See, there are normal drinkers like yourself.
People who go out to just drink and get flat-out wasted. You don’t mind what you drink, you probably don’t even know what you drink; someone could make you a concoction of cat piss (if you live in Nakuru) and shower gel and pour it into a bottle of Captain Morgan and you would still drink without the slightest clue what it is.
And then there are drinkers like myself. Or connoisseurs, if you will.
We don’t just drink for the hell of it. When we do, we immerse ourselves so deep into the drink we can almost feel the toil undertaken in the manufacture of that drink. We take a sip and, for about 30 seconds or so, we let it simmer in our mouths as we have a feel of its real taste. We bring the glass to our noses and sniff the drink and breathe in the smell of all the tree barks and herbs and honey and fruits and the droplets of sweat contained in it.
It stings and kicks and bites and screams and scratches and leaves your throat feeling like a World War I survivor.
Folks, I will tell you this for a fact; Chivas is bad whiskey. Bank that. I think Chivas is grossly overrated and I don’t think it is worth its price. I think Chivas Blended Scotch Whiskey should be sold at a maximum of Ksh. 900 (and that is in one of those overpriced Wines & Spirits, should be less in seedier ones), alongside the rest of these other fifth-generation whiskeys that we drink when the month takes a bend.
If you smell Chivas carefully, you’ll get a slight hint of bananas – kwa umbali – and vanilla, and wood. Which, if you think about, actually smells really nice. That scent will reel you in, it will subtly mask its real taste, enticing you, beckoning at you for a good time. And so, you will take a brisk sip not knowing you would be committing, possibly, the biggest mistake of your (drinking) life.
At first taste, Chivas is harsh. Very. A tad too harsh for the pedestal upon which it has been placed. And it doesn’t go down easily. It stings and kicks and bites and screams and scratches and leaves your throat feeling like a World War I survivor.
Chivas tastes like one of those really beautiful women that you have always wanted and, when you finally smashed, the sex wasn’t even half as good as you had imagined because you realized she was very bad at sex; didn’t know what to fondle and what to suck, what to put where and when, and her hands were rough as the bark of a cypress tree.
I would still buy it and drink it – any day – because I’m a vain, cheap ass fella but it still wouldn’t crack my top-five list of finely blended scotch whiskeys. I doubt it would even make the top ten…
Chivas Whiskey is a disappointment; especially the Extra, 12 and the 18-year-old. The 25-year-old is some decent shit that doesn’t sting as much when it goes down but even it can’t hold its own when compared to other whiskeys within it’s supposed range. It tries to fit in with other neatly blended scotch whiskeys but still comes short, and by a great margin.
The only props I would give the Chivas Whiskey is that it comes in an exquisite, dope-looking bottle and packaging. You hold up that bottle or it’s box and you feel like you’re lifting the World Cup. It’s shiny and beautiful and neatly crafted; that packaging alone can get you laid, for the simple reason that girls love shiny things and think shiny things are expensive and exquisite.
Other than that, Chivas doesn’t cut it from me. And, just so I’m clear, I would still buy it and drink it – any day – because I’m a vain, cheap ass fella but it still wouldn’t crack my top-five list of finely blended scotch whiskeys. I doubt it would even make the top ten…
OK, now I’m just being mean.
Some famous chap once termed Chivas Regal as “the blend for grown-ups.” I think he was right. But, see, I’m not looking for a drink made for grown-ups; I’m looking for whiskey blended for Gentlemen.