As much as I like the flavor of scotch, I started drinking it because of the image of scotch.
Scotch — always on the rocks — is what suave, tough-guy reporters and private eyes drink.
To me, a good bottle of scotch is like a good book: the urge to consume it quickly must be fought lest you suddenly find the bottle empty. Once the bottle is gone, I’m left with an empty feeling that always comes when there is no more of that good thing.
Possible the best bottle of scotch I’ve had — especially for its price — is the 12-year Bowmore Islay single malt. It has a heady flavor of smoke, and is smooth and hints of sweetness. Well worth the $30 or so it will run you.
I got the bottle from my parents (along with the usual warnings about heavy alcohol users on one side and teetotalers on the other), on the recommendation of Eric Asimov, for my birthday six months ago.
And last night I finished it off. (It paired beautifully with the Milky Way bars and Whoppers.) And now I’ve got a little empty feeling inside.