In every dram I get partially crushed peanut shells, tobacco at the butt of a cigarette, and some shoe leather, more from around the heel than the laces. It’s not entirely as unpleasant as it sounds - at least on the crest of the tongue. But by the time it hits the back, and certainly through the finish, I find myself glancing absently toward the exit of this “super trendy” dive bar and drifting toward who I’m gonna call after this. Maybe Elijah is still up...