I bought this twenty years ago to the day, for a princely sum that, without naming a number, may well seem ridiculous by today's standards, but, at the time, was, by far, the most I had ever paid for a bottle of whisky -- or indeed for anything. I vividly remember the solemn look of the clerk, when I told her what I was after*, the dead silence and the punters staring in the (busy) shop when they took the bottle out of the glass cabinet, and the stunned look of the person who was with me when I was given a total price (I bought a thirty-year-old, a couple of fifteen-year-olds, and a tinned haggis at the same time).
(*) I actually asked for bottle #303, which they did not have: this was their last bottle. She assumed that would be a deal breaker, and looked a little disappointed, until I confirmed I would take this one anyway.
Laphroaig 40yo 1960/2001 (42.4%, OB, 3300b, b#0905, LJA/AFE): nose: it is a lot peatier than I remembered it, even if, after forty years in cask, and twenty-two years in glass, it is hardly a peat onslaught. We have all sorts of lichens and mosses, the unmistakable, trademark TCP, crusty mud, smoked on the fire place, gauze, muscle strap, yet also clay floors and dunnage warehouse, to some extent. None of that is shouting, mind. It is all subdued, integrated, and downplayed. It is simply there, comfortable in the knowledge that what it does, it does in perfect harmony. We note a whisper of after-shave balm, carried by sea air full of iodine, dried saxifrage, and vague traces of fruit (canary melon, rosehip). It takes a bit of effort to see more than a mildly-peated nose, but the reward is worth the attentive taster's trouble. Pretty soon, we are back on medicinal territory, with merbromin-stained bandages, and muscle-relief poultice. Suddenly, a fairly-clear slap of fresh fruits lands on the olfactory appendage: blush orange, pink grapefruit, papaya, smoked rambutan, then warm mixed peel, none shouty in the slightest, and probably easily overlooked, if one does not pay close attention. We never step too far from moist turf and moss, however. Breathing time gives the second nose a succulent side, with candied orange segments, chewy dried-mango slices, smoked plantain crisps, and kumquats, amongst new plasters and fragrant magnolia and saxifrage -- the latter growing on limestone. Well, it could also be scented pencil erasers, you know. The medicinal notes, on the other hand, have retreated to the background, where they are now barely noticeable. Even in a covered glass, the nose does not survive ninety minutes. You have been warned! Mouth: the lush and juicy attack presents candied orange segments, mixed peel, and honey-glazed melon scoops, until dried lichen and smoked mosses join in, accompanied by delicate medicinal touches -- droplets of tincture of iodine, distant ether, and surgical alcohol that comes close to xylene. It has a dusting of burnt wood, and the bitterness of smoked grapefruit peel. The second sip is sooty to start, then unexpectedly turns into a fruity debauchery, with mouldy-blue tangerines, ash-sprinkled pears and plums, mouldy mangoes, and rancio-y elderberry. That is right: mould and decay abound, which signals the rise to prominence of a medicinal profile, penicillin and all. We even spot mouldy bread, and the afore-mentioned tincture of iodine is augmented with Iso Betadine. How is that for medicinal? Smoked cherries flash up fleetingly, borderline chocolate-y, which is always welcome, in this taster's opinion. Finish: phwoar! More than twenty-two years in glass, and it seems to not only not have lost anything, but to actually have gained quite a bit. It now has a large proportion of fruit (melon again, papaya, dragon fruit), and ash by the wheelbarrow. Then, a pronounced bitter layer takes over, for a moment (smoked avocado skin, maybe?), before it turns into a comfortable warmth, to put it simply. Retro-nasal olfaction brings up an incredible feel of wood fire in a forest clearing in November, and that takes me back forty years, spending days in the woods, lumbering before the winter. Perhaps more prosaically, it has cigar ash, and warm cigar leaves. The second sip has a cordial quality to it, with blackcurrant and elderberry paving the way for smoked blackberry and myrtle. Repeated quaffing adds juicy dark cherries and luscious dark chocolate for a mouth-watering death. Every time I think of this whisky, I convince myself that it was bottled past its prime, and that my previous judgements (e.g., here, here, and here) were mostly emotional. Then I try it again, and it reminds me it is the stuff of legends. Once again, a well-deserved top score. 10/10
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