "Rica" Barcelon visited Japan. While she found it difficult to acquire a KaruiZawa, she did gift me upon return with a special Nikka whisky: the 17-year Taketsuru pure malt. Not that’s not exactly single malt, just like the relatively popular Glenfiddich or the now-competitive Johnny Walker Green. But it was superlative nonetheless.

At this point, memory accedes to the nightlong experiences of nosing, tasting, and appreciation of color, body, fragrance, divinity. Somehow, I also find an empty bottle of the 12-year Yamazaki pure malt from Suntory. Now who gifted me this prize? Either Luis, too, or Rica, or an unrecalled, third magus who had favored my manger of empty if memorious bottles.

This is also why I cannot quite describe the individual character that possesses each malt whisky I’ve had for the year. They’re all of a flowing piece, with the favorite Lagavulin and Laphroaig usually taken at Kipling’s at Mandarin Hotel, to the Glenlivet, Macallan and Dalwhinnie lifted at specialized random with like-minded friends, or the Aberlour, Auchentoshan, Bunnahabhain and Tomatin shared with whisky buddy Perfecto Quicho. And recently, the Glenmorangie offered by writer Ben Bautista at a stud party with fellow writers Greg Brillantes, Pete Lacaba and Juaniyo Arcellana.

But a couple of familiar labels seem to stand out of late, those of Dalmore and Bowmore. I’ve had them before, but recently, the amber-colored, peaty, tangy Bowmore in particular seems to lure me to a sea cliff, nay, an aerie, where I begin to feel like either Saruman or Gandalf.

Similarly has a new acquaintance brought me to that brink of a borderline between good and evil, or to the very province of "sin taxes." And this is Bruichladdich (Gaelic for "hill by the shore"). "Lashings of oak and a sprinkle of sea spray and dry seaweed remind you of its 15 years maturing by the ocean. The most popular single malt on Islay."

Really now. The Lifestyle Channel has been showing a feature on single malt, and the star of the show has been Bruichladdich, distilled in the Isle of Islay, where I hope to retire some day. If only to get a whiff and a drift and more than a wee dram daily, nightly, of the special "valinche" that may cost an arm and a leg, but entitles the customer to draw uisge beatha (the "water of life") direct from a cask.

Finally, another recent portage through Duty Free heaven, in Bangkok I think, earned me a box billed as The Discovery Malt Collection: three 33.3cl bottles, namely the 12-year Highland malt The Dalmore; the 12-year Tamnavulin billed as "The queen of Speyside" ("The distillery sits on the banks of Allt a Choire – ‘the stream of the corrie’ – a tributary of the great whisky river The Livet…"); and the 10-year Isle of Jura (whose water "rises crystal clear from the spring Bhaille Mharghaidh and runs over quartzite and heather, to the distillery in the village of Craighouse below…")

Of the last, the tasting notes read thus: Color: pale gold/amber. Nose: full, rich and aromatic nose with silky, almondy wood notes, completing the outstanding bouquet. Taste: fruity, long and attractive with a hint of smoke."

The literature attending single malt whiskies enhances appreciation. Place names and phrases in Gaelic intoxicate. E’en the English. "Quarzite and heather." Love that. "Silky, almondy wood notes…" Oh, my. "A hint of smoke." Hmm. Yes, give it to me, baby.

And so I look forward to another year of discovery and collection, while I resolve to patiently mature, just the way a spirit ages in selected Olorosso sherry cask, so that my "color" of temperament is infused with a deep, mahogany glow, all the while I acquire a generous aftertaste. Hail uisge beatha!