If they brought the running of the bulls to New Orleans’ French Quarter, this is the bottle that would stoke the mozos’ courage. Earthy, red-cherry rampage kicking up graham cracker dust, trampling fresh-baked beignets, sending red macarons flying in all directions, spilled sazerac cobblestones, rose petals cast from balconies on the runaway beasts—all to the tune of rich, chocolate-mousse jazz. The type of orchestrated, yet feral, energy you’d love to sit and watch… If you weren’t running for your life.
