Jug Suraiya decides what he likes as he mulls over what’s on offer in the food and drink menu
During a recent long-haul – and longyawn – flight, for want of anything better to do, having exhausted all the movie options for viewing, I read the fine print on the menu card listing what was on offer by way of food and drink.
In the Spirits and Wines section was Johnnie Walker Black Label, a 12-year-old blended Scotch whisky, of which it is said that more is drunk in India than ever produced in Scotland. The brief description noted that the Black Label was made up of 29 single malt and blended whiskies, the youngest of which, by law, had to be at least 12 years old.
This nugget of information made me think of Scotch whisky in general, and the way it is by common consent divided into two unequal parts: single malts and blends. By almost unanimous agreement single malts are deemed to be superior to blends. Single malts are the Mercs and Beamers of the whisky world, as compared to the Maruti Suzukis represented by blends.
For a long while I subscribed to this school of bias according to which single malts are intrinsically more worthy of our appreciation than blends which, as the name suggests, are like good natured gadabouts, hail-fellows-well-met who are happy to mingle with any mixers that come their way, be it on-the-rocks ice cubes, a top up with water or soda, or a combination of the two, or even – John Barleycorn forbid – colas and other such fizzy frivolities redolent of adolescent acne.
In hierarchical distinction, single malts – whether peat-smoke infused or not, Highland or Lowland – are universally deemed to be the aristos of whisky, the Darcys of the pride and prejudice governing the protocol of potation. They are domineering, aloof, and not to be trifled with, unlike the Bingley of blends, only too ready to be pleased by whatever company obtains.
Unlike the anything-goes blends, single malts forbid the familiarities of additives (“Do I look like a polar bear?”, growls Robert Morley in the film version of Around the World in 80 Days when a young club waiter injudiciously offers to put ice in his whisky), with the possible exception of two to three drops of water to ‘break the surface tension of the spirit’ and liberate its Promethean bouquet.
So are blends muzak, and single malts Beethoven and Bach? Not quite. A blend is like the conductor of an orchestra, with string, wind, and percussion sections harmoniously fused together to create a liquid symphony which remains the same, year after year, year after decade. It’s a bravura performance by the master blender, whose job is akin to that of the tea taster.
A single malt is a soloist, a Pavarotti or a Callas. Whether you prefer an orchestral piece or an operatic aria is a matter of personal taste, not an inherent virtue.
So how have single malts come to be more prized than blends? How has the mystique been created which causes them to be spoken of in terms of hushed reverence, as compared with the back-slapping bonhomie associated with blends? Part of it is the aura of exclusivity with which we invest the blue-blooded singular as distinct fromthe demotic many. As Groucho Marx put it, “I would never join a club which would have me as a member.”
The less easy of access and availability of a product, the more desirable it’s perceived to be. Single malts are viewed as artisanal and limited edition creations vis-à-vis mass-produced blends. Singularity is marketed as the hallmark of the connoisseur, as distinguished from the democratic multiplicity of the commoner; Gucci and Versace vs Marks and Spencer.
As an eclectic, I like both, single malts, including those that are very smoky, like Laphroaig and Ardbeg, and blended whiskies, my favourites being J&B, for Jug and Bunny, and The Famous Grouse.
So, without sounding sectarian, I can safely say: Singles are for snobs; gentlemen prefer blends.
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