Those of you who have a sample left, try your War Horse ready rubbed with a strong coffee, tell me if your experience matches mine.
I've got this new fascination with "palate" going on ever since the new winery underneath my office opened this summer. I never considered "balancing the palate" as anything more than taste. I didn't grasp the complexity of what's going on in the mouth. For me, balance was simply a matter of knowing "this has too much garlic than I like," or, "This needs more salt."
On its own, this new version of War Horse (I have no experience with the original) rolls a low-lying flavor over your mouth. It enters your mouth and then oozes slowly forth, wanting under your tongue, searching along your gums. It falls into your mouth and settles. That's nice.
I drink my coffee so strong it's almost the same. But it spreads from the top of my palate down. The two together do not compete. They team up. They wink at each other in an old-boy, "We got this" agreement and take over.
By contrast, when I had it with an icy Diet Coke, the Coke went on a search-and-destroy mission, and War Horse retreated from it in all directions.
Maybe that's true of other tobaccos, too. I'll try it some time.
I compared War Horse at first to Prince Albert, because that's what I had been smoking. More sophisticated smokers with more educated palates agreed there was some similarity in their structure. But War Horse is slightly heavier, darker. Moodier. PA is an old gardener you talk to as you survey how the patch is coming along; War Horse is the quiet brute with the wheelbarrow, unaffected by and uninterested in pointless chatter. Not so much brooding as... just serious. Not any more sophisticated than the rest of us in our blue jeans and boots, but not a bum. A trustworthy hand. You gave him a job to do and, by god, he's at it.
PA, an older, patient gentle codger, nods at bubbly youngster Diet Coke, who bounces in and makes a lot of commotion. But they coexist. Diet Coke isn't there to help, and PA is neither afraid of the kid nor going to teach it any lessons. You do your thing, I'll do mine. But War Horse grimaces in distain and moves off to work farther away, and you lose his company. You can't quite see what he's doing anymore.
Coffee comes ready to work. Coffee understands War Horse and nods to PA, an old collaborator. Coffee grabs the handles of the cultivator while War Horse tugs the weeds out of the beats. And together, they turn earth and ensure you a bountiful harvest.
Or... maybe there's too much whisky in my coffee again?
Let me know.
I've got this new fascination with "palate" going on ever since the new winery underneath my office opened this summer. I never considered "balancing the palate" as anything more than taste. I didn't grasp the complexity of what's going on in the mouth. For me, balance was simply a matter of knowing "this has too much garlic than I like," or, "This needs more salt."
On its own, this new version of War Horse (I have no experience with the original) rolls a low-lying flavor over your mouth. It enters your mouth and then oozes slowly forth, wanting under your tongue, searching along your gums. It falls into your mouth and settles. That's nice.
I drink my coffee so strong it's almost the same. But it spreads from the top of my palate down. The two together do not compete. They team up. They wink at each other in an old-boy, "We got this" agreement and take over.
By contrast, when I had it with an icy Diet Coke, the Coke went on a search-and-destroy mission, and War Horse retreated from it in all directions.
Maybe that's true of other tobaccos, too. I'll try it some time.
I compared War Horse at first to Prince Albert, because that's what I had been smoking. More sophisticated smokers with more educated palates agreed there was some similarity in their structure. But War Horse is slightly heavier, darker. Moodier. PA is an old gardener you talk to as you survey how the patch is coming along; War Horse is the quiet brute with the wheelbarrow, unaffected by and uninterested in pointless chatter. Not so much brooding as... just serious. Not any more sophisticated than the rest of us in our blue jeans and boots, but not a bum. A trustworthy hand. You gave him a job to do and, by god, he's at it.
PA, an older, patient gentle codger, nods at bubbly youngster Diet Coke, who bounces in and makes a lot of commotion. But they coexist. Diet Coke isn't there to help, and PA is neither afraid of the kid nor going to teach it any lessons. You do your thing, I'll do mine. But War Horse grimaces in distain and moves off to work farther away, and you lose his company. You can't quite see what he's doing anymore.
Coffee comes ready to work. Coffee understands War Horse and nods to PA, an old collaborator. Coffee grabs the handles of the cultivator while War Horse tugs the weeds out of the beats. And together, they turn earth and ensure you a bountiful harvest.
Or... maybe there's too much whisky in my coffee again?
Let me know.
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