The DÙghall
of mud city
a single malt scotch whiskey diary
Written by Joshua M. Sparks
Photographed by Sis Byers
5.24.26 10 am ~ The Accordion by the Sea
My favorite part of Taxi Driver is when Bickle steps straight into one of those classic first date snafus and takes object of affection Cybill Shepherd to an XXX screening (no, not to one of the innumerous Fast and Furious sequels; to a porno) - then, as she's storming out of the theater, her dreams of an elegant evening dashed, he hustles after her, apologizing for his aesthetic lapse with the refreshingly earnest annotation, "I know I don't know a lot about movies."
She basically tells him to get lost, and (the final insult) hails a different taxi.
Well, my loyal Cybills, before we get too deep into this column, allow me this disclaimer, which I fear may shock you: I don't know a lot about scotch.
I have no claim to expertise; I haven't undergone the tutelage of some wackily intense mentor, months spent shivering in a Himalayan cave - just me, a blindfold and a glen cairn, and J.K. Simmons in a tight black t-shirt slapping me in the ass with a crash cymbal.
I lack even Bickle's street smart "Wizard," a gritty 70's-era Peter Boyle to lay upon me life's deeper philosophical quandaries over pie and watery coffee.
I'm merely the 2026, Chicago equivalent of De Niro's hapless hired hack - save that the fictional Bickle's seedy Manhattan lifestyle is really much more rich than mine. My qualifications can be boasted by 97% of the people reading this article: I have a nose, a tongue, a throat, and a laptop. You really don't even need intestines for this gig.
Essentially, the only reason you're reading my lurid deconstructions are - again, the nose the tongue the throat the laptop - but, ultimately, that I bother. For, what has the magician truly cultivated to earn the rapturous ovation for his three-dimensional trompe-l'œils other than that he hides away somewhere and practices.
Entry #2
Tonight's Scotch. Laphroaig - Càirdeas - Cask Favorites - Aged 10 Years
Pronunciation. Easy - La-FROYG. (It's on the bottle.) Not easy - KAR-jus. (Not fair, not on the bottle.) Gaelic for "friendship." See pronunciation guide.
Distillery. La-FROYG.
Location. Islay.
Location pronunciation. EYE-luh
Notable Fact. 2024 (I think) bottling of annual (I think!) Càirdeas series.
Cask Finish(es). A single malt blend of 2019 Triple Wood / 2021 PX.
Price Point. Ambiguous. $70 - $90.
Glassware. Glencairn Snifter.
Tasting Room. My front cement porch. Night.
Temperature. 80's high. 60's low. That's hot for May in Chicago, folks. World not ended, but ending hot. But at 11 pm, there's a cool roving wind through the leaves hovering over my second story vantage point, the tag on the chair cushion blowing around like it's selling cars to no one.
Record. Kenny Dorham "Jazz Contrasts" - the one where he had the balls to get both Sonny Rollins and a harpist.
Color. Church Pew Brown.
Nose. Cigar box. Leather banana peel. Red brick. Again, church pew.
Taste. You ever suck on a church pew? So that. Plus, mole on fish. Not sure which fish. Salt, but not just salt, salt like that time last July I almost drowned in a (freshwater, ironically) lake, after jumping from a dock in midwest vacation mecca Door County, WI, having grossly over/underestimated my ability to swim/undiagnosed energy deficiency, respectively. As I splashed about stupidly, children swimming circles around my seal-like body, the water chopped into my mouth as my arms became leaden, useless. While my wife swam me to shore, I continued shamelessly dragging her under with the girth of my life's excesses -- pastries, pizzas, whiskeys. Hoagie sandwiches, gyros, pastas. Whole chickens. Fried chickens. Pies. Cheeseburgers. Cakes, so many cakes. My arm slung heavily over her shoulder, I wager that all the times I finished her plates at restaurants flashed before her eyes. As I came to on the sand, a faint accordion from a musician down the boardwalk rose me from the depths of a black tunnel I felt compelled to float toward. That day, that musician, arguably more so than my wife, saved me from my final fate. ...Also, grilled seaweed. Charred bourbon barrel. Old record store.
Today, I'd like to introduce a NEW EXCITING FEATURE to my scotch reviews:
Taste . . . with single added water drop.
Water administration method. Finger, dipped just into skin of surface of purified water source, then once wagged over scotch glass. (Errant second drop made it in.)
Nose. More vanilla, with furnished barn. Sea air from over grassy field. (Not sure which grass breed -- perhaps St. Augustine?) Sock - clean sock! Dagnabbit: plain, simple peanuts.
Taste. Capers (and peanuts). Trout piccata. Drizzled burnt caramel. A little hot lace. (Go with me.) A hint of pen ink. (You went with "church pews!”) So, in other words, just like the label says: "fruit, ginger, peat."
Finish. Hot lingering catcher's mitt. (Rawlings, brown, 1987 vintage.)
Notes on notes. Now, I've tasted some previous Càirdeas releases, several, even. But I can't remember any of them, ok? I'm not made of money, and I don't sit around taking tasting notes, absent Ms. Blair's directives. So, without the benefit of direct comparison, I'll say, while this isn't my favorite Càirdeas, it's more than well worth having a bottle (or two), and, in fact, the more I try, the more enthusiastic I get -- and it might be my favorite Càirdeas release.
Mr. Sparks returns next week with a new episode and tasting notes.
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