A whisky is defined as a spirit made from a cereal mixed with water, mashed and fermented to make a distiller’s beer, which is then distilled and aged.
THE BIRTH OF WHISKY
Nobody can say for sure who first thought that distilling beer might be a good idea. There is some evidence that points to distillation being as old as ancient Egypt, where it was more than likely used for the purpose of making perfume. Certainly, the art of ‘purification’ was well known to Persian alchemists, and their works were translated into Latin as early as the twelfth century. It’s generally thought, however, that beer distilled to be drunk as a medicine or restorative, so-called aqua vitae or ‘water of life’, was the work of well-travelled Irish monks, having learnt the trade during lengthy stays in the Moorish courts of Spain. From Ireland it is supposed that the court physicians or ollamhs – such as the MacBeathads, in the service of Aine O’Cathain – would have carried the knowledge east, onto the island kingdoms of the Hebrides, from which it eventually spread to mainland Scotland.
Most of which we can’t really prove: while there are early hints as to its use in Ireland, with soldiers reported to have fortified themselves with shots of ‘uisce beatha’ (aqua vitae), the first primary evidence, as whisky writer Dave Broom notes, of beer being actually distilled in Britain is to be found in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. We wait another century, though, for actual written mention of aqua vitae being made in the world of nonfiction, a line in the King James IV Exchequer Rolls, which reports the activities of one Brother John Cor, who goes down in most historians’ books as being the world’s first whisky distiller.
Common sense says otherwise – as we shall see. At any rate, the whisky being made at this time – and for much of the rest of its history – was drunk straight off the stills, either in its raw state, or having been flavoured during distillation, or once flavoured post-distillation. In this sense, it was more a type of vodka or gin than the brown spirit we know today. For that, we would have to wait until the nineteenth century, when spirit stored in oak storage casks was found not only to have turned red, but also to taste better, especially that which had ended up in ex-sherry casks or in ones whose innards had been sanitised by firing.
WHISKY OR WHISKEY?
The Americans and the Irish spell whisky with an ‘e’; the rest of the world does not. This simple division is slightly complicated by the fact that a minority of American producers choose to spell it without the ‘e’, citing either difference or Old World authenticity as good reason, which isn’t necessarily true, but no big deal.
However, for writers, journalists and authors, unless actually quoting ‘whisky’ or ‘whiskey’ as in its use as a proper name – the ‘Teeling Irish Whiskey Company’, for example – then the word ought to be spelt consistently, either with or without an ‘e’.
In other words, rather than follow publications’ style guides, which generally follow country leads when it comes to spelling ‘whisky’, better that the whisky writer follow the standardised spelling system used by the country in which he or she is writing and publishing. It’s logical, therefore, and not at all disrespectful, that I should spell ‘whisky’ without the ‘e’, given that I write in British English.
While speaking of logic, unless standing for a place or name, or as part of a title, ‘scotch’ and ‘bourbon’ begin here in lower case, as does ‘sherry’, ‘cognac’ or any other common noun. The only time ‘scotch’ is ‘Scotch’ is when it is used in place of the word Scottish – as in ‘Scotch whisky’. Please, you may now take a long sip of that drink.
MEASURING POWER
The strength of a whisky is measured in alcohol by volume or abv. By this is meant the percentage of ethanol in a given volume of whisky. While a spirit in general may be defined as being 20% abv or above, a whisky must start at 40%. It’s a universally understood measure, though many an American maker and drinker will also measure in ‘proof’, a historical corruption of the word ‘proved’, as in how sailors used to pour a portion of their rum rations onto gunpowder and set it alight so as to ‘prove’ the strength of their liquid pay cheques. In America, a proof is simply double the abv – for example, 100 proof is 50% abv.
MAIN STYLES
There are four recognised styles of whisky: malt, grain, Irish pot still and bourbon. Each of these four distinct whisky styles can be said to possess its own overarching set of flavour traits, though – like wine, like cognac, like anything to do with flavour – any whisky, whatever its style, can be usefully broken into four generic taste descriptors, the most commonly employed being variations on ‘light’, ‘rich’, ‘delicate’ and ‘smoky’, these being terms favoured by Dave Broom and Diageo’s influential The Flavour Map™.
Further, very few whiskies are adequately categorised as simply light, rich, delicate or smoky. Where one is the opposite of the other, so a whisky can be anything from very light to extremely rich, from fragilely delicate to unbelievably smoky – and more than likely fall into at least two of our generic categories, which in turn subdivide into further subsets of flavour descriptors. Warning: whisky – it’s complicated.
A possible sub-style: in America, a Tennessee whisky is federally defined as a ‘straight bourbon whiskey authorised to be produced in the State of Tennessee’, a distinction clarified at state level as being a bourbon that has also undergone the Lincoln County Process – that is, the spirit is put through a maple charcoal filter before being laid down to age. To make things even more difficult for you to follow, the state has allowed the Benjamin Pritchard Distillery special dispensation, exempting it from the ruling. Thus are all Benjamin Pritchard products labelled ‘Tennessee whiskey’, even though they do not use the process that defines Tennessee whisky as Tennessee whisky. I have saved you the trouble of having to think any more about this: when I say bourbon I mean Tennessee whisky too.
A malt whisky is made with primarily malted grain, nearly always distilled in pot stills, and is generally matured in ex-bourbon or ex-sherry oak casks. Most of the world’s malts are made with malted barley, a significant minority of which are peated. As a style, malt whisky making was born in Scotland and Ireland, having evolved from beer-making traditions, was imported wholesale by Japan and latterly by Taiwan, and is practised to a much lesser degree throughout the rest of the world.
Flavour-wise, a malted whisky is generally understood as falling into one of five zones or camps: fragrant and floral; dry and malty; fruity and spicy; rich and round; and smoky and peaty. Why one or two and not the others will depend on a whole range of production variables: the malting and possible peating of the grain, the length of mash and fermentations, the choice of yeast, the type of stills employed, the methods used during distillation, the spirit’s strength, the type of oak used to mature it, the size, age and possible previous use of the cask along with the quality of maturation. In a nutshell, everything – people included.
BOURBON
As with single malt whiskies, bourbon falls into several flavour camps. Always a ‘mash’ of at least 51% corn, and nearly always flavoured with a so-called ‘small’ grain, usually rye, but also wheat, a bourbon may be one or more of many tasty things: sometimes light and fragrant; more often fruity and spicy; frequently rich and bold; occasionally smoky.
However, it’s just as fair to say, when speaking of a recognisable flavour profile, that every bourbon will inevitably share a similar set of vital statistics. In the first place, it’s generally sweeter than a malt whisky, its taste a litany of creamy caramels, of toffee, butterscotch and maple syrup. Second, it’s run through with vanillas, with the scent of new wood, of pine, sap or bark, and marked by hints of coconut, of suntan oil, the taste of stewed apple. We examine the whys and wherefores of this later.
Further variations on the profile fall into two camps: rye and wheat. If a bourbon is flavoured with rye, then add pepper and spice to the corn, a citrus-like sharpness to the finish, the pleasant irritation of something like eucalyptus, menthol or cloves. If flavoured with wheat, then it’s a weightlifter in silken slippers, the creamy mouthfeel of corn augmented by the taste of nuts, the fragrance of honey, the delicacy of wild flowers.
IRISH POT STILL WHISKY
The uniqueness of the flavours of Irish pot still whisky is to be found in the fact it is always made from a mix of both unmalted and malted barley, and that it is traditionally and usually triple distilled.
While the influence of the malt will be similar to that found in single malt whiskies, the unmalted barley gives Irish pot still whisky its slightly oilier, more acidic, spicier, big mouthfeel flavour profile. Meanwhile, the extra distillation makes for higher alcohol content, the distilled spirit or ‘new make’ rendered lighter, less heavily flavoured, much sweeter.
All of which means a super-complex whisky, the ratio of malted to unmalted determining the extent to which those flavours distinct to barley make it through to the wood, the influence of which will depend on oak type and cask age: a re-charred ex-bourbon first-fill will add vanillas, caramels, coconut and soft fruits; a similarly aged ex-sherry cask will bring extra tannins, possible greater richness, the smell and taste of dried fruits, spices and tobacco.
GRAIN WHISKY
Grain is the last great and relatively undiscovered bastion of whisky – really more neglected than undiscovered. All whisky, of course, is made from grain, but grain whisky is legally defined as an actual style in Scotland, Ireland and Japan. Constituting a minority portion of malted barley and a majority of unmalted grain(s), usually wheat or maize, it is distilled through a continuous or column still, taken off at very high strength, and has traditionally been put to the service of creating blends, especially in Scotland.
Given its blending role, historically speaking, very little grain has been bottled in and of itself, the thinking being that while perfectly suited to the task of giving a quality of lightness, volume and sweetness to a blend, the average grain whisky lacks enough flavour to qualify as being a whisky worth drinking in its own right. As said, times are a changing, with some very fine releases showing that, when paired to the right cask, it’s more than capable of ending up delicious.
A FOOTNOTE OF CAVEATS
I’ve had a crack at Tennessee whisky, it being more or less a bourbon, but in the world of whisky the problem of categorisation is more than a single state-sized thorn. There are country-specific problems, with legislators having either nannied whisky types into almost nonsensical categories, or having been so laissez-faire as to have neglected to properly clothe and feed their own. However, the uber-problem here is the fact that the four styles do not adequately cover every whisky out there.
Examples: by definition an American rye whisky is almost everything that a bourbon is, except the big and small grains are reversed. A corn whisky is a grain whisky, except that it can be made in a pot still. Many Canadian whiskies fall across several styles and types of whisky. None can be fairly defined as being any one set style, the various regulations cancelling each other out. Indeed, thinking on styles, there’s no real reason why – except legal – bourbon might not be better understood as a subset of grain. This is more than confusing. It’s crazy. Take another sip.
That’s the first issue, and one which could be solved by going back to the definitions board. The second, however, is much more about the quantum-like impossibility of pinning down flavour. Meaning, while it is fine and perfectly reasonable to talk about the four styles having specific flavour profiles, and these breaking down into recognisable flavour subsets, taste three same style whiskies against each other – three malts, for example – and what do you get? The same and the different, all in one go. They’re whisky, they’re malt, and they’re the product of their own distilleries, the many variables that constitute their making, people very much included.
Third and finally, whatever our knowledge, our technical knowhow, whisky making remains an imprecise science. Long may it continue. We may have our styles, our set methods, but we’re not making cans of beans. There are those in the whisky -making business who can speak in molecular strings, others who will tell you why spectrometry is God’s gift to maturation, and still those for whom the word syringaldehyde is a picture of flavours, and yet all would agree: nothing is certain. Whatever our styles, our predilection for categorising nomenclatures, whisky making remains a thing beholden to the magic of science and to the science of magic.