If they sent an F-1 race winding through the streets of an ancient Egyptian market, this would be the bottle they’d pour in the winner’s circle. Fine-tuned racing machines, with tart pomegranate precision and a black licorice growl, roaring through stalls full of exotic spices, kicking up saffron and turmeric and dusty earth. Figs squashed to jam and white pepper wafting into the crowd. Pharaoh looking on from his throne on high as the winner does cinnamon donuts, wondering just how hard it would be to fit that car into his tomb.
