Distillery 291 E

I am convinced the perception of alcoholic strength is a very subjective thing indeed, and I’ve decided to use this dram to put that to the test.

I begin with a single 25ml pour, and taste undiluted. Next, I progressively add more water and see how the thing changes. We all know that water is supposed to lift cask strength whiskies and bring out flavour by disturbing the volatile compounds. Well, that’s not really the case here.

Each time I sip this whiskey, it’s as though I’m experiencing cask strength for the first time. With zero dilution, the sourness coming from the rye is overlapping with alcohol burn. My brain is unable to distinguish which is which. There’s some caraway happening at the same time. There’s a little sweetness on the nose but it’s a mirage and none of it comes through on the palate. After many seconds, a much derided note appears on the palate: vanilla. There’s something lovely about that note making a quiet appearance so late in the tasting experience.

First dilution. There’s still the sourness and intensity and it’s still coming through on the nose. Get too close and there’s a razor blade sensation on the nostrils. One noticeable change is a little more dark caramel and perhaps some caraway. For me this is the spice people are referring to when they say rye whiskey is spicy.

On the palate: Still super sour, super alcoholic. I pour an undiluted second dram to dial in the differences. Side by side, I detect a drop-down in the perceived strength but it’s minimal: like shaving a couple centigrade off high summer in Death Valley. There is no way the first teaspoon of water would register to a blind taster. Relative to the total volume of alcohol in my glass, I would expect this non-negligible change to register but it doesn’t.

Second dilution. Now it smells more familiar, like Maker’s Mark – bearing in mind, that’s a generally available bourbon whiskey that happens to be sold at a generous 45% ABV in the US. Interestingly, the sourness I associate with all things rye has gone down a notch, and been replaced by a light grain sweetness on the nose.

Rye, by the way, is absent from this whiskey, which is apparently made from malted barley and wheat. It could be the influence of the unusual aspen staves which is bringing this character, but aspen wood is so unusual that I have no reference point to confirm or deny that possibility.

By this point, I can begin to taste the dilution. It’s still mouth-drying, I’d guess from very active wood tannins. Sourness remains stronger than the sweetness on the palate. Unfortunately, while I’ve cut down the alcohol, I feel as though I’ve neutered this beast. The dark caramel quality, the sheer intensity of what it’s doing to my mouth, all these special aspects of the liquid have been lost in the taming process.

For science, let’s vandalise this dram and add another teaspoon of water. It’s worth remembering I’ve been drinking the liquid as I’ve been going so the dilution is going to be more than linear – we’re losing alcohol from the Glencairn with each step – as well as thinning it out. Now, the heavily-diluted dram begins to remind me of the Glenfiddich 12. It’s light, but fairly pleasant.

In addition to that vague sense of grain sweetness, I’m also getting a pleasing dustiness. The drink is completely transformed at this point. Its distinctiveness, its rye-like notes, have been pixellated out. As the analogy I mentioned above suggests, it could be scotch, just as it could be Japanese. On the palette it falls apart even more, feeling wishy-washy – not sour, not sweet, not anything particularly memorable.

Conventional wisdom teaches us there are appropriate strengths to drink whiskey, and that at cask strength, undiluted isn’t always wise. Plenty of people will disagree with this and I’m one of them. My favourite version of this whiskey was before I started adulterating it with water.

I understand the argument that the alcohol burn disguises things or that flavours are tight, too overlapping, to be properly appreciated. To me, the fact I can tell there are overlapping flavours and that something is tight means I know those flavours are there. And why can’t overlapping, challenging-to-distinguish flavours be more intriguing, not less?

I admit this is all a bit of a wind-up. Of course, there is a level of dilution to every drinker’s palate which is the best. There may even be a perfect level of dilution which can reveal all a dram has to show without cutting out its engaging fierceness. I’ve obviously done this liquid a disservice by dousing it in such big increments to make a point.

However that perfect dilution is something I’ve never actually achieved. It’s a hypothetical ideal, impossible as I always go too far and tip things out of balance or just make them a bit boring.

For now, I’ll keep sipping my whisky (and whiskey) neat.