In this post I use ‘whisky’ as a kind of vague proxy for complexity.It is the whetstone of curiosity. Even if you don’t partake of this golden nectar (and good on you) — you can substitute the ‘concept’ of whisky with anything similarly nuanced. We’re essentially talking about applied curiosity and mindfulness, honed to a sharp edge.

Righto, shall we?

How to Drink Whisky (in 12 steps)

Relish in the complexity and nuance.

1. Sense your context

Is the environment free of unnecessary distraction?

A good whisky appreciating environment is relatively quiet, tastefully lit and free from televisions screens showing people doing sports. It is not a busy pub that caters to all types—instead, it’s a haven of warm solace, welcoming of deep friendships and solitude alike.

Once you’ve assessed your context, it’s worth tuning in to review your inner world. The ‘state’ in which we find ourselves in (tired? hungry? anxious? rested? flat? content? etc) will influence the meaning we make of any experience. Are you well hydrated? Have some water. How is your breathing? Breathe. What’s on your mind? Let’s clear that, first.

2. Soak in the brand

Take a moment to appreciate the actual bottle from whence the whisky pours—it’s here that we can begin to attend to the details of the moment, and begin to attune ourselves appropriately.

Does the bottle have a romantic film of dust upon it? What visual branding choices did the distillery opt for? What narrative are they attempting to envelop us in?

“It’s all just some bullshit marketing ploy”, your clever post-modern friend might say. And they’d be right. But still: there’s a kind of ‘enchantment’ on offer, if you allow yourself to indulge in imagination.

In the same way that a movie or a good fiction allows you the opportunity to suspend disbelief and experience new things — so too the marketing ploys of whiskies allow you to temporarily step into a more enchanted world.

Here’s a couple of whisky bottles I particularly admire for this.

The bottle of the Oban 14 year old is flanked in handwritten cursive script, and comes with a sturdy cardboard container flush with an etched illustration of seagulls on a rocky coastal cliff.

Within seconds this transports me to the times I’ve walked amidst dark rocks buffeted by the ocean. I can almost hear the gulls squawking, and smell the mineral quality of the ocean spray in the air. The cursive script hearkens me back to a time when we would actually take the time to write things — slowly, eloquently. And, if I allow myself, I can find myself more inclined to put the phone away, to not fret about the myriad demands of modern life, and to just… settle into the moment.

The STARWARD Solera, on the other hand, invites me to consider our place in the wider cosmos. I can marvel at the exquisite gold and copper foil branding for hours (they’ve since updated their branding, and it’s equally wondrous). This whisky is a pioneering spirit (hoho) in many ways. Opening a bottle of STARWARD transports me to the kinds of conversations one has very late into the night while camping. The fire has died down and it’s a bit cold but you’re warm inside and the stars are so vivid one can see the milky way, and the conversation turns to contemplate the vast mysteries of our universe, evoking that rare feeling of wonder and awe.

Of course, you could ignore all this superfluousness — but why not partake? There’s no real loss.

3. Select your vessel

Just as one does not appreciate vintage champaign from a polystyrene cup, nor coffee with a straw — one does not appreciate whisky from any old container. Again, this is literally about context.

There are many whisky glasses to choose from (here’s a good guide). If you appreciate whisky, they are a thing worth exploring and investing in.

Tulip-shaped glasses are ideal for nosing — the open bowl to narrowed stem helps to ‘focus’ the aromas. I personally opt for the Denver & Liely hand-blown whisky glass. Designed in Melbourne, this glass combines the heft of a tumbler (and the ability to both swirl and warm the whisky when held with semi-open palm) with the tapering of a snifter (to allow for better nosing).

The key here, again, is to notice how context shapes our experience.

4. Clear your palette

Just as the wider context of the room you are in, the inner context of your psychophysiological state, and actual context of the bottle and glass that hold the whisky all shape our experience—so too does the context of what’s going on in your mouth. If you’ve just brushed your teeth, the residual minty freshness will have an influencing effect.

At this stage, you are probably beginning to be reminded about how utterly connected everything is, and how porous our nebulous boundaries are to experience. Thus many factors influence how we experience something—and in turn: what we make it mean. We are, of course, having a likewise effect on the experience and meaning others make, too. In this way we co-create each other, whether we will it or not.

Have some dark chocolate, or a black coffee to reset your palette for whisky appreciation.

We are now ready to pour a measure of whisky. The technical term for this is a ‘dram’, which translates to just the right amount you feel comfortable with in this moment. Yes, one could find a specific measure for a dram—but that’s precisely beside the point.

Now that we have whisky in our glass, we can have a taste of it yes?

Oh hohoho. Heavens no.
Not yet.

5. Admire the colour

Don’t just look at it—admire it.

The colour of a whisky hints as to where it’s come from, how old it is, and what it might taste like.

We could get technical here, but I’m still vaguely trying to ‘trojan horse’ a deeper message about how we approach and relate to complexity. Going down the rabbit hole of wood types or cask sizes doesn’t quite help my cause.

Now: hold your whisky up to the light and see how it refracts. How might you describe the colour you see? Is it deep gold, pale straw, tawny or more of a burnt umber? Generally speaking: the lighter the colour, the more youthful and spritely the whisky is. The darker: the more mature.

Some whiskies were placed into casks before you and I were born. What does this mean? Nothing in particular. But it does beckon us to think about time itself being one of the ingredients that make a whisky.

Are we consuming time—or is time consuming us? What is time? Who are I?Or rather: who am we?

These are the types of questions that awaken to us when we begin to appreciate complexity.

6. Swirl the glass

This is partly theatrics and limbering up, but mostly about sensing the viscosity of the whisky and readying it for our nosing. This is where we get to pretend to be a sophisticated adult who knows what they are doing.

With a partially open upward palm, lightly swirl your glass so that the whisky coats the sides. Watch closely for how the whisky ‘clings’ to the glass. If the whisky is on the light side it will have a lot of ‘legs’ that run down the sides of the glass. If the whisky is heavier bodied it might show more of an ‘oily’ characteristic, leaving subtle tidal marks (like glassy horizons).

7. Nose it at waist height

After admiring the texture of the whisky, continue swirling at waist height. Then, breathing through your nose, see what you might notice.

Depending on the type of glass, it may be that you don’t quite detect anything yet. That’s okay—raise it to chest height and continue. Close your eyes and attune to your sense of smell. What can you detect?

At this stage, you will likely detect the broad strokes of the olfactory experience—the sweetness, spiciness and/or smokiness.

Many people rush headfirst into the nosing, burying their snout deep into the glass to inhale the (harsh) aldehydic ethers. Don’t be that fool. The way you are holding the glass and the time you are taking to swirl it with your palm is helping to ‘warm’ the whisky. This warming helps to release away more of the ethers, and gives your sense of smell time to properly attune.

8. Nose at lip height

Now we bring the glass to our lips. Not to sip—(not yet!)—but instead: to continue to ‘nose’ the whisky. To breathe in the complexity and nuance.

At this stage you want to breathe in with your nose and out with your mouth. Your breaths are deep but not exaggerated. At each inhale you want to ‘snag’ a sense of things—holding the aromatic sample in your sinus cavity whilst exhaling the air itself (removing the whisky glass from your lip as you do breathe out).

When holding these aromatic samples, we ask: what are we noticing? There are two main elements to be mindful of.

First: the smell itself. Are we picking up woody notes? Winey notes? Grainy, grassy or fruity notes? What, exactly, are we smelling here? It’s impossible to say, of course, for this is a complex and highly subjective experience. But still: we can paint a constellation. We can call out the notes it’s almost like. And—just like a dot-to-dot puzzle—we can start to form a picture.

Distinction is the key. What is it, and what is it not? Tease out the nuance. Coax its secrets—gently, slowly. Say it smells fruity. Well now: what kind of fruity? Are we talking freshly cut citrus or under-ripe apple? Or is it more like raisins or figs? Or maybe we are detecting some tinned pineapple—and yes! We can smell the tin, too.

The second thing to be mindful of is the nostalgia. The ‘olfactory memory’ in many of us is quite strong. A note detected can transport us back in time—and this is part of the magic of whisky.

If you find yourself in good company, part of the joy of a shared experience is in the sharing of what we are noticing—and to hear of what others notice too. This enriches our perspective and experience.

When comparing tasting notes, you’ll find that new things ‘awaken’ to you.

Speaking of tasting—we are now ready to take our first sip.

9. Just the sip!

No quaffs, no gulps—and certainly no shots. We’re tapping into a slower kind of experience here. And besides—some whiskies cost north of $30 a dram: we need to make this last. So: savour the experience.

Your first sip ought be of a small volume, roughly proportional to the amount of saliva in your mouth. This is to acclimatise mouth to the ‘burn’ of the alcohol. Many miss this step, burn their tongue and throat—and then judge the whisky harshly.

First, you want to silently sip the whisky (no need for a dramatic ‘wine tasting’ slurp—an audible sip will flood your mouth with ethers anyway).

Once the whisky is in your mouth, cup your tongue and gently nestle the whisky into the roof of your mouth. Hold it there for a while to let the alcohol diffuse whilst breathing for your nose. Do not judge this first sip. Hold it until the burn goes, then swallow.

Congratulations: you are now ready to begin to drink your whisky.

10. Drink your whisky

Take another sip—only this time do not worry so much about saliva ratios. Just take a sip in a proportion that is comfortable for you.

Again: hold it nestled to the roof of your mouth. Once the alcohol ‘burn’ has diminished, you can sort of roll it around your tongue for a bit, before letting it slide down your gullet. Your mouth has been closed this whole time and you’ve been breathing through your nose—but now, as you swallow you can play with the way you exhale. Try a slow open mouth exhale, and take note of the ‘finish’.

At this stage it is a very good idea to make an attempt to translate the experience into words. Why? To deepen the experience and your own acuity for nuance.

Some folks recoil at this step, instead preferring to simply ‘know what they like’—without curiosity or introspection. But it’s a step worth persisting in—for if we struggle to articulate the complex, we resign ourselves to a kind of simplicity that knows no nuance. A world of black and white delineations between what is known and liked, and what is unknown and unliked. Bah!

Exercise your curiosity—hone its edge.

Whisky tasting typically covers three arcs: the nose, the palette and the finish. We have already ventured into the territory of first arc—but why not return to the nose? You may discover new notes, now that you’ve had a taste.

Have another sip. Now what are you noticing on the palette?

Sweetness? Okay great—what kind of sweetness? Honey sweet? Nice—what kind of honey sweet? Are we talking dark honey, light honey, or creamed honey? Or is it a more maple kind of sweetness? Or treacle? Or toffee? Burnt toffee? Salted? Burnt butter caramel? Brown sugar? Sticky date pudding? Burnt raisins?

And how is the mouthfeel? Is it dry, soft, round, rough, crisp or creamy? Or is it something else entirely?

And what of the finish? Does it linger on a note, spreading its warmth through you? Or is it a tad perfunctory and brash?

Take more sips in this slow fashion. A healthy dram will give you 3–5 such sips (beyond the first), with each sip offering its own package of insight.

11. Take (poetic) note

A good whisky tasting is both honest and artful. The Scotch Malt Whisky Society provide excellent tasting notes. Here are just a few.

Sea, Sand and Soot | Mineralic sea air came laden with the sweet smell of vanilla ice cream cones and cinnamon on seaweed. Coal dust and soot sprinkled down onto a sandy beach as driftwood and the frayed remnants of ship’s rope washed up on the shore. The sweet fragrance of hibiscus flowers drifted into earl grey tea and spicy sandalwood like a lucid dream whilst a whiff of the medicinal delivered tea tree oil and salted blackcurrants. Sticky cherry cola and pink wafer biscuits became balanced by the tartness of cumquats and lime pickle with a suggestion of turmeric and lemongrass. A combination of salty rocks and gravlax returned us to a maritime mood as the finish wrapped our senses with warm butter and pepper.

The Shaman Will See You Now | Sauternes! Exclaimed the panel in unison upon first nosing. This is a total smorgasbord of stewed prunes and figs smothered in ancient petit champagne cognac, old boal madeira, botrytis, herb encrusted game meats, camphor, an ocean of rancio and sultana compote. Water tames things a little but it’s like trying to pin down a lithe and stubborn old wrestler. There’s pine resin, precious hardwoods, exotic spices, graphite oil, minerals, cloves, pencil boxes, old ink wells and ancient balsamico. Neat, in the mouth, there is a slick of soft tannins, blackcurrants, bramble jelly, long-aged herbal liqueurs, walnut wine, more rancio, tar liqueur, waxy lemon rind, menthol tobacco, sage and damp dunnage notes. Water brings pressed wild flowers, cinnamon and a wealth of aromatic teas: chamomile, jasmine, lapsang souchong. Beyond this there’s heather, biltong, aged pinot noir, cured meats, red liquorice and old plum wine. What a ride! In a bourbon hogshead for 26 years before transfer to a fresh Sauternes barrique.

War Seahorse | This powerhouse of a dram opens with lemons charring on the BBQ. Beyond there is smoked and peppered mackerel and hot smoked salmon. Enough to induce hunger! There’s also a cognitively jarring briny and ozone-rich quality about it. A whole shellfish platter has been placed before you. Notes of chopped dill, polished metal and some exotic fruits hiding underneath. Water reveals camphor and hessian with notes of chalk and smoked whelks. The palate unfolds with a mighty, crashing wave of peat on a shore of sandalwood, wet rocks, mineral-encrusted creel nets and then hay, smoked earth and silage. With water the farmy aspects are heightened with notes of dried herbs and some smoked butter. Stonking stuff!

It’s probably worth noting: I have no affiliation with The Scotch Malt Whisky Society. I’m not even a member anymore—but I do love their tasting notes.

Tasting notes needn’t be all nice things. Whisky and Alement—a local haunt of my own—provide shrewd and succinct tasting notes. Here’s their take on the Lagavulin 9 year old Game of Thrones House Lannister (wtf?):

★★★★ Tasting Notes: Pickled green beans, cumin seeds, betadine and bandaids, spearmint and vanilla on the nose. A palate of bitumen, burnt rubber, mint and petrichor with an odd finish of artichoke hearts.

Bitumen, bandaids and burnt rubber—yum! Not.

(Gosh I haven’t done a ‘not’ joke in over a decade. I’m ‘not-proud’ of myself.)

The thing to observe here is: the descriptions are qualitative. And of course they are! All nuance would be lost if these tasting notes were instead a quantitative assessment. So cold, clinical and pointlessly pseudo-objective.

12. Reflect

Whisky is different to many other beverages. It’s best approached gently, slowly—with perspicacity and calm wit. It rewards the patient and curious—and punishes the rest.

Well now: what have we learnt?

Perhaps we’ve learnt to be mindful of the many domains of context—and how it shapes our experience. And perhaps we’ve become mindful of our own inner world—and how our psycho-physiological state likewise influences our experience, and the meaning we make of things.

We have soaked in all the visual information presented—while taking nothing at face value. We entertained narratives and indulged in imagination—knowing full well we were playing with fiction. But there was an honesty at play, and we were able to hold to our own perspective fluidly and with depth.

We learnt to willingly invite information from a multiple sources, and to take our time to appreciate and unravel nuance. We’ve reminded ourselves of the quality of slow thinking—giving time to emergent phenomenon. And we made efforts to articulate our experience—knowing that we could never quite capture it accurately (but that we could make the attempt nonetheless).

We have learnt to notice what we notice—and to be curious at that.

These lessons are transferrable to other domains.

Ergo: whisky is the gateway to mindfulness.