There was a wonderful old girl called Alice Roosevelt Longworth. The daughter of the good Roosevelt president, Theodore, she was a formidable Washington political hostess until her nineties. The older she grew, the more fearless she became. By the end, she combined the plain speaking of her Dutch forebears with a wit and sharpness which would have delighted, and intimidated, any salon, anywhere, ever.
She also solved one of the greater minor mysteries of the 20th century. If any two human beings were fated to become staunch friends, it ought to have been Theodore Roosevelt and Winston Churchill. To win the second world war, Churchill had to get on with the lesser Roosevelt, FDR. By the end, the need to appease that Roosevelt’s feline vanities was an enormous strain on a man who was never at ease as a suitor. With the proper Roosevelt, everything should have been much simpler. Physical fearlessness, a grand sweep of intellect, a grandiose vision, grandiloquence: the two had so much in common. Yet Theodore Roosevelt never liked Churchill. (Churchill, securely rooted in his own egotism, probably never noticed.)
Asked to explain the estrangement, the appalling Alice was her usual crisp, concise self. ‘They were too alike.’ She also had a party piece which was especially successful with awkward youngsters whose faroucheness did not preclude social acuity. She would beckon such a one with her hawk’s claw. ‘If you have nothing nice to say about anyone — you come sit by me.’
I thought of her the other day when wondering how to balance truth and hypocrisy. I had been invited to taste some Glenfiddich whisky. There was only one problem. I had long regarded standard-issue Glenfiddich as a girlie-man’s malt: cloying, caramelly, ridiculously sweet — might do if poured over some ice-cream, but not for drinking. I arrived, looked my hosts in the eye, and told them what I thought. ‘Fine,’ they replied, ‘but try some.’ I did, and apologised. It has been transformed.
Glenfiddich had always been the best-marketed malt, with an enticing bottle and a resounding name. It means ‘the glen of the deer’. But the rumblings about the taste, or lack of it, had reached exalted quarters. The Grant family, who own the company, are the premier aristocrats of Scotch whisky. To their eternal credit, they were not satisfied with booming sales and healthy profits. So they acted, to improve their brand. My hosts explained how this had been achieved. Their explanation was so convincing that I will not attempt to repeat it. With the zeal of the convert, I shall merely proclaim their success.
Their 12-year-old is now a delicious whisky. It has not lost its sweetness. Indeed, it is the most feminine malt that I have ever drunk. But it has subtlety, structure, harmony, strength and grace. That is even more true of its older siblings. I tasted the 14-, 15-, 18-, 19- and 21-year-olds. Although I would like to provide a detailed comparison, I am writing for a sophisticated and cynical readership, who neither would nor should believe me.
Even so, three points are worth making. First — which may reflect the outdated scepticism of the cognosceti — Glenfiddich is good value. At every age, it is low in the price range. It does not deserve to be. Second, the 15-year-old is the first Solera whisky. As with madeira, the casks are topped up with the new vintage, to reinforce the precious droplets of antiquity. At £35 a bottle, it is a bargain.
Third, and the Solera innovation provides the clue, the house of Glenfiddich has undergone a revolution. The people who now run the company are determined to enhance their product, to make it worthy of the marketing skills which the firm still retains. They are some of the more impressive whisky intellectuals of our time. If only all intellectuals were so creative.
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