I’ve had this bottle for a while, and it’s always been a go-to for me. I keep thinking I’ll write something about the Lincoln Road OBSK, but it always gets bumped for a “sexier” label. That shouldn’t happen. Jamie Farris and his wife Misty have picked some of the all-time best private barrels of Four Roses.
But this one is even better.
I poured a glass last night and yelled upstairs, “Honey!?!”
“Yeah babe, what’s up?”
“This is the best pour in my cabinet!!”
A long moment of silence, then, “That’s great.”
The bottle is almost depleted, and it’s worth writing about. There is probably a pour or two remaining, and it has mellowed perfectly. The nectar at the bottle of the bottle is the best of the best, the final splendid drops that pack all of the flavor. It’s akin to the way I ate cereal as a kid, when I loaded the bowl down with heaping helpings of white granulated sugar. When all the cereal was gone I would drink the milk out of the bowl. Eventually the only thing that was left was a syrupy slurry of simple sugar, oozing out of the bowl sap-like, condensed with all the other flavors of whatever the cereal had been……
Nose: The nose is truly magnificent. Overloaded with caramel and syrup. Burnt oak, but not musty. It gets an Academy Award for the depth of sugar. A hint of berry, but not anything like other OBSK’s I enjoy. This one is way heavier on the sugar and caramelized char, and less of the spicy dryness. The berry is still present, but there is less of the sweet pie filling and way more of a smoky campfire, griddle slung precariously over the top, frying up buttermilk pancakes, with gobs of gooey, buttery syrup slathered all over them. A handful of wild berry cast over the top, for an added punch.
Flavor: Mouthfuls of the caramel and sweetness. A gush of vanilla. The berry components are balanced with the oak and sugar. The spiciness that once existed has turned creamier. It’s almost reminiscent of a Rootbeer float. It’s so smooth, zero astringency. It really puts me in a Fall sort of mood. Jacket weather. Brisk mornings fishing. Earlier sunsets. Cooler evenings. Outdoor fires with friends gathered around, telling stories. Drown me in this, please.
Finish: It’s not nuclear. And though it was probably a lot hotter a while back, it’s opened up significantly, shedding the fissile material around the edges and leaving nothing but the ultra-pleasant intensity of superb bourbon, right at the top of my tongue. The burn is a mellow heat wave in the summer sun. Southern humidity. August in the Carolinas. Ever present.
If Jamie could dig one out of a private collection at Lincoln Road, I’d be on the Interstate right now to come get it.
I will weep when this one is gone…….