In the beginning, I had a hard time adjusting to my first Islay malt, Laphroaig 10. It was like taking a few ski lessons on the bunny slope and then getting dropped from a helicopter onto the Matterhorn. Now I had somewhat calibrated my barometer for peatiness, and with slight trepidation purchased the only readily available single malt actually stronger in peat smoke, Ardbeg 10.
I had read reviews ahead of time, something I normally try not to do, but Ardbeg 10 seemed to incur particularly strong love-it-or-hate-it reactions. This was the Jim Murray's Whisky Bible '2008 Whisky of the Year', so I know it must have a lot going for it, but I also cannot ignore the reviewers who were physically repulsed by it, nor those praising it because Laphroaig is too tame. Um...not terribly helpful, but I had already committed to lighting the fuse on this peat bomb and finding out which side of the fence I come back down to Earth on.
The intensely green bottle makes me draw an immediate association with absinthe. The color might be a warning, like a poison dart frog. Pulling the cork, I had assumed it would have that pungent formaldehyde smell that Laphroaig is famous for, being that Ardbeg's phenol count is even higher, but it was curiously absent, or at least minimal. In its place was a musk of peat smoke dank enough to make my dog leave the room. I am reminded of that odd aroma of charred peppers steaming themselves in a paper bag to release their blistered, bitter skins. It also gives me a sharp citrus tang impression, like grilled pineapple or lemon/lime zest. This might be what it would smell like if you poured out an umbrella drink on a smoldering beach fire.
Lemon and lime always hit me in the tonsils, and now I will add Ardbeg 10 to that list. All of its maturation takes place in bourbon casks, no sherry butts in this expression. The fruity notes lean more toward citrus than 'orchard fruit' (e.g. apple, pear, peach). The maritime notes come through clearly: seaweed, brine, smoked fish. Tons of spice notes, cinnamon, anise, vanilla, pepper, toasted pine nuts, smoked almonds. The peat smoke is the elephant in the room, though. I think there might be less smoke flavor in a cigar. I found myself wondering if they'd infused the whisky itself with peat smoke, the high end equivalent of bong water. The smoky finish is eternal. Even after I brush my teeth, I can't shake that smoky taste in my nose and throat, and resign myself to sleeping on the couch.
I would much rather be overwhelmed by a scotch than disappointed. I had mentally prepared myself to be in over my head for the first dram, and hoped I would soon acclimate and eventually savor that smoky intensity, as had happened with Laphroaig. This bottle took me twice as long to finish as others, likely because I never felt the urge for a second dram on any given evening. One is all you need.
I definitely got to the acclimation point, but never quite graduated to that level of enthusiasm for it that so many of the online reviewers espouse. I love smoky things: bacon, Smithfield country ham, Texas brisket, all kinds of fish and cheeses, bacon (again). Smoke is never really the primary flavor though, it is merely an adjunct for enhancing natural deliciousness. Same goes for my taste in scotch, best in relative moderation. Lagavulin and Talisker have achieved a sublime ideal smokiness for my palate (more on those two later). Laphroaig pushes the envelope but has so much else going on. With Ardbeg, smoke is the star of the show, and overshoots my tolerance for it. Like dating a redhead, I'm glad I tried it once, the experience did not disappoint, but ultimately proved to be too much for me.
Overall Grade: 87/100, B+
p.s. For a heaping helping of WTF, you might also enjoy reading about Ardbeg in space.
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