Are you a whisky snob? More critically, have you ever accused someone of being a whisky snob? If you’re in either camp – particularly the latter – you need to read on…
I’ve recently been involved in two separate discussions on whisky snobbery. I hasten to add that both were happy discussions, rather than acrimonious mud-flinging. But it’s an ugly topic nonetheless, and one that is rearing its head more frequently than it used to.
Two weeks ago, I was approached by a Fairfax journalist who was writing a light-hearted piece on single malt drinkers versus blend drinkers. The article was pitched to me as a battle between the two sides, and he’d prepared a couple of humorous comparisons and stereotypical descriptions of each combatant. I was thus asked to submit a couple of snappy, one-line quotes that might represent the single malt drinkers’ view towards blends. Happy to be part of the fun, I obliged with two quotes – one humorous, and the other, slightly more serious.
Unfortunately, our journalist friend took my snappy, humorous quip and, in the published article, omitted the all-important “…he quipped” or “…, joked Andrew” at the end of my quote. I subsequently learned via a few social media discussion groups that many people had interpreted the article (and my contribution to it) as an example of single malt snobbery, rather than the tongue-in-cheek affair it was intended to be. Somewhere, the good-humoured ribbing had been lost in the writer’s portrayal.
The point is, a perception definitely exists that if you’re a single malt enthusiast who takes their whisky seriously, then you must somehow be a whisky snob. And I don’t get it. “I prefer to drink single malts”. It’s a harmless, innocuous, humble and honest statement. And yet, somehow, somewhere, people will hear it and stick a “whisky snob” label on you, just for having the audacity to express your personal preference.
The simple fact is this: Every whisky drinker is on a journey. And we’re all at different stages along that journey. Some joined the journey early in life (I was happily drinking blended whiskies like Black Douglas and White Heather at the age of 18); others discover Scotland’s finest later in life in their forties or fifties. Some join the journey by diving in at the deep end, having being introduced to whisky via a $20,000 bottle of 1960’s Macallan; others start right in the shallow end with a $40 bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label. Regardless of when you joined the journey or where you are along the journey, we are all exploring this wonderful drinks category and learning more and more – daily – about what we like and don’t like. Or – perhaps more accurately – what we like a little, and what we like a lot.
The problem is that our preferences are shaped and formed by our experiences. And everything is relative. Once you’ve experienced anything of a higher level of quality, it’s difficult to enjoy or appreciate the lower quality product, even though that same product may once have pushed your buttons. I’ll give you some examples:
- It’s hard to get excited about flying in Economy once you’ve experienced Business Class travel.
- It’s hard to get excited about a humble rump steak once you’ve experienced a dry-aged, wagyu sirloin done just right.
- It’s hard to get excited about a glass of sparkling white wine once you’ve experienced Dom Perignon champagne.
- It’s hard to get excited about VAT 69 once you’ve experienced a complex cask strength, single cask, single malt.
That’s not to say that VAT 69 is a bad whisky. It’s not. Nor that rump steak is a poor cut, or that Yellowglen (for example) is a sub-standard sparkling white. But, armed with the experience and privilege of having tried both the lower and upper ends of the scale, you are now entitled to express which you enjoyed the most, and which you preferred. And which one you’d prefer to enjoy next time. And that does not make you a snob.
It all comes back to this journey that we’re on. It’s not just what we’ve been lucky enough to try and taste in the past. Or what we can afford. It’s also how developed our sense of smell or taste is and what we’re capable of appreciating. Someone with a poor sense of smell will most likely have a lesser ability to taste (the two are related) and so a highly complex, multi-faceted single malt would be lost or wasted on such a person. You’d never begrudge him or her for preferring to reach for a non-descript and more affordable blend. And yet – here’s the rub – when the opposite occurs, that is, when someone with a highly developed nose and palate opts for a complex or more expensive whisky that will satisfy their senses, why do some amongst us choose to tag the person as a whisky snob?
It plays out on many different levels: Not just the whisky you choose to drink, but how you choose to enjoy it. Glassware is a great example. We can scientifically and empirically prove that a Glencairn or copita-style glass heightens and improves the nose (and thus the enjoyment) of a whisky. If you’ve paid top dollar for an expensive whisky, then it’s not unreasonable to insist on drinking it out of a glass that optimises the nose and the experience. And yet, if you dare to suggest that it would be folly or poor form to drink it out of a tumbler, then you are – you guessed it – a snob, right?
Interestingly, such nasty name-calling doesn’t occur in other passionate pursuits: If a music enthusiast with a good ear refuses to get into highly-compressed MP3 files and insists on listening to Super Audio CD’s through an expensive valve amplifier and top quality speakers, then he or she is branded an audiophile, not a snob. Similarly, someone with a heightened taste or appreciation for good quality food, wine, beer, or coffee is labelled a connoisseur. (Yes, there are wine snobs & coffee snobs, but such labels are based on what they refuse to drink, rather than what they prefer to drink).
Now, to provide some balance to the discussion: Please note that I’m not saying whisky snobbery doesn’t exist! Yes, there are some on this journey who choose what they drink based on its price tag. (“That whisky costs less than $100, therefore it can’t possibly be good.”) That’s a snobbish attitude. There are some on this journey who look down on others because of what they choose to drink. (“What? You actually enjoy Hankey Bannister? Ha ha ha, you have so much to learn.”) That’s a snobbish attitude. But my experience is that such people are in the minority, and if that’s their genuine approach to whisky and how they choose to relate to and talk to people, then they’ve got bigger issues in life.
No, my point is that the label of “whisky snob” gets thrown around too liberally, too quickly, and certainly unfairly. People aren’t snobs just because they’re further along their whisky journey than you are. People are allowed to express their preferences. People are allowed to share what they enjoy. And, most importantly, people are allowed to help and suggest new or different whiskies to others, in order to help them along their journey. It’s not whisky snobbery. It’s simply sharing the journey; extending the joy; sharing the love; and widening the experience. And, ultimately, it’s adding to this wonderful whisky community that we’re all a part of.
Slainte,
AD.
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Very well said! It’s a real irritation to feel that you’re being judged regardless of the side it’s coming from, and it’s not particularly sensible either. The one thing i would add is that just because you have a taste for fine whisky that’s not to say you can always afford splashing £150-200 on a bottle. I have a Yamizake Sherry Cask at home, I’m not sure i agree with Murray in placing #1 but it’s still fantastic. None of this means i’m going to stop drinking Diurachs’ own