While a fine malt undoubtedly has its place at the dinner table, traditionally that's been either as a digestif or aperitif rather than an accompaniment to the food itself. But, with sherry and beer both jostling for recognition as alternatives to wine, it was inevitable that whisky would also try its luck sooner or later.

So is there really any reason why whisky shouldn't be viewed in this way? For one thing, there's the sheer variety of different styles that can be matched with food, from delicate Highland malts to the smoky robustness of Islay. And not only do individual distilleries all produce their own unique style of whisky, most also produce several different types, of varying ages, strength and character. With over eighty working distilleries in Scotland, that's a huge range to choose from.  

  "It's amazing how different whiskies go with different food," says Michael Heads, manager of Jura distillery. "Light ones work well with starters, while you get the really strong ones going well with sweets. I had our sixteen year old malt with fois gras recently. Really, really nice."

Situated off the West Coast of Scotland, the isle of Jura is one of the most remote and unspoilt corners of the UK. Reached only by a brief ferry trip from Islay, the neighbouring island that's home to such venerated malts as Laphroaig, Bowmore and Lagavulin, Jura makes its peaceful neighbour seem almost bustling by comparison. A thirty-mile long strip of land that's inhabited by around 180 people and 5,000 deer, it has only one shop, one pub, and one road; a narrow single track that runs only along its east coast, and on which you'll frequently have to slow for hinds and antlered stags. Jura's main claim to fame is that it was here where Eric Blair, writing under the pen name of George Orwell, came to write 1984 and almost drowned in the Corryvreckan whirlpool that lies off the island's northernmost tip. Then there's its distillery, of course.

Except for a dark sixty-year period from 1901, when a spat between the tenant distillers and the landlord resulted in it being stripped and abandoned, there's been a distillery in the main village of Craighouse since 1810. Now owned by Whyte & Mackay, the island's distillery provides employment for a third of Jura's working population. "It's a Highland style of whisky - floral and lighter," Heads says. "Originally, Jura whisky was heavily-peated, more like the traditional Islay malts, which use barley smoked on peat fires. But when the distillery was rebuilt in the '60s we wanted a different style. Now we only use smoked barley for four weeks of the year, when we're making Superstition , which is a more peated malt."

  The distillery rents out its own lodge, strikingly if idiosyncratically refurbished with furniture salvaged from Continental antique markets (including the antlers that decorate its walls, a bizarre case of coals to Newcastle given the number of stags on the island). In its huge second floor kitchen-come-dining and sitting room, with windows giving stunning views out onto the sea, the lodge's chef is preparing a dinner designed to complement the distillery's malts.

"Whisky is quite an acquired taste," admits Lizzie Fletcher, a freelance chef whose grandfather was instrumental in rescuing Jura's distillery in the 1960s (and who also owned the cottage that George Orwell rented). While not a big drinker of whisky herself, she uses it in her cooking, especially in cakes and deserts. "Which is odd when you don't necessarily drink whisky with the food itself. From my point of view as a chef, it's difficult to recommend a particular whisky, because it's very personal. It's difficult just to say to someone, 'There's a nice twenty-year old malt, and here's a pheasant.'"

As with wine, the trick seems to be to start off light, then progress onto heavier whiskies with each successive dish. The heaviness isn't necessarily a question of strength, as much of the flavour and character of a whisky is imparted from the barrel it's matured in. Most of Jura's malts are kept in American oak casks that have previously been used for bourbon, but 'finishing' them in other barrels such as Sherry will effect the final taste. So will the length of time they're matured: generally the longer it's kept in wood, the more flavour a whisky will draw from it.

The first course is lobster with a lemon and dill mayonnaise, and to accompany it there's a ten-year-old Jura malt that's light enough not to overpower the delicate seafood. There's no real etiquette on how the whisky should be served, although Heads recommends at room temperature, and in a short-stemmed, tulip-shaped glass that will contain and concentrate the fumes. He also suggests a modest 20-25 ml serving with each course - given the strength of most whiskies (at least 40%), any more and there's a risk of not making it to dessert. But whether or not to add water, and how much, is down to personal taste. "Some people who are used to malt whisky don't have water. I like a little myself. Just a teaspoon or so. It smooths the edge and releases the taste," says Heads. Nor should the first taste be rushed: "If it's twenty years old, give it twenty seconds in your mouth. It's spent a long time waiting for you."

The lobsters have been caught that morning by the island's ferryman, and are currently stirring feebly on the kitchen table, rubber bands around their powerful claws. Fletcher says they should be freshly caught and cooked while alive, although she concedes there are different ideas on how that's best achieved. "I just drop them in boiling water - once they're pink, they're done. Some people say you should put them in a freezer first, or put them in cold water and bring them to the boil. Others skewer them between the eyes to kill them outright, but I think that's a bit much."

The main course is another local speciality. Given the thousands of wild deer on Jura, hunting is a major part of island life (the stalking season runs from July to October for stags, October to February for hinds). So it's hardly surprising that venison is a popular dish. "Venison should be served rare, so I'm just going to cook it for a few minutes in the oven," explains Fletcher, searing the long strip of meat briefly in a pan to seal it. "This is a fillet from a stag rather than a hind. Stag's a bit stronger."

Strong flavours are the order of the day with this course. Served with an aromatic sauce of wild mushrooms and bacon, the gamey taste of the venison is able to hold its own with a more heavier-bodied whisky, and so the dish is matched with Jura's 16-year old malt. A firm favourite of the workers in the distillery, this is mellower and more rounded than the ten-year old, with citrus notes that cut through the fat-rich meat.

But it's with desert that Jura's big guns are brought out. Michael Heads smiles fondly as he noses a glass of 21-year old malt. "This is my favourite. It's matured in Sherry wood casks rather than bourbon, and has overtones of orange and chocolate. It's great with dark chocolate and good coffee. Absolute heaven." It's hard to disagree. It's a lovely malt, and complements the moorish dark chocolate shortbread that Fletcher serves with it to end the meal.

There's still one final pairing: Superstition , Jura's more heavily peated malt, with a whisky-spiced fruit cake. A staple of Fletcher's family's packed lunches when they go walking on the island's hills, the combination of smoky malt and rich cake no doubt makes a bracing pick-me-up out on the windswept peat moors.

But while there's no denying that whisky does indeed go well with some foods (a good malt with a strong cheddar is a personal favourite), or that certain types suit some dishes better than others, that doesn't necessarily make it a food drink in the same way that wine is. It's possible to have too much of a good thing, and for many people serving a spirit- even a noble one like whisky - with every course might well be it. After all, no one would argue that the best way to appreciate a fine claret would be to nip it from a hip flask.

Of course, ardent whisky lovers may well disagree, in which case sláinte to them. For anyone else, though, it's probably best not to cork the wine just yet.

Simon Beckett, 2006

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