Bulleit (A Review)

*Someone recently gave me a bottle of whiskey, 𝐵𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑡 it's called. Here's my little review. I have no idea how to pronounce it, but I've been saying it like "Bullet" to myself. And the more of it I drink, the more myself and I argue over its pronunciation.

Now before I get to the details of this particular hooch, let me offer a brief word of caution. Whiskey, under certain conditions, has been known to induce drunkenness. Since those conditions come pre-satisfied, drink responsibly. There's a fine line between relaxed and poleaxed. As a precaution, I never drink alone, unless there happens to be no one else around. Then only for research purposes. Even if the research is only to see if the new bottle is any good.

My go-to for some time has been Proper Twelve, a nice Irish whiskey put out by that UFC fighter whose name escapes me just now. (It sounds like something from Highlander, but with more glottal stops.) Though I enjoy P12 immensely, I usually get the sense that something is missing. When I opened this bottle of 𝐵𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑡 it dawned on me what that something was. The pint bottles I usually buy (I'm not a drunk!) don't have corks. And a cork really adds to the experience.

The pleasure of uncorking a bottle of whiskey is heightened by that tell-tell 𝑓-𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑔. Or if you happen to twist it as you pull, the f and half the t is drowned out by a wonderful squelching--no chirping, sound. 𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑒-(𝑡)𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑔.

𝐵𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑡 bourbon is a proper Kentucky bourbon: 68% corn, and if my math is correct, 32% hell yeah. For perspective, ethanol is made mostly in Kansas and is only 40% corn. Which probably accounts for the great difference in taste.

It is a lovely golden brown color. Wonderfully viscous. Thick and oily, but not unpleasantly so. If your fingers were really tiny you could write your name in it on the inside of the glass. When sipped, it lightly coats the throat rather than feeling like you've just cleared it.

Having had a few more drinks, I have now convinced myself that 𝐵𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑡 should be pronounced after a French fashion, "Booh-lay," so as to rhyme with crème brûlée. This seems appropriate since I do detect hints of vanilla.

𝑓-𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑔! The initial scent is strong but inviting. Sugar cookies. Ripe, red apples. That butterscotch candy your grandmother would dig out of her purse to keep you quiet in church. Spring and Autumn and lazy Sundays poured into a bottle.

On the second nose I caught a slight citrusy scent. Sprigs of mint. White chocolate. Freshness and spice. 𝑓-𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑔! By the third nose, I don't really feel my nose anymore. But it still tastes nice, if not better.

And this is neat. If you swirl it gently around in a snifter you unlock a complex flavor of smoke and charred oak as the underbelly of the whiskey is exposed to oxygen. If you swirl it slightly harder, you experience the sensation of a mostly wet lap.

At the end, you will detect the distinct sourdough flavor from the rye, but without the usual crust, and not nearly as dry. It finishes well. But too soon as far as I am concerned. Alas, the cork has lost its music. At this point I've pulled it so many times that it has been reduced from a lively 𝑓-𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑔 to a sad and dying 𝑓𝑤𝑜𝑜ℎ... It's no longer tight. But I am.

So cheers to 𝐵𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑡. If I can't recommend it, it's only because I have no idea how to say it. Booh-lay! Hooray for the Crème brûlée of bourbons!