Overpriced barware and flavored vodkas aside, there aren’t many drinking topics I find more off-putting than the far-flung and flowery language of tasting.
Whether it’s Bourbon or Bordeaux, nothing turns my curiosity into contempt like having to trudge through some gasbag’s highbrow appraisal of a spirit’s “initially buttery palate, transitioning into a smooth, fresh body of crisp hazelnut wafer, kissed with Oolong and wild lavender.” Hey, Robert Frost. You gonna drink that thing or fuck it?
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