Whisky Tasting Quotes

All worries are less with wine.

Hunger gives flavour to the food.

Some people when they see cheese, chocolate or cake they don't think of calories.

You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris- no wild yearning for the unattainable. Harris never "weeps, he knows not why." If Harris's eyes fill with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has been eating raw onions, or has put too much Worcester over his chop. If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore with Harris, and say: "Hark! do you not hear? Is it but the mermaids singing deep below the waving waters; or sad spirits, chanting dirges for white corpses held by seaweed?" Harris would take you by the arm, and say: "I know what it is, old man; you've got a chill. Now you come along with me. I know a place round the corner here, where you can get a drop of the finest Scotch whisky you ever tasted- put you right in less than no time." Harris always does know a place round the corner where you can get something brilliant in the drinking line. I believe that if you met Harris up in Paradise (supposing such a thing likely), he would immediately greet you with: "So glad you've come, old fellow; I've found a nice place round the corner here, where you can get some really first-class nectar.

That night, Tom took a bottle of whisky, and went to watch the stars from near the cliff. The breeze played on his face as he traced the constellations, and tasted the burn of the liquid. He turned his attention to the rotation of the beam, and gave a bitter laugh at the thought that the dip of the light meant that the island itself was always left in darkness. A lighthouse is for others; powerless to illuminate the space closest to it.

Ah, thank you,' said Ford. He and Arthur took their jynnan tonnyx. Arthur sipped his, and was surprised to discover it tasted very like a whisky and soda.

He flipped her on her back and she squeaked. “I want to see you.” And he kissed her, tasting like darkest sin, like double chocolate without insulin, like pure malt whisky injected into her bloodstream.

Girls like her, my grandfather once warned me, girls like her turn into women with eyes like bullet holes and mouths made of knives. They are always restless. They are always hungry. They are bad news. They will drink you down like a shot of whisky. Falling in love with them is like falling down a flight of stairs. What no one told me, with all those warnings, is that even after you’ve fallen, even after you know how painful it is, you’d still get in line to do it again. A girl like that, Grandad said, perfumes herself with ozone and metal filings. She wears trouble like a crown. If she ever falls in love, she’ll fall like a comet, burning the sky as she goes. She was the epic crush of my childhood. She was the tragedy that made me look inside myself and see my corrupt heart. She was my sin and my salvation, come back from the grave to change me forever. Again. Back then, when she sat on my bed and told me she loved me, I wanted her as much as I have ever wanted anything. There are no words for how much I will miss her, but I try to kiss her so that she’ll know. I try to kiss her to tell her the whole story of my love, the way I dreamed of her when she was dead, the way that every other girl seemed like a mirror that showed me her face. The way my skin ached for her. The way that kissing her made me feel like I was drowning and like I was being saved all at the same time. I hope she can taste all that, bittersweet, on my tongue.

You have to try everything, for consumerist man is haunted by the fear of 'missing' something, some form of enjoyment or other. You never know whether a particular encounter, a particular experience (Christmas in the Canaries, eel in whisky, the Prado, LSD, Japanese-style love-making) will not elicit some 'sensation'. It is no longer desire, or even 'taste', or a specific inclination that are at stake, but a generalized curiosity, driven by a vague sense of unease - it is the 'fun morality' or the imperative to enjoy oneself, to exploit to the full one's potential for thrills pleasure or gratification.

Ordering drinks always floored me. I didn't know whisky from gin and never managed to get anything I really liked the taste of. Buddy Willard and the other college boys I knew were usually too poor to buy hard liquor or they scorned drinking altogether. It's amazing how many college boys don't drink or smoke. I seemed to know them all. The farthest Buddy Willard ever went was buying us a bottle of Dubonnet, which he only did because he was trying to prove he could be aesthetic in spite of being a medical student. "I'll have a vodka," I said. The man looked at me more closely. "With anything?" "Just plain," I said. "I always have it plain." I thought I might make a fool of myself by saying I'd have it with ice or gin or anything. I'd seen a vodka ad once, just a glass full of vodka standing in the middle of a snowdrift in a blue light, and the vodka looked clear and pure as water, so I thought having vodka plain must be all right. My dream was someday ordering a drink and finding out it tasted wonderful.

She has fancy taste; she loves to show off everything she knows about scotch (she only calls it “whisky,” and sometimes “whisky from the Highlands”),

He tasted of whisky and his skin was rough where he hadn’t shaved, but Mirabelle kissed him back.

The man in the dark suit sips his Laphroaig and water, savoring the marshy taste, the body-in-the-bog quality of the whisky.

Also I wanted the whisky for itself, because I loved the taste of it and because, being as happy as I could be, it made me feel even better.

Ordering drinks always floored me. I didn't know whisky from gin and never managed to get anything I really liked the taste of.

I wiped the blade against my jeans and walked into the bar. It was mid-afternoon, very hot and still. The bar was deserted. I ordered a whisky. The barman looked at the blood and asked: ‘God?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘S’pose it’s time someone finished that hypocritical little punk, always bragging about his old man’s power…’ He smiled crookedly, insinuatingly, a slight nausea shuddered through me. I replied weakly: ‘It was kind of sick, he didn’t fight back or anything, just kept trying to touch me and shit, like one of those dogs that try to fuck your leg. Something in me snapped, the whingeing had ground me down too low. I really hated that sanctimonious little creep.’ ‘So you snuffed him?’ ‘Yeah, I’ve killed him, knifed the life out of him, once I started I got frenzied, it was an ecstasy, I never knew I could hate so much.’ I felt very calm, slightly light-headed. The whisky tasted good, vaporizing in my throat. We were silent for a few moments. The barman looked at me levelly, the edge of his eyes twitching slightly with anxiety: There’ll be trouble though, don’tcha think?’ ‘I don’t give a shit, the threats are all used up, I just don’t give a shit.’ ‘You know what they say about his old man? Ruthless bastard they say. Cruel…’ ‘I just hope I’ve hurt him, if he even exists.’ ‘Woulden wanna cross him merself,’ he muttered. I wanted to say ‘yeah, well that’s where we differ’, but the energy for it wasn’t there. The fan rotated languidly, casting spidery shadows across the room. We sat in silence a little longer. The barman broke first: ‘So God’s dead?’ ‘If that’s who he was. That fucking kid lied all the time. I just hope it’s true this time.’ The barman worked at one of his teeth with his tongue, uneasily: ‘It’s kindova big crime though, isn’t it? You know how it is, when one of the cops goes down and everything’s dropped ’til they find the guy who did it. I mean, you’re not just breaking a law, your breaking LAW.’ I scraped my finger along my jeans, and suspended it over the bar, so that a thick clot of blood fell down into my whisky, and dissolved. I smiled: ‘Maybe it’s a big crime,’ I mused vaguely ‘but maybe it’s nothing at all…’ ‘…and we have killed him’ writes Nietzsche, but—destituted of community—I crave a little time with him on my own. In perfect communion I lick the dagger foamed with God’s blood.

Salmon with whisky-maple glaze, surrounded by a trio of colors- peas with mint, carrots with maple and thyme, and neeps and tatties with nutmeg and parsley. Green, orange, white. And we can put the salmon on a bed of risotto and mushrooms.

In Taipei we had oyster omelets and stinky tofu at Shilin Night Market and discovered what is arguably the world's greatest noodle soup, Taiwanese beef noodle, chewy flour noodles served with hefty chunks of stewed shank and a meaty broth so rich it's practically a gravy. In Beijing we trekked a mile in six inches of snow to eat spicy hot pot, dipping thin slivers of lamb, porous wheels of crunchy lotus root, and earthy stems of watercress into bubbling, nuclear broth packed with chiles and Sichuan peppercorns. In Shanghai we devoured towers of bamboo steamers full of soup dumplings, addicted to the taste of the savory broth gushing forth from soft, gelatinous skins. In Japan we slurped decadent tonkotsu ramen, bit cautiously into steaming takoyaki topped with dancing bonito flakes and got hammered on whisky highballs.

Banksie, hi. What you up to?' 'Well, I'm going to be writing a book about whisky.' 'You're what?' 'I'm going to be writing a book about whisky. I've been, umm, you know, commissioned. To write a book about it. About whisky. Malt whisky, actually.' 'You're writing a book about whisky?' 'Yeah. It means I have to go all over Scotland, driving mostly, but taking other types of transport - ferries, planes, trains, that sort of thing - visiting distilleries and tasting malt whisky. With expenses, obviously.' 'You serious?' 'Course I'm serious!' 'Really?' 'Oh yeah.' '... Do you need any help with this?

Islay whisky starts as hot as the devil's whisper... but then the flavors come through, and it might taste of cinnamon, or peat, or honeycomb fresh from the hive. It could taste of a long ago walk on a winter's eve... or a kiss you once stole from your sweetheart in the hayloft. Whisky is yesterday's rain, distilled with barley into a vapor that rises like a will-o'-the-wisp, then set to bide its time in casks of good oak." His voice had turned as soft as a curl of smoke. "Someday we'll have a whisky, you and I. We'll toast health to our friends and peace to our foes... and we'll drink to the loves lost to time's perishing, as well as those yet to come.

Jim Beam is made with rye, barley and a while 75 per cent of maize which gives bourbon the sweet, round taste that marks it out from straight whisky. The water in Jim Beam comes from a source near the distillery in Clermont, Kentucky, where they also make the special yeast that some people maintain is taken from the same recipe Jacob Bean used in 1795.

I stay seated, watch them turn and turn and turn before the fire, which never ceases to burn. I bring his still smoking cigarette to my lips. Drink his whisky, which tastes like an actual bonfire by the North Sea. Watch their souls entangle like squid tentacles. I am horrified. I am mesmerized. I am embarrassed in ways I cannot explain. I am also increasingly drunk and can't stop looking. At the way he looks at her. The way she looks at him. I drink the bonfire he pours and pours for me.

Standing at the bar, he watched the bartender pour another shot. He downed it in a single gulp. The alcohol scalded his oesophagus and landed like a fireball in his belly. He’d never developed a taste for even the top-shelf whiskies, but this wasn’t about pleasure. It was about getting through another day without blowing his brains out.... He knew mixing prescription drugs with alcohol was stupid and pathetic and that some day Fate would make him pay. Sooner or later, she always got her due. But he didn’t think that cruel bitch could do anything worse than what she’d already done. In some sick way, it was a comforting thought.

Why should creatures have the burden of existence forced on them without consent? … It is true that when a pessimist’s life is threatened he behaves like other men; his impulse to preserve life is stronger than his judgement that life is not worth preserving. But how does this prove that the judgement was insincere or even erroneous? A man’s judgement that whisky is bad for him is not invalidated by the fact that when the bottle is at hand he finds desire stronger than reason and succumbs. Having once tasted life, we are subjected to the impulse of self-preservation. … I should hold that this impulse to retain life aggravates the injustice.

The rain beat against the windows and against the tin roof of the hotel. It came down in hissing roars, then in whispers, then in loud shishes like sandpaper rubbed against wood. She drank the second glassful, climbed off the bed and began undressing, and then we were together, the cheap naked bulb still blazing down on the bed. Thinking back, I remember the stupidest things; the way there was a taut crease just above her hips, in the small of her back. The way she smelled like a baby's breath, a sweet barely there smell that retreated and retreated, so that no matter how close you got to it you weren't sure it was there. The brown speckles in the lavender-gray eyes, floating very close to the surface when I kissed her, the eyes wide open and aware. But not caring. The eyes of a gourmet offered a stale chunk of bread, using it of necessity but not tasting it any more than necessary. I remember getting up and coming back to her, and of throwing a shoe at the light bulb, later, when the whisky was gone. I remember the smell of rain-darkness in the room and her telling me I'd cut my feet on the light-bulb glass on the floor. And how she said I was no better than a tramp myself, that I made love to the cadence of the raingusts on the roof, and it was true I was doing just that, but it seemed the natural thing then. And I felt so marvelously clean and soaped and so in tune with the whole damned universe that I had the feeling I could have clouded up and rained and lightninged myself, and blown that cheese-colored room to smithereens.

You... you were telling me about your diet?" "Well, mostly I was raised on milk, potatoes, dulse, fish-" "I beg your pardon, did you say 'dulse'? What is that, exactly?" "A kind of seaweed," MacRae said. "As a lad, it was my job to go out at low tide before supper and cut handfuls of it from the rocks on shore." He opened a cupboard to view a small store of cooking supplies and utensils. "It goes in soup, or you can eat it raw." He glanced at her over his shoulder, amusement touching his lips as he saw her expression. "Seaweed is the secret to good health?" Merritt asked dubiously. "No, milady, that would be whisky. My men and I take a wee dram every day." Seeing her perplexed expression, her continued, "Whisky is the water of life. It warms the blood, keeps the spirits calm, and the heart strong." "I wish I liked whisky, but I'm afraid it's not to my taste." MacRae looked appalled. "Was it Scotch whisky?" "I'm not sure," she said. "Whatever it was, it set my tongue on fire." "It was no' Scotch, then, but rotgut. Islay whisky starts as hot as the devil's whisper... but then the flavors come through, and it might taste of cinnamon, or peat, or honeycomb fresh from the hive. It could taste of a long-ago walk on a winter's eve... or a kiss you once stole from your sweetheart in the hayloft. Whisky is yesterday's rain, distilled with barley into a vapor that rises like a will-o'-the-wisp, then set to bide its time in casks of good oak." His voice had turned as soft as a curl of smoke. "Someday we'll have a whisky, you and I. We'll toast health to our friends and peace to our foes... and we'll drink to the loves lost to time's perishing, as well as those yet to come.

In the years that followed I worked as much as I could filling my empty hours with theatres and alcohol. I found I had grown to like the taste. Maybe that was a lie. I never liked the taste except maybe of whisky. I drank it none the less and it numbed any feelings I had for a time. In my sober hours I was introduced to ‘The Order of the Red Dragon’ a little at a time.

So what's on the menu?" "We soak prunes in whisky and tea, dip them in honey, and stuff them with walnuts. These are mixed with sausage for the stuffing. I usually soak the prunes for several days, but we'll make do." "My God. That sounds fabulous." Elliott nodded, but said nothing. He was staring at her intently. "And..." "And..." What was he waiting for? He started to fiddle with the pencil. Finally she realized he was waiting for her input! He had no idea how to banter back-and-forth or to brainstorm creatively. She broke the awkward silence. "Elliott, are you waiting for my suggestions for dinner?" "Aye. I'm waiting." "I think... we should go with the honey." "I use heather honey in North Berwick. But I'm sure the honey here will be fine." "My favorite is from the Akins Apiary. They have delicious apple honey. It's rare, but I'll see if they have some in the pantry." "Excellent. What... what else do you like about the honey?" Sophia tried not to laugh out loud at Elliott's stilted and awkward attempt at conversation. The give-and-take was clearly not a natural process for him. "Let's use the honey in all our dishes. How about roasted vegetables in a balsamic-honey dressing? With thyme? I think rutabaga and turnips would be a nice side for the turkey." He scratched something on his tablet. "Keep going." "And how about a bitter green salad? Maybe arugula and dandelion greens with a honey vinaigrette That will cut the richness of the bird." Elliott nodded. "I like both of those ideas. This meal will showcase the best of both of us... a traditional Scottish roast bird and various preparations for the vegetables and greens.

She lifted a piece of sourdough bruschetta slathered with seafood and a light-colored sauce. She bit carefully into the creation. Her mouth exploded with flavor. Prawns and lobster swimming in the most delectable sauce. Buttery and layered, with whisky and leeks and onions and simple herbs. Sophia moaned. There was more than just one bite on this plate. Thank God. Not strictly a true amuse-bouche, but Sophia didn't care. Was it bad form to lick the plate in a cooking competition? This drab little plate had miraculously fixed her taste bud deficiency. Unbelievable. The moment had just shifted from black-and-white to color, like a scene from the Wizard of Oz. Who had created this dish? Someone with a sophisticated palate but no eye for visual presentation. The last plate beckoned, but she already knew it was a lost cause. There was no way it could best that seafood stew. It was a lovely crepe, packed with grilled eggplant and goat cheese. And now that Sophia's taste had been awakened from hibernation, she was able to enjoy every bite. But it still wasn't enough to out-shine the prawns. Those prawns sang to her, and they needed her. They demanded color and brightness. The sauce was bold and rich. That plate clamored for the balance of her garden. She could imagine a prickly little salad to offer texture and bite, to complement that exquisite sauce. Those prawns needed her.

He tastes of whisky, and warm, welcoming male. The way he dominates my mouth with his own makes my body quiver. Tongues entwining, it’s a battle for supremacy. One I won’t give up easily. Groaning in approval, I smile against his lips. “Ten out of ten for kissing.” “Oh, I think you’d enjoy what else I can do with my mouth.” His self-assured tone makes my core clench with need. Tonight, is my lucky night.

His arms came around her, he pulled her against his chest, and his mouth touched hers, more gently than she had kissed him, but with a hunger even she could feel. His lips were warm and soft, then demanding. She curled her fingers in the open laces of his shirt, grazed the skin of his chest with her nails, felt the beat of his heart. He ran his tongue over the seam of her lips, and when she gasped, he invaded her open mouth. The sensation of his tongue against hers, the whisky taste of him, sent a thrill coursing through her. She made a sound of amazement, kissed him back, following his lead. He smelled of wool and sea wind. She slid her hands around his neck, wove them into his thick, soft hair, stood on her toes, and pressed herself closer against the hard length of his body, wanting more. He made a small sound in his throat and deepened the kiss, sliding his hands up the curve of her back to pull her nearer still, cupping her head while he plundered her mouth like a pirate, It was how she dreamed a kiss would be - hot, sweet, tingly, and utterly overwhelming. She couldn't think, couldn't stop.

Canadian whisky is, by and large, a blended whisky, with two major components. There is the base whisky, a spirit that has been distilled to a very high proof, around 94 percent alcohol. Then there is the flavoring whisky, a lower-proof distillate.

The Maze was built were dark from the earlier rain, and a hint of peat smoke drifted through the air from the distant cottages. It made Banks think of Laphroaig, and he wondered if he might regain his taste for Islay malt whisky before long.

As more people made it, and drank it, and said it, usquebaugh, pronounced (roughly) “ish-ka b’ah,” got shortened to just “ish-ka” and then twisted a bit to “whisky”; listening to anyone who’s had a few too many drams makes it easy to understand how that could happen.

His lips covered hers and turned potent and possessive. His mouth tasted of berries, honey, and a tang of whisky. It was a combination a woman could succumb to without a moment's hesitation - succumb to and be seduced by.

the closure of Irish whiskey’s two biggest markets and the general restriction of trade from the two world wars, combined with most Irish distillers’ steadfast refusal to adopt the milder blended style of Scotch whisky, pushed Irish distilling to the brink in the 1960s. The remaining distillers in the Republic merged in 1966 to form Irish Distillers Ltd. They built a modern joint distillery in Midleton in 1975, and 11 years later they bought out Bushmills in the north. All Irish whiskey was now made by one company — one company, against the world.

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Scotch Whisky Single Malt: This Scotch can only contain malted barley and water, must be the product of one distillery and aged in wood for at least three years. However, single malts can contain a mix of different distillations, casks, and years. This allows brands like a twelve-year-old Glenlivet to maintain consistency and always taste the same, no matter when it’s bottled. Single Grain: Like single malt, this Scotch is a product of one distillery but can be made from other grains and/or unmalted barley. It is used mainly for blending and rarely sold on its own, though it is becoming more popular as whisky connoisseurship increases. Blended Malt: This style, consisting of a mix of single malts from different distilleries, is not common. Blended Grain: This style uses a mix of single grains from different distilleries and is also not common. Blended Scotch: The most popular style in the world, including nondistillery names such as Johnnie Walker (red, black, and blue), Chivas Regal, Dewar’s, Ballantine’s, Cutty Sark, and so on. These are blends of single malts and grain whiskies from different distilleries, sometimes dozens. Vintage Year: While there are really no “vintages” in the sense of better or worse harvests, as with wine, bottles with a year on the label can only contain whiskies made in that year. This will usually taste different from the same distillery’s standard single malt—different but not necessarily better or as good.

Good friends and good whiskey are a great thing, and they’re all a bit different. When I think of nights drinking bourbon, I think of laughter and card playing. When I think of nights drinking Scotch, I think of music and, more often than not, talking about whisky. But when I think of the nights I’ve enjoyed Irish whiskey, what I think of are stories.

out her clothes – old canvas trousers and a rough shirt – and carried them into the bathroom. She showered quickly, hoping she wouldn’t wake anyone in the house, dressed and padded downstairs, softly like a burglar, a shoe in each hand. She made coffee and toast and sat at the table. Normally she might have walked out and bought a newspaper and read it with her breakfast. She might have listened to the radio. This morning she just drank her coffee and took one bite of the toast, which tasted like old leather, and stared into space. She had two mugs of coffee and threw the toast in the bin. She thought of the people sleeping in the house and then she thought of Whisky in his hutch out in the garden. The hammer. She went out into the garden where a light drizzle was falling and picked a handful of dandelion leaves from the lawn, which was in bad need of mowing. She opened the door of the hutch and threw them in. Whisky emerged from the inside of the hutch and began to munch on them. She reached past him and retrieved the hammer from under the straw. She walked back into the kitchen and laid it on the table. What should she do? Her immediate thought was to dispose of it. Surely that would be easy. She could put it into a litter bin or throw it into some bushes in a park or into a canal. It felt wrong, of course, but she had done so much destruction of evidence. Why not just do a little more? But this was the actual object that was used to kill Saul. Maybe, just maybe, it might be needed. After all, the murderer was still out there. She stared at it. Mabel had taken it. And Mabel had kept it. Why?

Everyone has secrets. Everyone has something they regret. Or someone. A song will remind you. The sour taste of whisky. Your mother’s wrinkles on your hand. But some secrets can bind us together, a gay lover’s trust, a family’s Santa story, one friend who listens. Some secrets are kept secret out of love. This is why I give you this book.

I hadn’t actually tasted whisky before and I never will again. How people can drink it for pleasure I don’t know. If it was in a medicine bottle they would pour it down the sink!

You don't develop a taste for whisky until the burn of your life makes the burn of the whisky pale in comparison.

We’re very catholic in our tastes,” said Mrs. Allerton. “You drink wine always; Tim drinks whisky and soda, and I try all the different brands of mineral water in turn.

We talk and talk about things that only matter when you’re six beers deep and ready for a whisky.

1001 Whiskies, Jura Wine, North American Pinot Noir, The Wines of Burgundy, Wine Atlas of Germany, To Burgundy and Back Again, A Short History of Wine, Cellarmasters in the Kitchen, Reading Between the Vines, and, the lone exception

After my father's passing, my men and I took inventory at the distillery and found a hidden cellar where he'd stashed a hogshead of single malt. It had been sitting there untouched for forty years." Keir uncorked one of the miniature bottles and poured the amber liquid into a glass. "We finished it in first-fill sherry quarter casks for a year, bottled it, and named it Ulaidh Lachlan- Lachlan's Treasure- in honor of my father." "How many bottles in total?" "Two hundred ninety-nine," Keir replied. Hoagland swirled the whisky in the glass, moved it close to his nose, and inhaled deeply. He took a taste, paying attention to the soft, rolling feel of it in his mouth. The subtle variations of his expression revealed the progression of flavors... the opening of dry, dusty wood and salt brine, like lifting the lid of a pirate's treasure chest... the richness of bread pudding... finishing with a surprising meringue lightness and a touch of smoke.

Whisky has always tasted like introspection to me, a quiet moment after taking a sip, the lingering aftertaste, inviting you to ponder upon the flavours on your tongue.

I hear you have a special drink in your country called "Whisky" ! It has been the ambition of my life to taste this.

Thick, pale golden juice burst like a tiny rain cloud, tart as a lime and sweet as a peach on my tongue. Full-bodied. A trickle dripped down my index finger, caught just in time, too prized to go to waste. I let Darwin lick it. The real thing, its brilliant sweetness, eaten miles from human habitation, acted as an intoxicating potion. Immediately, its taste unlocked the gates to other northern lands and, as the last of the sweet-sour flavor fizzed out on my tongue, overlaying images sped joyfully through my mind: birch forests, mountains, glittering lakes, snowy trains, windswept taiga. I lingered over that single cloudberry, cherishing it, more than caviar, more than whisky or truffles, more than anything else I had ever eaten, smoked or drunk before. Once it had gone, I felt only a little grief, convincing myself that the cloudberry-- surely the ultimate 'taste of place'-- was somehow a gift; I felt I had consumed its very northernness. It brought back the similar sensations of eating a pear in an orchard, a melon in a melon field, an apple in a grove, though nothing could really compare.