“Shit, you bought non-alcoholic beer!”. By the time you hear this, it’s already too late. The bad boy has conquered his share of the beach and won’t leave easily. Tattooed and over-the-top, you approach him with distrust. He’s a smartass, he enjoys not to be loved by everyone. He shows a dirty face, a leather belt, a copper bracelet, a wet cardboard under his arm. We’re at the seaside, but he looks like he came out of a bush in a damp bog. It’s 10am, so he smells like he had bacon for breakfast. Disordered, dusty, spicy, fruity.
His radio is blasting, he swears and talks dirty, hes allergic to low profile. He grinds among sherry, caramel and toasted peanuts, then he lights a fag. A solid smoke, ashes, bacon again. But it’s not a meditative smoke, he wants to have fun without a cause: honey, beach volley, cooked fruit, beach tennis, toasted peanuts and a little petting with his girlfriend. Poor her: with that finish of burnt rubber and cigar smoke, she’s not the most lucky woman on earth.
My Bad Boy, how bold and excessive are you? Full of life, of outbursts, of wet and vegetable peat. You have a strong personality, but it’s yet to emerge. You’ll probably piss off half of the people you’ll meet, but who hasn’t been young and asshole cast the first stone. Or barrel. 82/100.

Miyagikyo 12 yo (2016, OB, 45%)
a.k.a. “The coconut and fruit vendor”

You look at him as it was a mirage, approaching in the confusing heat. You forgot your parasol, the sand burns, discount sunscreen provides you an eczema. He usually screams like a howler monkey, but you need freshness as hell, so when he shouts “heeeeey cooocoooonuuut!”, he sounds to you like Celine Dion. He stops beside your sunbed, but instead of coconut he offers a lush range of fruit: fragrant melon, banana, guava, raspberry. He also puts some dried figs in his fruit basket, he even pours a glass of ACE juice. And then he offers you a rose. Because he runs two businesses together: selling coconut and roses too.
You bite the fruit, craving freshness and relief. Suddenly you’re no more in Varazze but in a Caribbean island, surrounded by tropicality. What a joy, this fruity afternoon. What a pleasure, this mix of guava and papaya and orange juice. Who put apricot jam in it, too? Never mind, whoever did it, did it right. Experiencing pure synesthesia, you also feel a touch of matches and a hint of walnuts, but it’s all worth it now. Now everyone wants the magic fruit seller. He takes long to leave and when he does – with an unexpectedly elegant posture – he leaves you with the satisfaction of ripe fruit enriched by sherry. In simple things lies excellence. 89/100.

Glen Grant 26 yo (1992/2019, Càrn Mòr, 47.3%)
a.k.a. “The wonderful surfer”

Unless you’re spending your summertime at the flat, quiet Adriatic seaside, in every beach there’s always a surfer, sent by Neptune to remind you how much you suck. Even if the waves are as high as Lego little men, there will always be a cool badass coming straight from Malibu just to make you feel fatter, flabby and whitish. One look at that light gold hair: aren’t you ashamed of that shiny mane? Then he takes off his shirt and flicks fruit muscles all over the place. A pear biceps, a melon deltoid, banana adductors, strawberry and raspberry abs. He smells like victory, lemon ice cream and pineapple cream pastry. With those blue eyes of aniseed and nutmeg. Then he gets the board and he surfs on the wave of the palate. He is perfectly balanced between the more controlled and dry soul of ginger, almond and white pepper and the sparkling exuberance of acrobatics, white chocolate, dried coconut and a touch of mint. It’s nice, it’s good. In the finish we imagine him in Tarifa, at the Pillars of Hercules between dried fruit and mango, driving away on his hippy Volkswagen Transporter while all the girls ogle with him. Accursed be your fullness that makes us feel so unfit. 90/100.