Beef undercooked rare, but not Pittsburgh rare. Lamb meatballs, not kofta spicy; rather stewed in a cream sauce then drizzled with tzatziki heavy on the garlic and lemon, laced with just the right amount of cucumber tang. Celery—unassailably celery; and I have to admit, “celery” is a new call down in the Malt Cave—and the many stalks of celery are being gnawed by a hamster wallowing in cedar chips in his much-neglected bespoke iridium cage. The hamster is drinking grape juice and wearing lemon aftershave: That’s one suave bewhiskered hamster.
On the mouth, artisanal port molasses used in a duck reduc(k)tion sauce for John’s specialty dish of baked Alaska with habañero poppers stuffed with ginger ale cream cheese. In case you find that combination odd, it’s not really that bad; it’s really only the baked Alaska meringue with the poppers. Ice cream and cake are not included, but codeine-infused Triple Sec is.
The finish brings vixens and kits romping in a woodland clearing. Peppermint Tic-Tac®s juggled by tiny-handed lemurs and imbibed by giant mutant tardigrades. That is to say, it’s all…surprising…at first, but grows on you like Jackson Pollock splatter art.