“How do you like this shit?” sez Säure.
“Hübsch,” allows Gustav. “A trifle stahlig, and perhaps the infinitesimal hint of a Bodengeschmack behind its Körper, which is admittedly süffig.”
“I would have rather said spritzig,” Säure disagrees, if that indeed is what it is. “Generally more bukettreich than last year’s harvests, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, for an Haunt Atlas herbage it does have its Art. Certainly it can be described as kernig, even — as can often be said of that sauber quality prevailing in the Oued Nfis region — authentically pikant.”
“Actually, I would tend to suspect an origin of somwhere along the southern slope of Jebel Sarho,” Säure sez — “note the Spiel, rather glatt, and blumig, even the suggestion of a Fülle in its würzig audacity –”
“No no no, Fülle is overstating it, the El Abid Emerald we had last month had Fülle. But this is obviously more zart than that.”
The truth is that they are both so blitzed that neither one knows what he’s talking about, which is just as well, for at this point comes a godawful hammering at the door and a lot of achtungs from the other side.
-Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow, 1973