Single Malt Report: Yoichi NAS Japanese Whisky (180mL bottle)

Whew.  I did five consecutive posts last week, while traveling with child.  Ain't gonna do that again under those circumstances.  I’m scaling back to two this week and then work back up to three again soon.  Here's one last Japanese whisky post today, something a little different on Thursday, and then we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled reviews next week.

I started this string of one dozen Japan posts with some observations about the state of the Japanese whisky retail market.  One of the main points in that post was a complaint about the quality of the newer non-age-statement Japanese whiskies taking up most of the real estate on liquor store shelves.  Suntory’s Distillers Reserves were the focus of this gripe.  For a different look, here’s a review of an NAS single malt from Nikka's Yoichi distillery.

Ownership: Nikka

Distillery: Yoichi

Region: Hokkaido, Japan

Type: Single Malt

Age: Not stated

ABV: 43%

Bottle size: 180mL

NEAT

The color is medium gold.  The nose leads with tart apples, unripe pears, paint fumes, and banana candy.  There’s some Lagavulin-style peating, but at half power.  With time, it all gets a little darker.  Steel wool, coal, dirty socks, rocks, and lime zest.  As for the palate, take Johnnie Walker Black Label**, then add peat and subtract caramel and sherry.  It’s lightly sweet, lightly peppery.  Maybe some coal smoke in there.  It’s mild in a blendy sort of way.  It finishes with sugar, salt, pepper, and a hint of peat ash.  It holds for a decent length considering its age and strength.  After a while, there are hints of both cardboard and raspberry candy.

Since this was bottled at 43%abv, while the Suntories were bottled at 40%, I reduced it down to that level.

WITH WATER (~40%abv)

The nose picks up black licorice farts (a thing).  The peat gets dirtier, grungier.  The lime sticks around, and the apple note grows brighter.  A moment of chlorine shows up after a few minutes.  The palate gets pepperier and picks a little bit of herbal bitterness.  Some vanilla bean and granulated sugar.  It is noticeably thinner and the peat fades.  The finish is much briefer and seems to be mostly sugar.

My notes say, “Not terrible!”.  It is young whisky, likely coming from neither the best nor worst of Yoichi’s casks.  I can tolerate the paint fumes, but could do without the banana candy in the nose.  The cardboard note taints the otherwise acceptable finish.  Overall it could be interchangeable with a medium-range (and more expensive) blend, though it swims much better than many of those.  Meanwhile, the palate is more than okay and the whole package is two steps better than Suntory’s Distillers Reserves, even when the Yoichi is reduced to 40%abv.

Finally, the price and availability of this whisky in Japan is excellent.  This 180mL bottle could be found at every corner store in Kyoto and Tokyo while I was there and was priced at ¥665, or $6.  That would make it about $20-$25 per 700mL (though it tends to be sold by the 500mL bottle).  The Distillers Reserves are selling for more than twice that price.  Now, note the "in Japan" I put in italics in this paragraph's first sentence.  In Europe, the 500mL bottle of Yoichi NAS is selling for $35-$50, which puts it at a similar price per mL to the Distillers Reserves.  In any case, it carries much better quality for the price.

So while the age stated Yoichis are better, this NAS isn't a complete tragedy.  And if you're traveling in Japan and need a quick cheap casual drink for your backpack or computer bag, this is a reliable choice.  (Though, Nikka From The Barrel is the best for this purpose, often selling as low as $15.)

Availability - Every corner shop in urban Japan?

Pricing - ¥665 for the 180mL bottle (about $6 using current rates)

Rating - 79

**I would happily choose this over Johnnie Walker Black Label, despite the fact that this score is lower than the grades I've given JWBL.  That is because, over the past two years, the quality of the Black Label has plummeted.  Two years ago, I stated that my fourth Black Label review would be my last.  The whisky has changed so much that I may need to do another review before 2015 is over. 

Single Malt Report: Springbank 30 year old 1972 Chieftain's

This was the fourth of my four pours at Bar Cordon Noir.  The only way I can properly preface this whisky is via bottle photos.

Distillery: Springbank
Bottler: Ian MacLeod
Series: Chieftain's
Age: 30 years (October 1972 - October 2002)
Maturation: Sherry butt
Cask #: 410
Bottles: 576
Region: Campbelltown
Alcohol by Volume: 57.8%

Its color is a blood orange-tinted dark gold.

I'm just going to fire out a bunch of words for the nose.  Plum wine.  Prune hamantaschen.  Cointreau.  Dark chocolate.  So much cocoa.  Baklava.  Marzipan.  Ben & Jerry's Heath Bar Crunch.  Orange oil.  Fresh cherry pie and cinnamon rolls.  A certain butterscotch budino.  More?  Yes there's more.  The peat content is very subtle, not showing up at first.  But when it does, it's a distant puff of smoke.  After an hour, the tropical fruits sashay in.  Brown sugar and cookie dough at 75 minutes.

It has a palate too.  As per my notes, "Oh dear."  Big old fat gooey pax-y sherry.  Roasty chocolate malt.  A slab of chocolate fudge chased with blood orange juice.  Chocolate with almonds and sea salt.  Mango and peach compote, but never cloying.  Hints of very old cognac.  The mustiness remains bold even after 75 minutes.

The finish delivers a shot of sherry syrup.  Milk chocolate truffles with orange zest.  More chocolate than chocolate.  Salt.  Fresh cherries.  Just that whisper of smoke.  Plenty of power after thirty years in a big butt and twelve years in a bottle.

I dub thee King, oh Springbank 30 year old 1972 sherry butt #410 from Chieftain's.

The only whiskies I've had that can compete with this unbelievable gem are the late-'60s / early-'70s Longmorns.  But it has been two long cynical years since I've had one of those.  Consider that I'm a damned Luddite, thus everything I had before was better than what I'm having now, and you (and I) will realize that I'm pretty serious about the greatness of this Springbank.

After finishing this treat, I glided from the bar as if I were Gene Kelly, as if I were Mikhail Baryshnikov, as if I were their love child Gene Baryshnikov, dancing as if he had two broken legs and blind dyspeptic ferrets for feet.  I couldn't drink anything after this.  No additional whiskies at Bar Cordon Noir.  No visits to the second whisky bar on my list.  I was ending my trip with this whisky.  I was ready to go home.

Availability - ???

Pricing - ???

Rating - 96

Single Malt Report: Clynelish 1974 Modern Masters

This was the third of my four pours at Bar Cordon Noir.

This one is a bit more of a mystery than the other three.  Modern Masters is a series done by The Dalriada Whisky Company, an indie bottler for which there's little info online.  Researching the company's financial info, I see they may have gone out of business a year or two ago.  If anyone knows more about them, please let me know in the comment section.

I'm not sure what this whisky's age is, though the Dalriada Whisky Company seems to have done many of their bottlings in the mid-aughts.  So I'm thinking this is around 29-33 years old.  In any case, the back label spends half of its text discussing the moody, "masculine", "working class" illustration on the front label.

Distillery: Clynelish
Bottler: The Dalriada Whisky Company
Series: Modern Masters
Distilled: 1974
Bottled: ???
Maturation: Hogshead
Bottles: 199
Region: Northern Highlands
Alcohol by Volume: 55.6%

NEAT
The color, like this week's previous two whiskies, is a light gold. As with the Caperdonich, that shade has me thinking it wasn't a first fill cask.  Let's see...  The nose is slightly mossy, not a big splash of peat, rather a light brush stroke.  Then comes hazelnuts, rosewater, and limes.  It's mostly (aged) spirit so far.  It opens up with time as licorice, bergamot, and a farmy note arrive.  The palate is intensely sweet at first burst, with lots of orange and lime candies.  But then the sugar subsides, leaving the essence of tangerine and small limes on the tongue.  The farmy note arrives next, followed by hot oregano and rosemary-flavored hard candy (is that a thing?).  It finishes loudly with seawater, citrus, salt, and miso, leaving a cooling sensation in the mouth for a long time.

WITH WATER
The nose shifts, picking up tropical fruits and smoky residue.  The palate remains just as strong.  Nectarines coated in honey and cayenne pepper.  The finish loses no power, as well.  Loads of citrus and tropical fruit syrup.

The oak stayed on the sidelines for both yesterday's Caperdonich and today's Clynelish.  But where the Caperdonich was gentle and soft, the Clynelish was a hellion no matter how much water I added.  I'm sure that certain Malt Maniacs will say that it's hard to go wrong with 1970s Clynelish casks, but with my non-existent knowledge of said whiskies, I'll just say that this was a killer selection by the Dalriada company.  A hardy whisky, this Clynelish succeeds and powers through on every level.

Damn, the fourth and final whisky has its work cut out for it.

Availability - ???

Pricing - ???

Rating - 91

Single Malt Report: Caperdonich 36 year old 1968 Gordon & MacPhail Connoisseur's Choice (46%abv edition)

This was the second of my four pours at Bar Cordon Noir.

Distillery: Caperdonich
Bottler: Gordon & MacPhail
Series: Connoisseur's Choice
Age: 36 years (March 1968 - August 2004)
Maturation: "Refill sherry casks"
Region: Speyside
Alcohol by Volume: 46%

The color is a very light gold.  The first note I get in the nose is used hay in a barn in the middle of summer.  A gentle waft of sweet basil and pineapple mint.  Mango skin (not the fruit) and grapefruity sauvignon blanc.  It gets more chocolatey with time, also picking up toffee notes.  The palate is so elegant and gentle that it's almost (*cough*) erotic.  Yeah, I said it.  Now let me move on with other descriptors like mango, lychee, milk chocolate, and toffee pudding.  But all of that is feather soft.  With time it becomes a lightly bitter tropical cocktail with just a hint of lemon.  But then the toffee gets a second wind and expands.  The aforementioned cocktail makes up much of the finish.  And the toffee.  And chocolate malt balls.

While this is an undoubtably delicate malt and, you know, sexy-ish, I was expecting a little more from it.  No, not more than sex.  Rather all of its nose and palate notes can easily be found in similar configurations in other less rare, more familiar single malts.  Meanwhile its delicate nature may have been influenced by a low bottle fill point.

What I'm doing here is whining about a very good whisky.  It was pretty and delightful and very drinkable.  But I was still left with this lingering "Is That All There Is?" feeling after the finish.  Most of G&M's old CC Caperdonichs are bottled at 40%abv, but they clearly couldn't do that with this one.

I have a feeling many of these 1968-1972 Caps have or will become outrageously expensive on the primary and secondary markets.  If this one brings asking prices of $500+, I'd say skip it.  But $200-$250 wouldn't be unreasonable considering its quality, age, and historical import.

Availability - Probably the occasional auction

Pricing - ???

Rating - 87

Single Malt Report: Glenlivet 12 year old (bottled in 1980s)

This was the first of my four pours at Bar Cordon Noir.

Distillery: Glenlivet
Age: minimum 12 years
Bottling date: 1980s
Maturation: Probably a mix of ex-bourbon casks and ex-sherry casks
Region: Speyside
Alcohol by Volume: 43%

NEAT
Its color is light gold.  The nose begins with loads of barley and fresh whole wheat bread.  Then come the fresh loquats, followed by Oloroso sherry in a Campari-coated glass.  With time there's some new carpet and burnt pie crust.  The palate is pleasant and soft, but with some sticky thickness.  It reads as loads of baked fruits one moment, then fruit punch and orange peels the next.  A bit of anise and black licorice too.  Then it's capped by a wave of Talisker-like pepper.  The finish is lengthy but uncomplicated.  Citrus, papaya, and malt.

WITH WATER
Orange, pear, mint, and soda bread now appear on the nose.  A lot of roses on the palate.  The pepper enters the finish, along with milk chocolate.

Something gruesome happened to Glenlivet's cask management over the past thirty years.  (Or maybe more recently because the early Nadurra batches were very good and occasionally the current 18 year old is too.)  On New Year's Eve 2007/8, I had my first negative run-in with Glenlivet 12.  I sipped and it was......not good.  The finish was short and awful and apparently memorable because the sense memory still exists.  And this was before my prima donna whisky snobbery.  I've tried the 12 annually ever since, and it's not getting better.  So when the rumors started coming in that Pernod's phasing it out for an NAS Founder's Reserve I shed not a tear.

Meanwhile, having twice tried the 1980s version of the Twelve, I find no similarity between it and the current version.  The Twelve as it existed thirty years ago was a lightly-sherried well-textured rich single malt that could stand proudly next to any (and above many) of today's twelve year old Speysiders.  I cannot say the same thing about the current version.  The three extra ABV points (43 versus 40) are nice but that wouldn't explain most of the change.  There was no extra peating going on at the time of this one's bottling.  Perhaps they have since changed barley varieties, sped up the fermentation time, and attempted to distill faster.  But I think the cask management is the main culprit.  The oak in the current 12 is bland, resinously bitter, and cardboardy.  None of those words can be used for either of the '80s bottlings that I've tried.  And just to add to the fun, the 1980s version swims very well, while the current addition is already very watery as is.

I'm not saying that this 1980s Glenlivet is A+ whisky, but it's damn good whisky.  And I wish Glenlivet still made stuff like this.

Availability - Probably the occasional auction

Pricing - ???

Rating - 86

Bar Cordon Noir is the bar of my dreams

I used to have a whisky fantasy of walking into that bar or that store that no one else had found and time had forgotten.  The shelves would be stacked full of old whiskies I'd never even heard of and with prices that were from before the "boom".  Having dusty-hunted between 100 and 200 stores in neighborhoods forgotten by the rest of society, I have ended the hope of ever finding that impossible store.  And, in reality, bars are even worse.  Those who have the product tend to think they can charge a great premium for the product.  And there are probably less than a handful of bars in California that have an interesting inventory.  I had no expectations of finding anything worthy of hyperbole when I went to Japan.  Bar Shot Zoetrope was a wonderful experience, and definitely the go-to Japanese whisky bar in Tokyo (and possibly the world), but I knew in general what I was going to find there.  I barely knew that Bar Cordon Noir even existed.  No one has written about it online.  Those who know have said nothing.  And now I'm going to spoil it.

Cordon Noir was not the first whisky bar I was going hit while in Kyoto.  Nor was I going to wait until the last night to search it out.  But, as I wrote on Friday, my trip was a physical challenge and left me craving rest rather than drink.  There were visits to regular bars to have a beer and a survey of the shelves during the day, but only at establishments that appeared on my path.  Night after night went by until I was left with the final one.

Though the sign clearly states that Bar Cordon Noir is on the third floor, the exterior stairs lead to an unmarked door underneath blackened windows.  The second floor business is also a bar, a bar that proudly serves Suntory products.  So I went back down to the elevator in front of the small building and took it to the third floor.  Sure enough, it opened to Cordon Noir's front door.  And at 7:30 I entered.

I have been to a number of bars that claim to have 200, 300, or 500 whiskies.  Yet upon arrival I always discover that they have, at most, a quarter of their claim.  Never have I stood in a bar that made good on an outrageous inventory statement.  Until now.

If you take a look at my terrible panoramic photo at the top, you'll see the shelves from end to end.  You may think, that doesn't look like 800 whiskies.  Well, dear reader, that is because those bottles are stacked three deep.  Yes, for every bottle you see, there are two completely different whiskies behind it.  And nearly none of the 800 whiskies are new releases, as almost everything on the shelves was bottled during previous decades.

The bar was empty of people, save for a man in a black vest wiping a glass (of course!).  He was looking at me, smiling, probably seeing me whispering religious declarations to myself.  His name is Makoto Ono, the manager and bartender of Bar Cordon Noir.  All I could say aloud was, "So much whisky."  He looked at the shelves and confirmed my statement.

A dozen old black Cadenhead dumpies over here.  Four, maybe five, Ladyburns over there.  Allied-era Glendronachs.  Independent Taliskers.  For some reason, I mentioned old Glenlivet; he put five bottles of 'Livet from the early '70s in front of me.  Late-sixties Longmorn?  Here are four.  How about Ardmore?  Four from the '70s.  Every label was old, but pristine.

Oh my god, I had to focus.  Don't look at the old bourbons.  Don't look at the blends.  Must ignore the Japanese whisky for now.  Have to make a plan.  Okay, I'll pick my favorite distilleries...

For a moment, I couldn't name a single one.  Okay, Ardmore.  There's one.  Old Caperdonich, another.  He brought down a '68.  I spied the 1980s version of Glenlivet that I'd tried a few months earlier.  I knew it was tasty and a good way to test the palate.  That could be my starter.  Then I'd go to the Caperdonich.  Then maybe the Ardmore?  I love Ardmore.  But.  I saw a 1974 Clynelish on the shelf, and I knew that the next time I'd be drinking 1970s Clynelish would be 40 years from now in the bullshit stories I'd tell about what we used to drink.  The '74 Clynelish would bat third.  What would hit cleanup?  My thoughts were blank, simple neural connections weren't occurring and I didn't have an internet connection to assist.  The shelves, what's on the shelves.  Of course.  Springbank.  He brought out a '72 Chieftains and a '69 Signatory.  I went with the Chieftains as it the whisky told tales of an old ruby-colored sherry butt existence.

My mates for the evening

During my stay, I watched Ono-san elegantly build cocktails for another customer, carefully pour a 1991-bottled Blanton's over a massive block of ice, and climb the shelves to pluck bottles from their exact hidden places.  He was an artist, exacting and precise, but never ostentatious.  And he knew every price off the top of his head.  As for those prices?  The four good pours listed below cost in total about the same price as, yes, two glasses of Johnnie Walker Blue Label at a Los Angeles bar.

1.  Glenlivet 12 year old, bottled in the 1980s
2.  Caperdonich 36 year old 1968 Gordon & MacPhail Connoisseur's Choice (46% abv version)
3.  Clynelish 1974 Modern Masters
4.  Springbank 30 year old 1972 Chieftain's

As I took that picture of the four bottles, my mind cleared and my eyes saw the moment.  This was really happening and it might never happen again, so I made sure to proceed carefully and document it fully.  There were four drams.  Three hours.  At least twelve glasses of water.

Starting tomorrow and ending Friday, I will post a review of each of these whiskies.  Four posts in four days.

One Final Evening in Kyoto

The cherry blossoms were just emerging, having kept themselves bundled tight for one extra week when the temperatures had dropped into the high 30s.  The early evening breeze was crisp but up in the 50s when I stepped down to the sidewalk that traced Shichijo-dori.  My shoulders were free from backpacks for the first time during my entire trip.  It made me feel free and somewhat nude in those first moments.  I was dressed up a little bit in my slacks and a long sleeve button-up that had somehow avoided getting crushed in my luggage.  I was looking to spend the evening at two bars that were rumored to have reasonable whisky selections.

For just this final night in Kyoto, I was staying at an apartment facing Higashi Hongan-ji, one of the largest wooden buildings on the planet.  Anticipating a tremendous view from the balcony, I instead found the massive Buddhist temple encased in an even larger gray construction shell as refurbishment continued within.  I followed Karasuma-dori north, with the temple gates on my left and the sakura newly flowering on my right.

Every footfall landed in pain.  I had walked over one-hundred miles during the previous five days, wearing shoes that were likely not appropriate for such travel.  They were slip-ons, certainly necessary for shrine and temple visits, with an insert supporting my heel and sole.  But none of that was designed for the distance I had covered, the hills I'd climbed, the forests I'd explored.  By the second night, the stabbing pain had spread from my lower back up into my skull and way down, stiffening my Achilles tendons.  On the third afternoon, the jabbing melted into a constant burn.  Each night when I returned to my previous residence, an old cold beautiful two room house, I would collapse onto the wooden floor, lying flat, my mid-back muscles spasming, causing my breath to exit my lungs involuntarily.  I had to pull my legs to my chest to gasp the air back in.  There were few liquid nightcaps because all I wanted was to be unconscious until the nine-month old infant in the room upstairs cried or the three chickens outside my window argued at dawn.  This was my seventh day in Japan, fifth day of pain.  By this point my mind went elsewhere when the nerve-endings began to fire.

When I was younger, I used to have great profound thoughts as I wandered cities alone.  Grand cinematic forms, sweeping climactic moments for heartbreaking novels, questions about eternity and consciousness.  But now I wondered, how long would I walk before I had to pee?  Had I dressed warmly enough?  Where were the garbage cans in this city?

That’s when I saw the blue heron standing at the temple’s south gate.  It tilted back and forth on its twiggy legs, gauging each passerby that impossibly never saw it.  It didn't seem real, more like an invention by one of those Japanese companies that build the creepy humanoid robots.  But there, four feet away, it was real, showing little interest in me, instead watching everyone else.  As a gust of chilly wind blew in from the North, I was reminded of the peacock that floated to the snowy ground in Amarcord.  Yes, that’s a different continent, a different creature, and a different season.  But it was a similar striking natural non-sequitur.  Then the heron loped away, taking flight.

The next gate was guarded by five cats, all either snoozing or cleaning themselves.  They drew a crowd, demanded cell phone photos, but really could not have seemed any less interested in the moment.  The nearest calico cat looked up from his arm-licking with unhidden disgust at the nearest amateur photographer, then lifted a back leg and commenced in the focused scrubbing of his white undercarriage.

My path led to the cross street near the Karasuma subway station, and I took a right.  Despite what many travel guides say, Kyoto is not an old city.  Most of its architecture looks to be from the 1960s or 1970s with the occasional modern blocky structure.  Once in a long while a building from another century appears, nestled amongst the new things, tight traffic creeping by.  The city center seemingly holds nothing but opportunities for luxury shopping.  As the night fell early, the gigantic department store signs, already lit, seemed to increase their voltage as the clouds above them turned purple, then navy blue.

Across the river, I searched Gion Shijo’s tiny streets for the one liquor store I couldn't previously find.  After eight or nine laps I realized that it would elude me forever.  By then night had tumbled fully and men in expensive suits were lingering in front of room-sized restaurants smoking cigarettes and mumbling into cell phones.  Small red lamps dimly lit the pavement that I was following back to the other side of the river.  Along the way four different small pretty women asked me, “MA-ssage?”  Goddess yes, massage.  But likely a different massage than what you’re offering.  So, no.  Thank you.

The tendons behind my ankles had hardened into rocks, so I shuffled flatfooted across the bridge that overlooked the lovely Kamo-gawa and its walking paths.  On the other side, Ponto-cho was a little louder, decorated with more tourists and spotlighted cherry blossoms.  Despite this two-hour walk, the restaurants didn’t call to me.  The broth-filled steamed pork dumplings that I had eaten earlier still powered me on, long after their calories had vaporized.  Flashes of cell phone cameras blinked around every nearby pink tipped tree and the rare English word occasionally popped out of the din.

Maneuvering around the tourists, I kept to my quiet counting of streets.  My map was rarely precise due to each little alleyway that counted itself a road.  The bar I was looking for could be anywhere, on any floor, within a three-block radius, if it were here at all.  Online, I had discovered a second location, in another part of town, where it could exist instead.  But then, up ahead, I could see the sign, from two streets away.  It was exactly where my analog street-counting said it should be.  There was another bar I had originally intended to visit first.  But this one, I didn’t know anything about this one.  My first Kyoto whisky bar.  My last night.