In the pantheon of whiskeys, at least as I worship them, Irish has always been a lesser god, ranking way below bourbon and well below Scotch. Bourbon finds infinite depth within a core flavor profile rooted in certain shared elements and processes. Scotch pulls infinitely diverse flavors from certain differing elements and processes. But Irish? Well, in my experience, it just doesn’t seem that interested in infinity—or flavor. Restraint is, more or less, an article of faith among Irish whiskey producers, who typically employ an extra round of distillation—and, unlike bourbon makers, prefer dilution down to the minimum ABV of 40%—to achieve exactly that.
National and global sales figures favoring bourbon and Scotch indicate I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Locally, even The Trinity, New Haven’s premier Irish pub, has more Scotch whiskeys on its top shelf than Irish ones. And yet, during a recent visit, it was the Irish I was after. Maybe, I thought, I’d been unfair in depriving this more lightly flavorful spirit of my devotion. Maybe, in their subtleties, a few of Trinity’s top-shelf pours would taste like ambrosia at the peak of Mount Olympus. And at least, given their ostensibly mild manner, I could be confident they wouldn’t taste like vengeful spears of lightning hurled down from on high.
Browsing the bottles on the shelf, I started with a neat pour of Redbreast 15 ($20), bottled at 46% ABV after spending 15 years inside ex-bourbon barrels. On the nose was a classic bourbon profile in hushed tones: maply caramel, oaky vanilla and berry reduction sauce. Searching, I found less classic whispers of raw marshmallow and fresh strawberry. Those notes carried forward to taste, where a candied fruitiness emerged after a long rest. The proof, 92, is higher than a lot of Irish whiskeys, which is partly why I chose it. And yet the caustic heat of the alcohol, while not overwhelming, was more noticeable on the palate than it would have been in a 92-proof bourbon, which, having gotten first crack at the charred oak, would have absorbed the lion’s share of the barrel flavor and better balanced the booziness. For someone seasoned in higher-proof bourbons, the heat of the Redbreast was very manageable, but I did find myself wanting more of that barrel influence to keep it in check.
I had no such complaint with my next choice, also proofed at 92: Bushmills 10 ($16), aged over the course of a decade in former bourbon barrels followed by oloroso sherry casks. The casks’ impact felt dominant, producing wafts of minerality and fortified funk to go with stone fruit (cherry and plum) and a surprising touch of lime. Those flavors were less obvious on the palate, having to compete with hefty spice notes and a tannic herbaceousness like an Italian liqueur. By their powers combined, though, they balanced the punch of the booze, which sizzled pleasantly in each sip’s wake. A vivid note of pineapple even emerged after half an hour.
By then, I’d received my third and final choice: the 2023 vintage of Midleton Very Rare ($29). Having had a previous experience with this blended annual release of “rare and hand-selected” whiskeys (and expecting it to be the pinnacle of the evening), I came in planning to make it my last order, which also turned out to be the last pour of the bottle. This is a vaunted and expensive Irish whiskey ($300 was reportedly the average retail price for a bottle upon release; nowadays, you can find stragglers for closer to $200), and, even as someone who normally goes for bolder stuff, I understand why. Exhibiting very little proof heat, the nose was exceptionally refined and—to use a word bourbon fans tend to hate—smooth, with notes of bright red apple, buttery toffee and sugar glaze. To taste, the proof, squeaking by at the 80-point minimum, was subtle enough to register more like a scrape of orange zest, while the barrel influence brought light and creamy notes of flan along with chocolate so milky it might as well have been white.
For being such a pure and pleasant expression of Irish whiskey’s easygoing ethos, Midleton Very Rare may be a rare thing indeed: an Irish whiskey even bourbon and Scotch zealots—at least those with a sufficiently open mind—can savor, though, at Trinity, they may have to wait for the bar to restock.
Written and photographed by Dan Mims.
