Not too long ago, long-time site reader Michael showed me a Glencairn glass he’d purchased — nothing unusual there: Glencairn makes absolutely great barware. However, this particular glass was specifically designed for Canadian Whisky.
To understand why my jaw went a little slack, let me pose a real question for you: out of everybody you know, can you name a single person whose absolute favorite beverage is Canadian Whisky? You know — the thing they absolutely look forward to after a challenging day? The drink they pour when there’s something to celebrate?
To me, I reacted to the Glencairn Canadian Whisky glass as I imagine I might if you’d told me that there’s a gold-plated fork that improves the taste of Chicken Nuggets, or that there’s a particular straw that improves the taste of Mountain Dew: “Why bother?”
It’s not to say there aren’t good Canadian Whiskies out there. The issue is that I only know of a handful of them, and those that tend to garner acclaim in the general spirits press/blogosphere don’t often register in the consciousness of the drinking layperson.
“Crown Royal is not nearly as harsh as you’d expect, and offers a lot of sweet baked goods and brown sugar. I had my radar up as high as it would go for ‘gross,’ and Crown Royal still passed muster.”
For decades, Crown Royal has existed at the top of what most people consider to be a trash category. Canadian Whisky plays eighth fiddle to Bourbon, Japanese Whiskies, Irish Whiskey, Scotch, American Single Malts, and after that, a variety of world whiskies from countries as varied as Taiwan, India, and Australia. Primarily, the category is known for producing the least offensive whiskey to the newcomer’s palate at a price point that won’t take food out of their kids’ mouths.
That is, at least in theory. While some Canadian Whisky I’ve had has been so non-offensive and non-characterful as to warrant surprise (especially given a $13 price point, in some cases), other examples of the category have been utterly horrid, and I wouldn’t wish them on anyone. The only Black Velvet drinker I know only buys it because she’s inured to the taste and it comes in a handle. (Draw your own conclusions.)
If you really think about it, Crown Royal is pretty damned interesting in that it’s the most costly Canadian Whisky you’ll find at the grocery store or corner liquor store, but it’s still cheap. Having not had Crown Royal in some time, I poured the first glass from a new bottle with a little trepidation. It’s summer now in LA, meaning it’s hot and only getting hotter, and so as usual the first handful of “getting to know you again” pours were over ice. I’ll be damned if I could have told you anything about the dominant characteristics of those experiences from memory the next day.
Over ice, Crown Royal is perfectly nice. I don’t know why maple is a note that shows up in so many Canadian whiskies—I mean, how on the nose is that?— but you’ll find it again here. In fact, along with a little chewy grain, that’s about all I get from an iced-up Crown Royal. It’s just kind of a pancake-like whisper with nothing too untoward to offend. The finish feels like you might have eaten a waffle about a half hour ago.
But is that a bad thing? Suppose you’re watching some sports and grilling meats with a few buddies. I guarantee four grown men can annihilate a bottle of Crown Royal over the course of five hours. Nothing will trip the “yuck” needle, and for about twenty dollars you’ll be in solid, “this is pretty good!” territory for the entire duration of your hang.
I poured the Crown Royal into a Glencairn class to really get contemplative with it once I started the drafts of what you’re reading now. And, I’ll be honest: I don’t know if that’s really the intended use of this whiskey. The faults and secondary flavors are magnified this way (duh, you might counter), at which point it becomes pretty evident that the whiskey is young, and there’s a little more sourness that’s detectable this way.
Shockingly, though, it’s not nearly as harsh as you’d expect. There isn’t booze reek on the nose—it’s actually a lot of sweet baked goods and brown sugar. I had my radar up as high as it would go for “gross” across just about every evaluative criteria, and I’ll tell you this: I didn’t get much of it.
I’ll cede that the finish is basically non-existent. This is almost always the double-edged sword of agreeable, “gentle” whiskeys: if you don’t want to be challenged up-front with dominant flavors, don’t expect them to come in hard-charging on the back half.
And now we’re getting to the real interesting thing... I’ve been writing this site for nearly a decade, and I’m a person who usually thinks that taste is only so subjective. But with the Crown Royal, I really have no idea how a random reader might like it.
Those who don’t like sweet whiskey would be advised to skip it: don’t buy a ticket to maple town if you don’t like sugar. However, given the amount of pancake and waffle enthusiasts out there, it’s always hard for me to think maple or caramel are inherently bad flavors, or even “cloying,” to use a favorite adjective of spirits reviewers. As if it’s believable when we writers say, “It’s sweet like your absolute most favorite breakfast… but that’s a flaw!” I don’t think providing an approachable, popular flavor profile is a bad thing. In fact, I think Crown Royal would be an excellent introductory whiskey for people new to the category.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, a number of comments sections are filled with Crown Royal lovers who come out of the woodwork to provide a counterpoint to the glut of “C-minus” reviews from those who normally drink better. It seemed like boozewriter wisdom converged on the opinion that Crown Royal is bad-to-mediocre, and I honestly thought I’d find myself in that category. However, I suspect that those people who really hate on Crown Royal might be doing so because it seems like the thing to do if you want to be taken seriously.
As the Bard once said, I think a lot of the high-fallutin’ types “doth protest too much.” Crown Royal lacks any downright icky qualities that I think would invite legitimate scorn or dislike—and keep in mind, I’ve tried no shortage of gross shit.
Like Johnnie Walker Black, I think this is another one of those “Big Mac” kinds of spirits: a superbly crafted product aimed at delivering a solid, replicable taste across a span of decades. Once again, this might not be the kind of thing that will blow the minds of people who only drink rare allocations of bourbon or $100+ bottles of single malt scotch, but it clearly passes the “Is this good?” test. Because of that, it’s a sure bet that I’ll eventually rebuy it, and I’m intrigued to see what the upmarket versions of Crown Royal are all about if this is what they’re putting out for twenty bucks.
As a final P.S., Michael has the last laugh: that Canadian Whisky glass is suddenly looking just a little less silly.
