Glenfarclas 1991 S22, WB: 222588

Glass: Blhas, Spiegelau Snifter. Series: Invincible, Mood: Avnosatdoonawday. Color: black tea, very black.Wetting the palate: tried various scenarios, bourbon e.g. this WB225512, sherry matured scotch e.g. this WB219589 and old woody grain WB218656. How to start, can't you just enjoy a malt like this? That's the tricky part of the job, balancing what you wanna do, with what you need to do. Nose, caught after about 4h - 7h: Snifter: confectionary shop, next to it a market - stall with Arabic dips, dates, candied ginger, coconut and other dried fruits. Dough. Milk chocolate and a bag of trail mix. Blhas: pencil shavings, sawdust. Dried porcini mushrooms. Wild boars feasting truffle mushrooms dressed with balsamic and soy dressing, plus fermenting dark fruit on forest floor. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, and I'm the only one of us who can't fly. Apple juice, tobacco lit from about 10m away. Woooooonderful. Someone Thinks They're Too Clever For Us. They All Think That At First. Dunnage Warehouse, old books in the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana. Startled wild horses gallop across the moss. Saddle leather, sweat, black tea Ceylon. Mouth after 4½ h: varies according to pre-wetting. Sometimes milk
chocolate, sometimes bittersweet. Often smooth. Oh, I'm In So Much Trouble. Creamy sweets, espresso macchiato at its best. Pepper. Amazing, now and then bright juices like apple. Fnish: warming, Kentucky Hugh or just hot soy broth depending on the weather. Incessant. Friends Tell Friends The Truth. Exactly - somehow knowing, beginning to understand. Only what. Oily, mouth coating. "Hit Me And Let Me Prove You Wrong." - Mark. 

97 / 100

Glenfarclas 1990 S22 WB: 222589

Glenfarclas 1990

The moon rises, night is settling over life, into the glass viscously flows the precious oil even darker, spreads into your heart and thoughts. In the background Amy Winehouse whispers 'Blaaack, Black,
black. This is what I live for, that is what I’m looking for, this is what I give the shirt off my back for, I'm addicted to this dark mysterious potion. To get excited about it ---is a loosing game. Should I go to Rehab But I say nooo, no, no...The ritual must begin, let go of all thoughts. Inhale, exhale, the price! Okey - that's seppuku, doing it later. As Amy performs in top form, the GF1990 S22 calms down in the glass, watching humbly and knowingly. Preparing my palate with the GF1991 S22, an incredibly elegant malt, but the GF1990 is a completely different world, speaking of my astral journey is about to begin. How quickly 3 hours can pass, but I can't think of any terms for this. From a rating beyond 96, my olfactory cortex refuses to connect with the honourable cognitive lobes.  Neocortex, amygdala, striatum in top form, but the cerebral cortex is awash with Wittgensteinian neurotransmitters, which I can't talk about, shall I keep quiet. There's enough dopamine - if it weren't for seppuku, which brings tears to my eyes and makes my D-level drop. The nose: a haiku, incomprehensible yet beautiful, mysterious and captivating. Today I could die - I will, later. What's keeping me in this world, anyway? Amy did everything right. Wait! A drop of this heavenly drink holds me, says: Stay! Mouth: When Bodhisattvas declare enlightenment - a koan. The finish is sweet poison, eternally long, every millisecond a universe passes, the Almighty touches your heart - all will be well. The closer you get to the magic mark of 100, everything dissolves into blurriness, Heisenberg sends his regards, Schrödinger drinks with his cat. Causality no longer exists; I name dried porcini mushrooms, dark fruit, but these are just letters - don't come close to reflecting what I feel. I write toffee and tobacco in the nose, dark chocolate in the mouth and espresso in the finish. But I couldn't have found more irrelevant words. How do you describe a symphony in A minor and D major at the same time, piano and forte, largo and presto? Filigree strings despite timpani and trumpets, melancholy oboe accompanied by sad clarinets, double basses massive, violin gossamer and a timidly plucked guitar and harp complete the picture. Every day different, every day a new page. Now and then a soprano belts out an aria. Amy is quiet now. The glass is empty. Somewhere in the house, Einaudi Una Mattina. Life, sometimes sad, goes on after all. "I don't ever wanna drink again I just, ooh, I just need a friend." - Amy Winehouse

97 ( - 98)/ 100