Much like the invitation of a sexy, peg-legged paramour, the nose of this malt is full of uncommon possibility and oaky intrigue. As is so often the case with such promising beginnings, however, the experience ultimately disappoints--but in an unexpected way--as when that same lover turns out to be rather selfish in bed. The finish recalls unripe pear sliced and served in a bactine-soaked stump sock (but hey, that's better than no finish at all, right?). Most confounding, however, is the oddly fluffy after-texture, a dry Sham-Wow laid delicately across the tongue. After everything else, it's like waking up alone the next morning to find your wallet's been replaced with a pocket Book of Mormon.
The Glenfiddich 12 is Starbucks--it offers an aura of sophistication and a tantalizing variety of products, but the coffee kinda sucks.