Star Status Whisky

Squinting in the Avery’s shadowy bar space, hunched over two small tables crowded with Japanese whisky bottles and tumblers filled with their contents, I struggled to make out the labels and jot down remotely legible tasting notes. Zs morphed into Ks, Us impersonated Os, smudges abounded, but no matter. As Emerson noted, “when it’s dark enough, you can see the stars” – and certainly these were bright ones in the whisky universe.

Note that that’s whisky, not whiskey with an ‘e,’ per Japanese distillers’ semi-controversial spelling. The missing vowel is neither accident nor folly, but an attempt by the industry to align itself with Scotch whisky, traditionally considered more prestigious and finely crafted than Irish, American and other whiskeys – and distinctively spelled without the vowel. Indeed, Japanese whisky is trying very, very hard, both to produce world-class products and to make everyone know it.

All the striving seems to have paid dividends, at least among cocktail mavens, as Japanese whisky has garnered buzz and presence swiftly in the past few years. When Bill Murray schilled for Suntory in Lost in Translation a decade ago, few if any barflies in America knew there was any such thing, and even fewer bars stocked it. Now, almost seemingly overnight, Japanese whisky is the new, hip dram to pour. After watching the bottles pop up on more and more bars in New York and D.C., but none yet in Providence, I asked John Richard of the Avery what, if anything, he was doing with the stuff. “Nothing yet,” he said, but offered to hunt down a few bottles for a tasting.

Hunt he did, and when a friend and I showed up for an R&D session, he greeted us with three bottles of the Suntory company’s finest: a Yamazaki 12 and 18, and a Hibiki 12. Big game, in hunters’ parlance, worthy of stuffing and mounting – but far better when put to more practical use. Even in the bar’s low, low lighting, I’m sure my eyes glinted.

What makes these pours so special? As ever in American bar culture, laws of supply and demand as well as marketing have much to do with Japanese whisky’s newfound star status. Japanese whisky houses produce far lower quantities than major whisky/whiskey distilleries, and the quality yielded is routinely unimpeachable. It’s simple math: Fewer bottles and better craftsmanship equals more clout and bigger price tags. Factor in the work of brand ambassadors and aggressive advertising campaigns, both of which ratchet up name recognition while stressing refinement and exclusivity, and a miniboom was born.

But again, hype and shell games are hardly the whole story, and shouldn’t overshadow how remarkable these whiskies are. As whisky aficionado James Broom has put it, “Japanese whisky is whiskey in HD. All the flavors are there that you’d find in Scotch, but some of them are more intense, as if they had been turned up. Not louder, but a little brighter.”

That subtle intensity owes to careful engineering. When Japanese distillers threw their hats in the whisky ring in the 1920s, they paradoxically emulated Scotland’s finest with utmost reverence, and yet strategically rejected their definitive peatiness and smokiness, which pack quite a punch to the kisser. Most Scotch devotees covet that punch, and the very thought of a whiskey without it seems cotton-headed at best and heretical at worst, but Japanese connoisseurs hold a different view. To them, smoke and peat aren’t marks of quality but impediments to it, drowning out layered, complex flavorswith a one-note bellow.

True to form, silkiness dominated all three whiskies in our tasting. Hibiki proved the silkiest of the group, blooming intensely but smoothly with a drop of water. The bourbon enthusiast among us preferred its easy-sipping roundness, whereas J.R. and I – more Scotch fiends than not – took a shine to the Yamazakis, which felt moodier but still gentle compared to what flows from the Scottish Highlands.

To reinforce the distinction, J.R. trotted out his favorite heady single malt from that region, as well as a veritable unicorn among American whiskeys from his private stash. Both lit up my throat and left me agog, not to mention wishing that I could ferret them home. And then, after cleansing my palate with a deep whiff of coffee beans, I went back to the Japanese trio. And then again. These are whiskies that beg for another pass, and yet another, and they reward time and attention with new revelations.

No replacements to my desert island liquor lineup are planned as yet, but I intend to get to know these whiskies a bit better, and intrepid customers at the Avery can follow suit. Skip the traditional highball preparations preferred in Japan, and take the dram slowly, with closed eyes if you can manage. It’ll be the first time you best see a work of art in total darkness, I guarantee it.