Green Spot Chateau Leoville Barton review (part 2): Consummation
Apparently based on reader feedback, some of you drunken SOBs felt slighted due to the lack of details around the actual contents of the bottle. While what follows is that actual review, I would like to say I write it under protest as I am not normally one to succumb to this new-fangled hipster lifestyle that you all have clearly adopted as your battle flag. I mean seriously, how do you call yourself a man when you focus on the actual contents of the bottle rather than the superficial packaging?! I was so outraged by this feedback that I had to spend an entire day with my beard trimming consultant and listening to music you probably won’t hear about for months just to get in the right headspace. But since Richard told me I had to here goes….
Yeah it was ai’ght.
A friend asked if he could post a review for our blog of the new Chateau Leoville Barton finished Green Spot. So of course I said “sure why not.” This is the first in a potential series titled “Whiskey Irreverent with Stefan” and I hope you enjoy.
Green Spot Chateau Leoville Barton review : Foreplay
Let’s start from the beginning. Just looking at the packaging it is obvious this is not a bottle for the common man. There are no cute pictures of ponies or fruit or old men smoking cigars, just words. And not just regular words; there are not just Irish words on the cardboard tube but French ones too. Plus it’s green. I mean Pappy 23 doesn’t even come in a protective cardboard tube. Just some crappy velvet bag that will only contain the shards of glass if you drop it. This tube will let you get St Paddy’s day in Boston schnockered and still protect your coveted Irish coffee mixer without so much as even a scratch as the po-po grinds your face into the ground and books you for pissing in public. In a church. On a Tuesday.
Looking at the bottle, the label clearly states that it is better than all other Irish whiskeys. Which, by extension, means that he who possesses such a magnificent bottle (and cardboard tube) is clearly better than all those who don’t possess it. Which is most of you if you are still reading this review rather than sitting in the tank after emptying the aforementioned bottle into your drunken Irish gullet. In a church. On a Tuesday. The bottle is clear like a Flint Michigan water and the shoulders are abrupt and possess notes reminiscent of an Eastern European gymnast. Looking at the liquid inside, it is obvious that this is the creation of at least 5…no….6 men who possess beards of Paul Bunyan status. But you already knew that.
The cork is noble and draws influence from Lady Di (or is it Gaga?). The impact of both Greco and Roman wrestling is obvious and one wonders how the bottle ever made it to market with such an obvious conflict between the two styles, especially when you consider how global warming complicates the entire debate beyond that of common dinner table banter.
Clearly this is a bottle that transcends generations, except baby boomers, who can’t appreciate an expression of this voltage unless it is mixed with carrots and puréed. When one finally peels the foil off the cap like a bride’s gown on her wedding night to reveal its magical contents is there really anything else let to say?