First, an overly-long introduction! Please feel free to skip down to “Octomore 13.2: the actual review part” if you just want to know what I think; otherwise, you’re in for an in-depth description of why I think whisky reviews are mostly crap. You’ve been warned!
I’ve been wanting to try my hand at a whisky review for a while, but honestly I find most reviews to be… kind of confusing. Every time I try a whisky I diligently write down notes about the experience.
I spend several minutes carefully inhaling noseful after noseful, struggling to separate odors from the whisky into concrete flavors that I can describe. Once I’ve convinced myself that I’ve been able to extract “notes of ripe stone fruit” or something similar, I move on to tasting it only to once again wrestle with the concept of taking a flavor that my brain identifies as “whisky” and tease out multiple distinct components.
When I’m done, I take a few moments to try and actually focus on the whisky itself, which by this point it honestly feels like maybe I’ve neglected. I then look at my notes, trying to decide if I’m finally starting to get the hang of it, or if I’m just fooling myself.
Inevitably, doubt sets in and I resolve to “cheat”, and compare my notes to the tasting notes of others who presumably know what the hell they’re doing and aren’t just bluffing their way through the process.
Instant regret. Every. Single. Time.
I never get it right.
Lagavulin’s Offerman Edition? Instead of “Pungent, peaty, woody and spicy. Flavours of cocoa and sweet berry notes. Chocolatey and warming on the palate with a lingering and spicy finish,” I got “copper and peach with bandaids. Tar, salt, and apples.”
Lagavulin’s 12 Year Special Release 2021? The distiller describes it as “Mild, drying and soon, wonderfully aromatic; clean, fresh and maritime, with top notes of sea air and Himalayan salt, supported by fragrant smoke-dried Lapsang Souchong tea, mineral salts and light cleansing salve. Beneath these lie drier notes of cocoa powder and dried seaweed, with a squeeze of lemon zest, this salty sweetness imbued with wood-smoke from a distant bonfire on the shore.”. Me? I got “leather and peat with black pepper and sugar cookies.”
Its enough to make me feel like perhaps I’m suffering from some rare genetic disorder that results in my only having a small percentage of the taste buds gifted to others.
Except… maybe, just maybe, I’m not the only one trying to bluff my way through this. Maybe everyone else writing these reviews (or at least a large portion of them) is just, for lack of a better term… bullshitting their way through the process?
I started looking through reviews on whiskybase and other places, looking for patterns among reviews for specific bottlings. I haven’t found any. One reviewer will call out the “strong notes of red fruit”. Another will talk about pineapple, peach, orange and mango (none of which are red). A third reviewer will describe it as bacon and caramel.
Maybe I was onto something with this all being a bunch of bullshit? The more reviews I read, the more I was convinced. What else should I think when one reviewer describes the nose of Octomore 13.2 as “chic, blackberry, sweet dark fruit tones … so sweet, honey undertones, heavy tar on a hot railroad”, another says “leather and flavored tobacco, raisin bread, plums, dried figs. A note of peat smoke that is not too clear wafts over it. Seems naturally sweet, but not sweet yet,” and still a third says “Honey, citrus and salty, dirty with cow sh*t on a farm land, grassy, tart.”
So Octomore 13.2 is sweet, but not sweet, smells like fruit, but also smells like cow shit?
Then I saw a review where the nose was described as “precious stone, jasper, quartz, tourmaline” and the palate as " the impression of tasting diamonds".
Okay, that settles it. I’m sorry, but that’s just nonsense. I’ve done some rockhounding, so I’m well aware that tasting rocks is a thing, but you cannot tell me that any scotch smells like jasper, quartz, and tourmaline and expect me to take you even remotely seriously. Okay, wait. Maybe I’m just being close-minded. Maybe I should sniff some of my rocks before judging, just to make sure. I’ll be right back.
Nope. I just checked. My tourmaline smells exactly the same as my jasper. My quartz actually had a slightly iron smell to it, but that’s still an iron smell. Not a quartz smell.
So, anyway, the gist of all of this is that I no longer care if I get it “right”. Plus I’m no longer convinced that reviews that call out “tasting notes” are meaningful. What good does it do for someone wanting to try a new scotch if I tell them I taste campfire and oysters, but they take it home and taste strawberries and a chocolate-covered hamburger?
Thus, my first review.
Now that I’ve got all that out of the way, here’s what I actually think about Octomore 13.2.
Octomore 13.2: the actual review part!
I’d be remiss if I didn’t start by providing some facts about this drink.
Produced by Bruichladdich Progressive Hebridean Distillers, Octomore 13.2 is a “super heavily peated” expression of Islay malt at 137.3 PPM. It is bottled at near cask strength, with a 58.3% alcohol content. It is a five-year-old spirit that spent its entire life maturing in Olorosa butts from Fernando de Castilla, Spain. Basically, it’s the same 100% Scottish mainland barley spirit from Octomore’s 13.1, peated to the same level, but aged in the Olorosa sherry casks instead of the 13.1’s American Oak casks.
Despite my skepticism over the traditional tasting descriptions, I still begin with smelling it. I poured it neat into a glencairn and let it rest for about 10-15 minutes.
My first impression was that this is very different than other whiskies I’ve had (I’ve tried most of the “standard” Islay malts from Laphoaig, Lagavulin, Ardbeg, Kilchomen, etc. ). The nose is primarily sweet, although there’s a strong wine note from the Olorosa casks. But that’s too simple of a description. There’s a lot going on in that nose. The sweetness could definitely be described as several kinds of fruit (I was reminded of plums and peach, for what little that’s worth), but I also felt there were more “refined” sugar odors mixed in. Behind all of that were odors that were more inorganic in nature. The end result was a deep, nuanced complexity that had me sniffing repeatedly just to explore everything that was offered. After several minutes of just smelling this, I felt like there was still more that I could find if I kept at it. But at this point I was impatient to taste it.
The taste did not disappoint, and was considerably more complex than the already impressive nose. Honestly, this stuff is crazy. As the nose suggests, there’s a great deal of sweetness, but there’s so much more going on here. After the initial wash of flavors I kept getting strong impressions of salty water mixed with the other flavors, but without overwhelming. What I found most surprising was the smoke and peat flavors. Despite the “super heavily peated” 137.3 ppm, the smoky flavors were shockingly well blended with the other flavors. Where Bruichladdich’s Port Charlotte 10 year uses the peat as a banner to wave in your face to remind you with every sip that you’re drinking a heavily peated Islay malt, Octomore 13.2 uses that peat as a backdrop. It is undeniably there, but it doesn’t grab your attention. Rather, you have to look for it, moving your focus away from everything else that’s going on with the flavors. My original notes from my first tasting stated “the smoke flavor seems to bridge between the fruits and the salt,” and I think that summarizes what I experienced pretty well.
The finish was a somewhat amusing experience for me, as this was the first time I was convinced I really tasted “chocolate” in a scotch. I also felt there were lingering notes of cinnamon, plum, and leather. Of course, after reading Bruichladdich’s description of the finish, I was “wrong” as usual. I should be noticing “earthy peat notes com[ing] to the fore … along with the fruit and the nutty aromatics of the oloroso casks.” A “salty tang of sea breeze” was supposed to finish it all up. But after two drinks, I still have a lingering taste of chocolate mixed in with an oily brine. More relevantly, there’s a very pleasant mouth feel that lingers for a long time after finishing.
My overall impression is that Octomore 13.2 has a tremendous depth to it, with enough complexity that I had trouble focusing on just one note at a time, instead of hunting around trying to tease out aspects of the overall flavor. The full maturation in oloroso casks provided a starkly different experience than I’ve had, even with other Islay malts finished in sherry casks. This is an entirely different beast than Kilchoman Sanaig or Ardbeg Uigeadail, for example, both of which spend time in Oloroso casks. Octomore is at a different price point than those other expressions, but in my opinion that’s entirely justified. The more I drink of this expression, the more fascinated I become by just how much is going on with it.
Thanks for the review! Definitely makes me feel better about my similar attempts at coming up with tasting notes and having them not match what others say
Welcome, and thanks for a great review! The past few Octomores that I have tried have been big, heavy, peat-filled punches in the mouth - enjoyable in their own way, but a far cry from subtle. Interesting that the 13.2 does not follow this pattern; I’ll have to look around and see if I can find one.
As someone who has spent untold hours writing hundreds of these reviews (a few of which are posted here) that probably no one agrees with, I have to say you’re thinking about tasting notes in the wrong way however. The short answer is there’s never a “correct” tasting - it’s less about writing an accurate product description and more like a film critic reviewing a movie. You describe your unique experience with the whiskey, explore what it make you think of and how it made you feel, and other readers are free to agree with some, all, or none of your conclusions.
Now for the long answer:
Let’s start with remembering what whiskey actually is. We take a variety of grains, cook them to break them down into sugars, and then feed that sugar to trillions of tiny organisms that eat sugar and crap out ethanol and some other stuff. We take that, boil off some bits that we don’t want, and slosh the good part around in some burnt wood for a while. Then we add a bit of water back in and pour it in a bottle. Maybe I think the result tastes like cinnamon cookies, but you think it tastes like dirty gym socks. The reality is neither of those things are actually in this bottle! Therefore neither of us is right; both opinions are equally valid (and equally ridiculous). Mine is just more likely to be printed on the label, which is after all a marketing tool first and foremost.
So how did we come up with such wildly different tastes? Tons of reasons, up to and including genetics. Some people famously think that cilantro tastes like soap. Women are generally more sensitive to sulfides than men and therefore less likely to enjoy dry red wine. There’s uncountable other more subtle differences based on how diets evolved over millions of years.
Perhaps more important is that we each bring our own experiences. Smell and taste are both closely linked to memory - perhaps what makes you remember your grandmother’s pecan pie makes me remember that night in college where I vomited up half a bottle of Southern Comfort. We would use very different adjectives to describe the same flavor! Similarly, your brain will make connections based on what it has seen before. Perhaps the first ever peated Islay you had, all you could taste was the smoke, but now you’re writing a complex review of a famously heavy dram. What we are currently experiencing is also important - something is going to taste very different in a smoky pub, or after a big meal, or while your seasonal allergies are acting up.
So then, are all reviews just arbitrary bullshit? Well, that might depend on how you feel about art critics! I think they drive discussion, expand horizons, and help call out subtleties and complexities that each of us may have missed in our first pass. At the very least, they can be useful in the aggregate. You might disagree with any particular review, but if everyone else is mentioning vanilla and sugar cookies and citrus in their review, you can be reasonably certain that you won’t taste dark chocolate and coffee grounds. And if you do, that says something interesting about your particular palate that you may want to explore further. And there are a few ways that we can make our reviewing experience better and less arbitrary:
First, I find a routine is important - it sounds like you may already have this part down. To limit as many confounding variables as I can, I always review by following the same steps in the same environment, in as close to the same headspace as I can be. For me that means in my office, never after eating, never while drunk but also not trusting the first sip or two as my taste buds awaken. Some folks swear by the Glencairns but I don’t personally find the type of glassware to be all that significant - if you do, that’s something else to add to the list. There are tons of resources online about the “correct” way to taste whiskey, but all that really matters is you take your time and are thoughtful about each element in turn.
Secondly, it sounds like you may be struggling to isolate or verbalize what exactly it is that you’re tasting. When that happens to me, I find a flavor wheel to be a useful tool to help narrow things down. Again there are no wrong answers here but it can help you be more specific. And don’t be discouraged if you don’t come up with 20 unique flavors - some whiskey is just naturally less complex but that doesn’t mean it’s less tasty.
Finally, experiment with side-by-side comparisons wherever possible! One of the best ways to notice new things about a whiskey is to directly compare it another of a similar profile. For instance, the Dalmore 12, 14, and 15 should in theory be quite similar, and you could probably identify any of them as being “a Dalmore”. But if you try one right after another look out - there’s no mistaking one for the others; they have wildly different profiles. Other brands take the same base whiskey and then just age it in different ways - this is a great way to isolate what flavors are coming from the malts vs the finishers.
Apologies for the novel; hopefully something in here was useful to you. I hope you stick with the hobby and look forward to reading more of your notes in the future!
Given the length of my review, there’s absolutely no need to apologize for the length of your response :) I very much appreciate you taking your time to respond and to share your experience and perspectives!
I think maybe where I struggle most is that there clearly is no such thing as a “correct” review, but then what qualifies as a useful review?
You make excellent points about the variability and subjectiveness of perception of taste (and smell!). Memory indeed plays a huge role. But so does biology. There are a number of well-documented flavors and odors that vary wildly in perception based on genetic markers. Cilantro is one of the most familiar; some people enjoy it, while others cannot ignore that it tastes so strongly like soap.
If one person tastes chocolate and another tastes gym socks for whatever reason, whether genetic or due to how our brain wires chemical associations, how do I determine which review has value to me? One way might be to look for reviews for a whisky that I’m familiar with that describe similar things to what I experience when tasting that expression, but that seems a lot of work, and still subject to vast opportunities for error. Maybe the reviewer interprets the flavors that I identify as “chocolate” the same way I do, but they view “stone fruit” vastly different than how I perceive it.
I enjoy sharing my experiences, particularly for things I love, like whisky. But I want that sharing to be as helpful and meaningful as possible. In that spirit, are there more objective markers I could cite?
I have been working on my routine, and I’m documenting my impressions across variations of that routine (for example separate tasting notes if I add a few drops of water vs if I try it neat). I also keep intending to run comparisons across multiple samples (e.g. Ardbeg 10 vs Wee Beastie), but keep getting either too absorbed in enjoying and documenting the first one to move on to the second, or too sloshed to write coherent notes :)
The flavor wheel is something I looked at previously, but struggle to understand some of it. For example, I don’t understand the relation between “spice” and “pencil rubber”. In other cases, I simply am not familiar with the outer edge choices for entire categories. For example, “iodine” is the only “medicinal” note I would say I might recognize from a blind smelling.
Again, thank you for all your feedback and advice! It is very much appreciated.
And please don’t take my use of the phrase “bullshit” to indicate derision for others’ reviews. I used that to add some levity to my review and to soften my bafflement at what I felt like I was missing in my own experiences :)
Defining a useful review is an interesting question that I can see from both sides - how do you determine which review is useful to you, and how do you write your reviews to be more useful for others?
If you have a buddy you share drinks with, you find out pretty quickly whether you are on the same page and have similar tastes. Therefore, his review will have more (or less) value to you than most others, simply through time and experience. For a random guy on the internet, it is much harder to build that rapport. You could follow a specific blogger or a celebrity distiller (for instance, I’m fairly confident I will enjoy any project Jim Rutledge is involved with, his stuff is always right up my alley). More likely though this is where quantity of reviews matters more. If one guy says something, it’s hearsay. If ten guys say it, they might be on to something. (If the distiller says it, he’s probably trying to sell you something.) Finally, I know myself and certain words will pique my interest no matter where there come from. Mint, citrus, and pine nuts are all words that point towards a crisp, clean flavor I will likely enjoy regardless of whether I actually taste those things. Metallic words frequently indicate that there isn’t sufficient wood or resin flavors for my taste and the whiskey might need to go back to bed for a while. Words like bananas or syrupy are red flags that I will find this too sweet and not enjoy it.
Making your reviews more relevant to others is a different animal. If I’m honest, I write my notes for myself and most don’t get shared with anyone. However, some things that I like in a review are when there are comparison points to help ground things - in your example, I am familiar with Port Charlotte. So when you say you feel it is aggressively peat-forward, that gives a lot of context to your comparison of how the Octomore’s peat is more in the background. I also look for honesty and specificity in the language. “Copper and band-aids” isn’t exactly a rousing endorsement of Lagavulin but it shows originality and that you put thought into this rather than just reading the press release. The only other thing I can think of right now is transparency in how you drink it - I tend to assume everything is neat, and occasionally get thrown for a loop until I realize the person in question was reviewing after adding several drops of water or pouring it over ice. My closing notes also tend to include bizarre impressions like if I feel like this would be better with dinner, or as a nightcap, or on a lazy Sunday afternoon. That sort of thing helps me capture the feeling of the whiskey instead of just the flavors. Other people probably just think I’m nuts though. If anyone reading this has better suggestions on objectivity I would to hear them!
Regarding the flavor wheel, there are hundreds of variants and I don’t completely love any of them, which is probably evidence of the subjectivity of all this. In the example linked I can actually see how a pencil eraser could be a sort of synthetic spiced or savory note, but chardonnay being a spice confuses me. I would have put it either next to butter in oils or maybe over on the fresh/floral side. Oh well. I mostly find it useful to help isolate whether I really do mean sugar, or if honey or molasses or treacle or something else might not have been more appropriate.
