Smoke. Asparagus. A hint of seaweed. This whisky did not give up its secrets easily but he would bring it to its knees.
He stuck his nose in the glass again, more prominently this time, to impress his daughter. She could not tear herself away from the sight of another big sniff from his nozzle.
Rosemary. Soy sauce. A sprinkling of morning dew.
He winked at her. He bet she was impressed. He was impressing himself too.
Burnt Argentine T-bone steak. An essence of cauliflower.
But there was one more odour in there. Veiled yet familiar. He was getting a bit restless. Where was it hiding? Why didn’t he pick up on it?
Wait… could this be it? Another whiff would tell. Yes! This was it, most definitely.
Nutmeg, he proudly proclaimed, putting the Glencairn glass down with an air of triumph his daughter had not seen before.
Nuts, she said.
No, nutmeg, her father corrected.
But she knew what she said.
For the subtleties of single malt whiskies, so essential to the thirtysomething renaissance man, seem very quaint to six-year-olds, who just don’t give a fuck.
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