It’s become a bit of a sport to hate on Ardbeg among longtime whisky stans, and I’ll admit to having joined the shin kicking from time to time. That’s the risk any brand takes when it pursues cult status, and while LVMH has turned one of Islay’s most venerable distilleries into a cash cow — you don’t double your production unless there’s gold in them thar hills — they’ve also succeeded in alienating most serious whisky lovers with the relentlessness of their Brooklyn hipster aesthetic.
Suffice to say that none of this was top of mind last week when we arrived at the distillery on foot, drenched from head to toe after braving the cold December rain. Aside from whisky, Ardbeg has become justifiably famous for serving the best meals on Islay, and rumour had it that their café had reopened for the winter, reason enough to make the 4km trek from Laphroaig in what turned out to be the worst weather of the year.
To their credit the staff was kind and took pity on the underdressed naifs that had washed up on their doorstep. Coats, hats and gloves were hung over the radiator, and hot meals were served soon after. Light banter ensued. Staff had been in short supply so it made sense to close the café over the summer in favour of street food from an Airstream parked in the courtyard; certainly the urban vibe didn’t hurt. For winter they were serving meals inside in the annex, having tripled the size of the gift shop, all the more room for merch and swag. Would we like a whisky?
My hesitation was palpable and for a moment I was genuinely stumped. It had been ten years since I’d last paid for an Ardbeg, so thoroughly had the distillery fallen into my blind spot. I think they lost me at something called Auriverdes wrapped in gold foil, but I can’t really be sure. There had been the occasional taste of a new release over the years, but nothing memorable and certainly nothing to compare to those heady 1970 vintages upon which the distillery had built it’s reputation. To be fair the 10 Year Old was still respectable, and the Wee Beastie had made for a nice tipple with Christmas cake the night before. That we were wet, cold and so thoroughly battered by the wind made such a long pause even more puzzling, and our server was understandably baffled. “Well it’s free...?”
Free whisky simply tastes better and anyone who suggests otherwise is a liar. Generous drams were proffered, along with the marketing subtext that Ardbeg had never previously released duty-free exclusives, but post pandemic found themselves moved to celebrate “the return to travel”. Cue their new Smoke Trails series, a whimsical play on airplane contrails that trap heat in the atmosphere and reputedly account for 1% of man-made global warming.
The label talks about punchy peat, grilled peppers and smoky fruit. My overriding memory is of a pleasing roundness as the whisky trickled down my gullet and warmed the innards in that way that only Scotch whisky can do. The inaugural Smoke Trails was a marriage of American oak and ex-Manzanilla casks (Ardbog!) while this edition pairs American oak with French oak, specifically ex-casks of Côte Rôtie. Fruité? Mais oui! Fumé? Mais oui! Jeune mais inoffensif? Bien sûr que oui!
It was a quick trip that saw us traveling home nearly empty handed. World Duty Free Whisky fixed it for us, and in true try-before-you-buy style this Smoke Trail followed us home. I now get to grapple with post buyer cognitive dissonance, that tendency of consumers to second guess their purchases. (In fact automakers run ads specifically to quell the butterflies that buyers so often experience with new cars; the advertising campaign actually takes place on the showroom floor. I learned this in university.) I imagine that a site like Whiskybase easily generates much of its traffic from similarly angst ridden buyers looking for validation among the scores and commentary of complete strangers.
And I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t done it myself on occasion, though in this instance I really don’t need to given that Ardbeg fans rival only Swifties for slavish devotion to brand.