The nose opens with the incense-scented clothes of your hippie roommate “Juggle Sticks.” John got a hug from his anthracite-coal-mining aunt (she’s Welsh). Stephen got blood-red fingernail polish that was painted on the forearm claws of a T. Rex skeleton by a tipsy archeologist (he’s French). I got limestone and calcium uvular stalactites and avuncular stalagmites from the water-drippy, votive candle-lit grotto of St. Arnold of Soissons (he’s Belgian).
The mouth is tarry, organic lemonade-y, and very, very peaty: Imagine turning a burning peat bog into a freshly-paved parking lot to store your awesome collection of Edsels. I think I sprained my tongue, and Hillary Clinton gaily wrapped my face with a peated Ace bandage after lowering West Virginia’s carbon footprint by preemptively closing down the coal industry. Nevertheless, reanimated bog men arise, zombie-like, and chase you with neolithic weapons and the threat of poor choices.
The finish lingers longly on the sides of the tongue: A peaty, meaty, robust 9-day stew, loaded with peas and mutton. It’s acerbic, and makes an advantageous deal with my cowering trachea, promising to keep to its own tube for some concessions and considerations. The burn lingers, like the memory of the time you won the fifth-grade spelling contest when you nailed the word “purgatory.”
Our thanks to Gordon & MacPhail for the sample!