I will always have a lifelong bromance associated with cigars. My old man doesn't smoke cigarettes and my mumsy won't let him smoke the reefer (which leads to the occasional stealth mission of idiotic hilarity), so our sole bonding smoke experience has centered around the cigar. The years are littered with the ghosts of Old Balls and myself sharing Cuban cigars and whatever occasion we were celebrating. Life, death, weddings, football games, successes and failures. I'll never forget our trip to Cayo Coco and our daily siesta which would begin with a glass of rum, a pair of Partagas Series 4 and my dad's introduction to hip hop.
But as natural as rum and cigar's from the home of their pinnacle performance in the land of their birth may seem, I'm certainly not spending the rest of my life in Cuba. Something gets lost in translation as the cigar travels north. Not in the tobacco, not in the bonding, but in everything else. The cooler air, the industrial smog and the daily grind alter the experience at a fundamental level. Suddenly the rum seems a little sweet in the tooth for a stogie in the Big Smoke.
This has always been where Scotch has come to the rescue. And not just any scotch. But something in the grimey peaty flex of an Islay scotch makes babies with the finest Cubans that I have smoked here at home. While i keep discount minded Bowmore around for my Partagas shorts, I have always saved Ardbeg for my Romeo & Juliet Churchills and other such luxury cigars.
Islay is a land that is very much befitting its rugged style of whiskey. A peat covered rock standing in defiance of the North Atlantic that beats its coast in eternity. Its people survive almost entirely on the backs of Deadliest Catch style fishing and making whiskey.
Ardbeg tells a story that is uniquely Islay both in its history and in the glass. Earlier this summer I shared a lunch with Brand Ambassador Ruaraidh MacIntyre at my home turf, One Restaurant. Our host Kate More of Charton Hobbs suggested some Ardbeg ceasars, which were a smokey delight. I've long been a fan of the whiskey ceasar but the peaty streak of Ardbeg made magic. Lobster spoons and smoked trout had the Turkish Bath treatment inside of that cocktail masterstroke. While Ruaraidh seemed to be blown away by the spread ("I never knew you could do foie gras on a pancake" he laughed as the huckleberry compote covered slab of goose-liver portion of lunch came to the table), I was simply mesmerized by his tales of his homeland.
While I'll leave his tales of Islay for the moment rather than for the reader, I will touch on the history of the distillery. Decimated by the oversaturation of whiskey in the 1980's, the ancient distillery was shuttered for decades, only to eventually go all Jesus after a couple of days in a cave. Strangely enough, this one time victim of over supply is amongst the best positioned to deal with the present day whiskey shortage. While many of their peers have long hung their hat on the oldest possible age designations, Ardbeg's style has always been one to reward a shorter period of aging. While many scotch whiskeys are their best in the 18-25 bracket, Ardbeg's style rewards the freshness of 10 years or less in some cases. Their finest whiskeys in fact, bear no age designation whatsoever and did so long before Macallan decided to do away with their 10, 12, 15 and 18 year olds.
But at the heart of Ardbeg, and really ANY Islay scotch, is the peat. Its what defines the island and it's whiskey. And it what makes it the ultimate cigar companion. Thus I was not about to miss out last month when Ardbeg hosted a scotch and cigar tasting at Bymark.
Once again Ruaraidh held court, no easy task in a crowd of Bay Street Alphas getting all fired up on whiskey. Things got started with some Glenmorangie. Out of place perhaps stylistically, the parent that bought the spunky child out of insolvency was at the very least a means to get our whiskey palates tickled. The scots are a frugal bunch by their nature, yet also social types. Where the Toronto club set get together at Musik Saturdays over bottles of Grey Goose, the working class Scots are famous for getting together at their local pub, pitching on a bottle of The Original and drinking theirselves into a state of stupor.
Phase 2 of the tasting took us to Ardbeg 10 Year. A few years back this wasn't general list here in Ontario, and its magical predication to cigars made it my special occasion partner for my biggest cigars. My first trip to Old Trafford, THIS was the whiskey I filled my duty capacity on. The nose explodes with peat and zesty citrus notes that would be clobbered to death with another decade in barrel. Ruaraidh also brought attention to a subtle briney note he attributes to the distillery's proximity to the sea crashing on the shore, spraying a constant terroir unto the whiskey. On the tongue, its a veritable forest of mushroom, cinnamon, black pepper marshmallows and coffee. The best part, is that it just don't stop.
We moved next to the Corryvreckan. Named after the famous whirlpool that lies north of Islay, its name comes honestly as it is certainly a whirling dirvish of flavour. Free of the limitations of age designation, this is a whiskey that is crafted entirely toward a vision. All that familiar Ardbeg elements fuze with chocolate blueberry vanilla, cherry and menthol. Its likely the least cigar friendly Ardbeg, but wino's will simply marvel at the complexity in this maelstrom.
We finish the tasting with what is now, bar none, my ultimate Cuban cigar pairing, the Uigeadial. The highest scoring whiskey of all time may bring the fanboys, but I am not the type to hang my hat on scores. This is the peaty magic of Ardbeg 10 on steroids. There is a depth and sincerity to this whiskey that I have genuinely never tasted anywhere else in wine and spirits. Its equal parts Christmas, championship football, and the day you lost your virginity. I wanted nothing more than the finest cigar money could buy to high five this little glass of heaven.
I didn't get that exactly...but instead the most pleasant of surprises.
I have to admit, while I am wide open to new experiences in wine and spirits, my mind is kind of closed when it comes to cigars. I have tasted alot. And while there are many good cigars from the Dominican Republic to the United States, there is only one place that makes GREAT cigars, and that is that little exiled home to Che Guevaraism, Cuba. There is something magical in the farming, the focus, the attention to detail, and even the civic pride that elevates the Cuban cigar beyond what a little boycot driven, supply and demand could generate.
But then, I had never had Mombacho from Nicaragua. Don't get it twisted, these won't compete with the finest $30+ a stogie brand of cigars that reign as best in show. But at $10-$15 each, these are absolutely on par with their Cuban counterparts. After talking shop with their owner, he says all the right things in regards to production methods (right down to field rotation, something that's coming to haunt even the most esteemed Cuban producers). Add to this the willingness of Nicaragua to arrive as something other than a arms centre and a path on the cocaine highway, and the recipe is there for Mombacho and Nicaraguan tobacco to arrive on the world stage.
I'll say this. It takes some kind of experience for a born rebel to sit in the capitalist cottage, surrounded by the Titans of Bay Street, and having the time of his life. This is supposed to be where me and my old man bitch about the man and how we won't be undone by the New World Order. Instead I'm Zach De La Rocha insisting Che Guevara should be our mascot. Killing in The Name Of. Sellout whiskey. Shit is real.
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