Dalmore Scotch Tasting In Dallas

Last Thursday, Rhonda Reinhart and Sarah Evans attended a Delmore scotch tasting at Di Terra’s in Dallas. This is what they remember:

Meet Richard Paterson. He’s a scotch whisky master blender, and he came all the way from Glasgow to present a Dalmore scotch tasting Thursday night at Di Terra’s on Lower Greenville. I was there, and I was scared. See, I don’t drink scotch—or any brown liquor, really. So when Paterson started his speech by declaring that “Scotch whisky is not for p*****s,” I was frightened but also, oddly, delighted. I mean, he said “p*****s,” for crying out loud. I liked him already. Plus, what if I ended up loving the scotch? Then clearly I would be a badass and not a p-word, and that would make me very happy. But then we tasted the first selection. And, well, let’s just say things were not looking good for my badass-ness.

After a lesson on the proper process for scotch drinking—hold the glass at the bottom, swirl, smell, pour in water, hold in mouth, swallow—we tried a 12-year-old single malt that lingered in the throat and mouth long after the sip was swallowed. And I don’t mean that in a good way. The scotch was so strong and so burn-y, and I was obviously a p-word. Paterson said the top note was citrus. I couldn’t tell. I was too busy letting the Evian wash it all away.

Upset but undeterred, I pressed forward with scotch No. 2. This one, called Gran Reserva, was stronger. Great, right? I couldn’t even handle the first one. Sadly, the same thing happened. So, at this point, I’m thinking fine, whatever, maybe I’m not a scotch drinker. I could deal.

But then something glorious occurred. We moved on to the third and final scotch, a 15-year-old single malt. Paterson said this one could be taken straighter. Only add a little water, he advised, or none at all if you prefer. With this being my last chance to prove I wasn’t weak, I decided to take it straight. No water for me, friends. I was going to be a woman about it. So, I took a deep breath, braced myself, and down the hatch it went. And miracle of miracles, it was good—rich good, full good, chocolate-y good. I wanted more.

So, the next time a 15-year-old Dalmore scotch is put in front of me, you know what I’ll do? I’ll hold my glass at the bottom, I will swirl my scotch, I will smell my scotch, I will “take it long, long, long in the mouth,” and then I will swallow. You know what I won’t do? I won’t add water.