My friend Bill, now retired and out of the spirits game, had a great reaction when I once plunked a bottle of the “Bunna” 12 on his counter years ago. “Ah,” he laughed. “Baby’s first Islay!”
If you’re not in on the joke, Bunnahabhain is widely seen as the odd man out in terms of Islay scotches. There’s some good debate as to whether Scotch regions mean anything at all anymore, but I’ll say this: if any region was to still mean something in terms of what you can expect in the glass, it’d be Islay, and by something, I mean massive gobs of peat. The big boys on the island of Islay are of course Laphroaig, Lagavulin, and Ardbeg—three malts known for varying presentations of peatiness, from beachside campfire to the kind of smoke SWAT teams put in grenades and use to flush out hostage takers.
I’ve mentioned this elsewhere, but it bears repeating: most of the dudes who like peat tend to really like peat. If I told you they like it rough when it comes to their whiskey, I’m not talking “give me a little spanking” rough – I mean, “handcuff me and throw me in the trunk of your car” rough.
So here comes ‘lil old Bunnahabhain 12 (pronounced “boona-hobbin”), which according to the distillery is about as unpeated as you can get. The seasoned peat heads pass it up for the other bruisers on offer, and those who are new to Scotch in general often back away because they see “Islay” on the label and fear the scotch is going to taste like an ashtray.
Cue the “Island of Misfit Toys” theme, and read the following in the voice of the Cowboy who sobs about having to ride an ostrich instead of a horse: “How would you like to be an Islay Scotch… that ain’t got no peat!?”
“Okay, sure, the Bunnahabhain 12 doesn’t have peat. But honestly, if it’s this good, who could possibly care?”
This all begs the question of why you should spend your hard-earned money on what some deride as the biggest misfit in Scotch whiskeydom. Having revisited the Bunnahabhain 12, here’s where I always tend to land on it: I don’t know if there’s a more intricately balanced whiskey than this at the $55 price point.
Essentially, the Bunna 12 is bringing three very separate and distinct flavor categories together to end up equal parts sweet, savory, and rich, with absolutely nothing out of whack. To better appreciate that accomplishment, I think it’s worth noting where things can go wrong. If you go gonzo on the sherry, it can lend a sulfur-heavy skunkiness to the whole whiskey. At the same time, the Bunna 12 avoids being over-oaked, too umami, or too much like some bizarre science experiment—sadly, where a lot of American Single Malts tend to land for me. “Balsamic vinegar cask aged!” cries the newest start-up distillery. (I’m kidding, thankfully. Or at least nobody’s tried this yet.)
To buy a bottle of Bunnahabhain 12 is to see where the golden mean exists in the world of Scotch without a significant outlay of money. The nose will give you a big hint of where things are headed: it’s playful while taking itself seriously—you’ll get both earthiness in the form of stewed tea, fresh cut wood, and dark chocolate, but also quite a bit of enticing fruit and marzipan. Translation: buckle up.
Once it hits the tongue, the Bunna isn’t going to sweep your legs out from under you. No, no. This is a succubus of a whiskey, wanting to lull you into a soft bed of plum, sea salt, cacao, raspberry, and orange peel from which you’ll never want to wake up. It’s beautifully insidious.
The finish is fairly gentle, but features the crackle of barrel spice and fruit from the sherry, along with just enough of that salt to make your mouth water. I guarantee you’ll always want just one more tiiiiny sip, quite often to chase down some new, playful flavor that pleasantly emerged from the flavor collage. Like all of the very best spirits, there’s an unmistakable desire to get back on the ride.
Let me pause here for a moment to tell you about my friend Sean. About a decade ago, I poured him some Bunna 12 in the hopes of converting him to appreciating spirits. At that point, the search was over for him. To the best of my knowledge, Sean now buys Bunna 12 to the point of complete and total exclusivity—after tasting a grand total of maybe five whiskeys, he’s convinced that nothing he can get at about a $50 price point can contend with this bottle. And I haven’t really had much inclination to prove him wrong. Bunnahabhain 12 is so good that he’s never had that “Is the grass greener on the other side?” hypothetical dilemma. As Beyonce would say, the dude put a ring on it.
So let’s revisit the fact that Bunnahabhain is from Islay. Okay, sure. It doesn’t have peat. But honestly, if it’s this good, who could possibly give a shit? Literally, try it side by side with any other Scotch whiskey—including those that cost four times as much—and see if it doesn’t capably hold its own.
And if you are one of those irredeemable peat heads who can’t appreciate anything that isn’t going full volume? I dunno, man: maybe have someone step on your toe or blow some cigarette smoke in your face as you sip some Bunna 12. However you need to experience it, I think the effort will be rewarded. (In truth, Bunnahabhain does make peated expressions, but I don’t think they’re nearly as good as this flagship bottle.)
