The immediate impression is of a pastoral scene in America’s heartland, yet inspiring neither wistfulness nor reverie. No, this is just the smells: a pile of last week’s grass-clippings as the dominant, middle note; then grace notes from two-cycle engine fuel; and finally, malty biscuityness laced with escaped aromas from Welch’s grape juice.
The mouth is sparkly and spicy. An espresso crema sitting atop a half cup of walnut oil. Tiny sardines, kippered, sitting in a bath of sherry vinegar. Spent ammunition rounds, vetch, and dandelion pesto.
The finish recalls the smells of the burl wood dashboard and leather seats of a poorly-serviced Jaguar driven insouciantly by a divorcee on her way to meet a high school flame.