The Sweet Palace, Dalvorde (3)
“I had no idea you would grace this place with your presence, Mr. Brooke.”
With a haughty, self-satisfied grin, the man offered his hand exclusively to Brooke, not sparing so much as a glance toward Man-hoo standing right beside him. Brooke carefully masked his expression as he took the hand of Murata Naguchi, a Japanese liquor critic with the pinched, sharp features of a weasel. He had never harbored any personal fondness for the man.
Murata Naguchi.
The man was undeniably capable. His prose flowed with elegance, and he possessed an uncanny, peerless talent for parsing the subtlest nuances of taste, aroma, and mouthfeel. Brooke could never fault him for that skill; after all, a masterfully crafted spirit always required someone with a discerning palate to truly appreciate it.
Yet he is far too narrow-minded.
Despite his extraordinary gifts, Naguchi's critique was steeped in breathtaking bias. Perhaps he suffered from an incurable fantasy of the West, given that he chose to write only of the finest, most exceptional Western spirits. Conversely, when it came to the East, he singled out only the most flawed, inferior concoctions to dissect in print—almost as if curating his selections with malicious intent.
All while showering his own country’s distilleries with unsparing praise.
There is no such thing as bad whisky in this world. There are only good whiskies, and better whiskies.
Brooke lived by this creed, making it impossible to view Naguchi in a charitable light. Even if the critic acted warmly toward him now, Brooke could not shake the feeling that such deference was reserved solely for his Scottish heritage.
“What brings you here, Mr. Murata?” Brooke asked evenly.
“It was a decent opportunity to broaden my experience, so I agreed to participate,” Naguchi replied with a smirk. “Though frankly, I doubt this tiny country has any liquor worth noticing. But you, Mr. Brooke—you've always declined these invitations in the past. Whatever convinced you to attend?”
“Let's just say I recently had the fortune of tasting a spirit that was as novel as it was exquisite.”
“Oh?” Naguchi feigned dramatic astonishment. “A spirit that earned your admiration! Could you indulge me with the distillery's name? Surely it must be some rising artisanal house in Britain or the Netherlands?”
“It was Korean.”
Naguchi’s smirk froze instantly on his face. Unable to comprehend the answer, he stammered, his voice trembling slightly.
“Ha... haha! I never knew you had such a penchant for jokes, sir! You quite caught me off guard. Now then, won't you tell me the real truth?”
“This old man has never been much of a joker.”
“Then... truly...?”
“Indeed. It was from Korea. I imagine you must be quite familiar with them, Mr. Naguchi, being immediate neighbors and all.”
Naguchi’s expression twisted into a visible grimace. Belatedly catching himself, he quickly covered his mouth before recovering with a tight, strained laugh.
“Haha. To receive praise from Mr. Brooke himself... that Korean distillery must be profoundly grateful....”
“It wasn't whisky. It was Korean traditional liquor.”
“Hahaha! Now you truly go too far with your jesting! Korea’s brewing traditions were lost to history ages ago! Even when Japan bequeathed its superior brewing methods to them, they discarded them of their own accord.”
It was a vile, ignorant remark.
To Brooke, who made it an ironclad habit to study the history and culture of any nation whose spirits he tasted, those words were nothing more than a crude fabrication. Korea had suffered through the agonizing history of Japanese occupation. During that dark period, the harsh liquor tax laws and repressive policies imposed by the colonizers had systematically eradicated generations of traditional brewers. Brooke knew full well that remnants of those suffocating regulations still lingered today, clipping the wings of modern artisans. And so, he knew exactly how much pain and humiliation Man-hoo must be enduring as he listened in silence.
Yet Naguchi’s arrogant blather showed no signs of abating.
“Anything crafted in such a place is merely an imitation of Japanese craft. A degraded, third-rate mimicry of sake or shochu at best. Hahaha!”
“Why, you arrogant little—!”
“Man-hoo. Hold your temper.”
“Mr. Brooke? But—!”
Brooke gently rested a hand on Man-hoo, calming the man whose face had flushed crimson with rage, his hands trembling. Losing one's temper would accomplish nothing here. A man trapped within the shell of his own bigotry could never be freed by shouting; he would simply convince himself that anger was the reaction of someone whose sore spot had been struck, fortifying his cheap delusions. Thus, Brooke smoothed over his expression and spoke with cool composure.
“Haha. I suppose I truly have grown senile. The flavors were worlds apart from sake or shochu, yet I failed to notice. My palate must finally be failing me; perhaps it is time I stepped down from this stage altogether. Thank you for pointing out my shortcomings, Murata.”
“No... that isn't what I meant at all....”
“Now, now. It seems the judging is about to begin. Let us take our seats.”
Caught completely flat-footed by Brooke's self-deprecating irony, Naguchi fumbled in panic and took his seat awkwardly. Beside them, Man-hoo drew deep, steadying breaths to master his indignation. Even in the midst of this tension, the tasting evaluation commenced. Sitting at the table, Brooke felt his heart flutter with anticipation for the spirits that awaited him.
Hmm. I never like beginning a tasting in foul spirits... yet I cannot help the thrill of expectation.
Glancing to his side, he saw that Man-hoo shared the sentiment, his eyes gleaming with professional focus. Looking across the table, however, Naguchi sat grinding his teeth, vexed by how thoroughly his haughtiness had been deflated.
Haha. Look at this old man, indulging in petty schadenfreude.
Brooke chuckled inwardly, finding the critic's sour face rather satisfying.
Had I been mistaken all along...?
Closing his eyes, Brooke gathered his thoughts. The fluttering hope of uncovering a hidden gem was steadily crumbling to dust.
This is truly dreadful.
Staring down at the pale yellowish liquid in his glass, Brooke had to stifle a heavy sigh. His razor-sharp senses were already dissecting the pour with surgical precision. The bottle claimed to be a distilled spirit, but the reality was abysmal.
They seem to have used rice for the grain, but what on earth did they do to the crop to produce such a catastrophe...?
The faint, clean opening and delicate nutty sweetness suggested the grain itself had not been at fault. It was likely decent rice procured from a reputable supplier. The real horror lay in everything that followed.
The nose is acrid, fishy, and cloying.
It smelled as though someone had drenched rancid oil in habanero sauce and set it ablaze. It was an offensive bouquet that defied any acceptable profile for fine liquor, and Brooke felt an instinctual reluctance to even bring the rim to his lips. Fermentation, the distillation cuts, and even the cask maturation were riddled with amateurish defects.
And yet the tail is nauseatingly sweet... This is vile enough to turn one's stomach.
Yet what choice did he have? He sat here bound by his duty as an official judge. Resigning himself, Brooke took a small sip onto his tongue, stifling a grim groan.
Utterly sickening.
No other word could capture the experience. The distiller had ostensibly attempted an Oloroso sherry cask finish, but the resulting sweetness was sickly, while an untamed, abrasive smokiness thrashed about wildly, shattering any semblance of harmony. Was it true that Korea’s regulatory standards for traditional liquor were bizarrely rigid, discouraging long aging? The brewer had evidently resorted to grotesque shortcuts in an attempt to compensate.
This simply won’t do.
Brooke glanced to his sides. Man-hoo was scowling fiercely, and even Naguchi wore an expression of intense revulsion. Regrettable though it was, this concoction would be better served heading back to the drawing board. Setting his glass down, Brooke finally let out a quiet sigh.
Tomorrow will be the final day of the competition....
Judging for the Korean Liquor Competition was not completed in a single afternoon. Even a sip carried potency, and dozens upon dozens of entries awaited evaluation.
Today is drawing to a close... yet not a single spirit has moved me like that autumn.
To be fair, there had been a few solid offerings. But every one of them unmistakably bore the sterile fingerprints of massive domestic conglomerates. While blind judging kept the labels concealed to ensure fairness, five decades of living and breathing spirits left Brooke in no doubt. The industrial polish was unmistakable. In the end, he had found nothing that delivered the wondrous, soul-stirring epiphany he had journeyed so far to seek.
“Are you all right, sir?” Man-hoo asked, noticing Brooke's weary posture.
“Haha. Of course. And what about yourself, Man-hoo?”
“Well, I'm a fair bit younger than you, aren't I? Hahaha!”
“Oh, dear. Such words wound this old man's heart, you know. Hahaha.”
Naguchi leaned in, interjecting with a smirk.
“And how are you holding up, Mr. Brooke?”
“In what regard?”
“Have you found whatever revelation you were seeking? As for myself, that last pour thoroughly ruined my palate... I wonder if my taste buds will ever recover. It was undoubtedly concocted in some backwater micro-brewery here on the peninsula.”
Naguchi no longer even bothered to conceal his contempt, spouting discriminatory slights with brazen impunity, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was an East Asian himself. Brooke saw no reason to waste his breath on a reply. Instead, a dull fatigue washed over him, supplanting his initial excitement with a hollow yearning for the day's session to simply conclude.
“Presenting the next entry.”
After rinsing his mouth thoroughly with water, the next glass was set before him. Truth be told, Brooke was drained. The fading hope had taken its toll, but even more so, days of pushing his sensory faculties to their absolute limit had left him fatigued.
Still, I must see this through to the very end.
Steeling his resolve, Brooke reached out for the stemware.
The color... is lovely....
Held against the light, it was even more striking. The nameless liquor shimmered with a brilliant, luminous amber-gold, sparkling like polished gemstone.
Looking at the legs, this friend possesses considerable weight.
The tears clinging to the interior of a swirled glass were known as legs. When they slid down rapidly, the spirit was generally lower in alcohol and lighter in body; when they clung tenaciously and descended at a leisurely crawl, it signaled higher proof and a richer, weightier mouthfeel. While it certainly could not match the searing ABV of whisky, it was clearly far more substantial and full-bodied than any aged yakju he had encountered thus far.
Now, for the bouquet....
Brooke naturally brought the tulip-shaped tasting glass toward his nose.
Sweet honey and the savory warmth of freshly baked pastry.
Vibrant bursts of citrus accompanied by luscious fruits, rounded off by the exquisite, bittersweet depth of chocolate.
Direct yet impeccably orchestrated, the aromas arranged themselves into distinct, harmonious tiers, whispering a gentle invitation to his senses.
Drink, if you wish. Drink now.
Haha. To think I would experience such a sensation twice in one lifetime.
The drink he had been gifted by that young artist friend had possessed this exact magic. A pour that conversed directly with the soul, culminating in a living vision of autumn—Meori: Autumn.
I found it. There truly is another spirit like that.
An urge surged within him to demand the brewery's name on the spot, but he barely checked himself. He had yet to taste it. A drink could possess an enchanting bouquet while faltering tragically on the tongue. Reining in his racing heart, Brooke tilted the glass and let a modest sip flow across his palate.
Mmm. Magnificent, as expected.... Don't you agree, Man—
Brooke could not finish the thought.
For in that single instant, he found himself standing in an entirely different world.
What is this...?
A river of golden honey flowed languidly through the landscape. From the surrounding forest drifted lush, intoxicating breezes of rich vanilla and toasted oak. And before him loomed a towering, magnificent palace crafted entirely of sweet confections and pastry. Bewitched, Brooke stepped through its gates as though drawn by a spell.
Where in heaven's name am I...?
A fireplace crackled merrily. Within a chamber steeped in the deep, savory aroma of toasted grain, gentle tendrils of smoke curled through the air, warming his skin. A lively, sparkling prickle danced across his tongue, yielding instantly to the plush, enveloping sweetness of ripe fruits that wrapped around him like a downy quilt.
“Magnificent....”
“Yes. Truly....”
“Hm? Man-hoo, how did you get in here...? Ah....”
It was, beyond all doubt, an enchanting palace of sweetness.