Kewntreau
My grandfather, a chemist by trade (but bon-viveur, pisshead, stoner and serial adulterer by personality) built a still in the shed in his back garden. I was working at the time for a well-known wine warehouse, and he would often call by to pick up the dregs from the tasting counter, which he would cart off, mix with oranges, distill, and turn into Kewntreau (named after the leafy suburb he lived in). He was amused by the fact that the employees of the bank above which he lived would traipse through the garden every day, unaware of the desperate acts of criminality that were being committed in the shed (Breaking Bad was a long time off, and I don't think the plod were particularly interested in a small-time maker of undrinkable liqueurs).

The produce was sweet, orangey and dangerously strong, and invariably offered as a Christmas treat in place of a present. My parents would normally try and flush the stuff down the toilet as soon as he left, but the odd bottle was sampled- the effects were slightly hallucinogenic, and you would invariably have the impression of having had caramelised Tango sprayed on your teeth the morning after.

I once asked him why he bothered making it, after he had admitted that it was pretty hard stuff to like . He replied, "Well, friend, you and I, we'll drink pretty well anything so long as it's alcoholic".

Damn. Rumbled.
(groover j lazerus, Fri 12 Dec 2014, 21:47, Reply)