In honor of the series running over at TGC on pastries, Old Calvinists may be in the mood for a post that has less to do with flour and more with peat. The following is also a confirmation of a point made one student this morning during discussion of Progressivism and Prohibition. I had not heard this before, but legend has it that Laphroiag was on sale throughout the 1920s because no one believed anyone who was not sick would drink it:
This Scotch whisky carries an interesting story with it. During Prohibition in the United States, Laphroaig was still allowed to import their whisky at its cask strength as cough medicine because the United States government deemed the whisky too strong and medicinal to be consumed recreationally.
Here is how one Scotch-drinker describes Laphroiag:
This to me is the most immediately identifiable nose in the realm of Scotch whisky—beast-like, phenolic, wheelbarrels of iodine, sea salt, nonstop peat and kippers—and as if the medicinal tidal waves aren’t enough, beneath them lies a thin layer of fino sherry—is this loutish nose too much? why am I reaching for a rifle?—on palate, the peat reek is so thick I have to scrape it off my tongue with a spatula; the three-alarm smokiness leaves scant room for anything else—I wonder if there is anything else in terms of flavor—maybe it’s just peat, smoke, peat, smoke; I appreciate the damn-the-torpedoes character of this burly brat, but if I were stranded on that proverbial island with only one single malt, Laphroaig 10 most definitely would not be my choice; make sure you have a whip and a chair handy after you open this beastie; my biggest objection to this malt is, what does a newcomer to malts think if they happen to try this five-alarm malt before tasting other, tamer, more elegant malts? Do you lose that person forever?
For (all about) me, the older I get, the more peat, hops, pepper, garlic, Honduran leaf, the more I enjoy. Is this a sign that tastebuds are wearing out?
Old Life 