The anCnoc Rutter

Tasting notes:
Going just by the smell, I would’ve said it’s peat, but pure peat, like maybe just a little briquette on a tiny table by itself, but everything else has been cleared out so as not to muddle the smell. But then I thought, no, it’s really more like tar, but tar that’s been integrated really well into the surroundings, like a tar pit so well disguised a dinosaur fell into it by accident. But I was blindfolded, so it’s hard to say for sure.

Then the mouth came like a cigarette ashtray holding a lemon vanilla foam from an especially ironic chef specializing in molecular gastronomy. It was like being kissed by Madonna after she took a long drag on a cigarette, and it wasn’t my idea, nor could I be certain it was her, because I was still blindfolded. Interestingly, though, the taste changed the way it smelled.

As the whole thing finished, I found lovely cream and no hint of peat at all. But the police tell me that’s because by that point, my mouth had Stockholm syndrome. I was able to verify their diagnosis when I took a look in the mirror: my tongue had a matching tattoo of a rutter. When they told my mother, she thought they were saying I was promiscuous. She’ll never understand: I’m Rutter-less now, a ship adrift in the sea.

Rating: