By: Mathieu Rofs |
Review Date: 5/11/2012
Octomore. Notice the "more" in the name. Because that's what I want. By God, I crave this more than gold. Opening the bottle is like finding a fresh vein for the smack. This is a finely structured Scotch, with plenty of tannins acting as ionic, no, corinthian columns. The nose is that of an autumn breeze, particularly an autumn breeze standing on the walls of Glenlochdain castle after a hearty battle, the smoke of the enemy's funeral pyre wafting into your lungs, a blend of ash and victory.
And the taste, the taste. Searing, salt-encrusted flames on the tip of the tongue, slowly evolving (like the Pleistocene) into a musky, ambergris-laced explosion of peat, as if you had cooked eggs with ambergis but over a wood & moose fire.
Gradually the fire dies down into embers of vanilla, a hint of cardamon, tumeric, like a ransacked moroccan spice market. Gradually only the memory remains. Gradually only the hunger.