The mixing of peat and sherry in this expression is like a granite gothic gargoyle bathed in misty moonlight looming over a shadowed formal garden. It's beautiful, terrifying, and not for the faint of heart. Really, there's nothing dangerous, per se, but once the imagination wanders, it feels like anything can happen. And happen it does; the delicately-achieved balance is like a blindfolded mini-skirt-clad Lady Justice, immoderately waving her scales at all and sundry. On one side of the scales, a bushel of tannic persimmons, and on the other, a stack of moldering---but not mildewed---New Yorker magazines, exuding faded glory and sophisitication. Long finish, like late afternoon California sunlight slanting in the french doors of a dilapidated mansion located in formerly upscale part of the Los Angeles hills.
The The Macallan rates as The Big Dipper--It's one of the first constellations you'll ever identify, but then, every time you've been tippling, regardless of the time of night or your position on the planet, you'll be sure that you see at least one or two Big (or Little) Dippers. Drink this alone, reading The Great Gatsby, or share it with your friends after playing the last chukker in your round of polo.
*--these notes are Bill's penance for that last post.