Any casual fan of the X-files will most likely remember the UFO poster that hung in detective Fox Mulder's office. You know, this one:
It's that phrase that most accurately describes my thoughts when it comes to these “specifically formulated for mixing” whiskeys. I think the concept is sound. Or at least it could be sound. Scotch, in particular, has a reputation of being the most angular and galling of spirits to the newcomer's palate. As my mom once said about a peaty scotch I had her try, “It's like I just licked an ashtray.”
But suppose someone crafts a scotch that's light, more malty than peaty, and defined by a little bit of fresh fruit as the flavors develop. A lot of young cognacs do this quite well, and sometimes I prefer that taste to longer-aged (and pricier) options from the same distillery. I could see how a scotch like that would be a great choice for a cocktail base, and it might draw in some people who thought they'd never touch a bottle of the stuff for any reason.
My starry-eyed optimism is the very reason why I keep getting suckered by bottles like the Glenmorangie X. Unfortunately, the more cynical of you have already guessed where this is going. You don't mix this stuff because you want to. No—you mix it because you have to.
“Am I the idiot for thinking Glenmorangie X should be better? I don’t think so. Especially not given the number of whiskies at the $20 to $30 level that are flat-out better.”
Let me phrase it another way: you're not playing and exploring to see what amaros or vermouths in your cabinet could support an interesting combination of flavors present in this “mixing scotch.” To the contrary, you'll open the cupboard to see what sugary liqueurs or sodas you have on hand just to get this stuff to go down.
I made the mistake of pouring a glass of the Glenmorangie X straight as a contemplative, “Let's really dig into it” step once I decided to devote a review to it. That was a mistake. From beginning to end, it was a mess. The smell has some citrus and grassiness that could be a decent foundation for a cocktail base, but it's accompanied by a weird fermented aroma and the telltale roughness of young alcohol.
That weirdness serves as a through-line through the experience. A sip of Glenmorangie X ends as poorly as it begins, with a lactose sourness that becomes progressively more nasty the more you pay attention to it. Sandwiched in the middle is some malty/sweet mediocrity, though it's hard to appreciate the respite when you know the gross finish is lurking right around the corner.
Ice, mercifully, makes everything a little sweeter and a little less defined. It's a lot like putting in a pair of earplugs when the neighbor's gardeners are going apeshit with the leafblower at 7:45am on a Saturday. It certainly won't make the experience good, but thankfully it's an option that makes the event less intrusive.
So let's bring it all full circle: am I the idiot for wanting more from a “mixer” whisky? I don't think so. There are a number of whiskies at the $20 to $30 level that are perennial darlings of bartenders and mixologists. To name a few: Rittenhouse Rye, Suntory Toki, Old Forester, and the always-pleasant Monkey Shoulder. There are also a bunch of value-buy scotches like Johnnie Walker Black, Bank Note, and Dewar's 12 that defy the idea that if something in that spirit category is less than $30, it's instantly garbage hooch that should be promptly mixed into whatever soda you have on hand.
Glenmorangie X, in comparison to those other bottles, is $27. It tastes worse on its own than any of those other bottles, and as a result, it's going to drag down a good cocktail – not elevate it. In a way, the name is fitting, if you read the “X” as the universal symbol of “no,” or “absolutely not this thing,” or “I decline.”
