The Highland Park Odin

Tasting notes:
The Highland Park Odin is a classic HP nose, a veritable, er, Norse god’s nose? But tweaked; not by a bar fight, not by a plastic surgeon: rather by a god applying Larmarckian inheritance evolutionary concepts to himself. That’s the nose! In homage to Odin, I’m sniffing this only out of one nostril; I gave up half of my olfactory receptors long ago in the quest for wisdom. John got the controlled assertiveness of lizard-leather clad lemons (it was hard to find them prêt-à-porter). The übermensch develops Lamarckian claws but never deploys them. Lacquered daisies tacked to a bikini bottom, baking in the sun in St. Tropez (while the derrière burns). There’s a merrily-spinning 1,000-sided dreidel with four non-traditional letters: O, D, I, N, and it always contrives to land so that thunder-clap-like, ODIN is spelled out. (You win again!)

Tarred, but not feathered, hot dog buns with a sherry demi-glace; at first, the soft palate inflames with Odin’s anger, then opens like a tulip, his postbellum compassion balming the wounds. (Yes, John, I just verbed “balm.”) It becomes seductive without being sultry, and without employing cheesy tropes or one-liners. “Hey baby, want to handle Gungnir, my Spear of Heaven?” Oh, you silly Valhallan! Just offer up the heavenly cinnamon red-hots from the banquet, keep exuding the inexorable vitality and vim, and any shield-maiden will go to the Bifröst with you.
Rating: