The B-C is supposed to be some kind of Uebergrenache, the ultimate California statement. I hope that is not the case. What we have here is oaky, volatile Robitussin with a shot of Scotch. Truly wretched, I had to spit it. The guy who brought it (Frank, you have one helluva sense of humor!) wouldn’t even put it in his mouth once he had smelled it. ‘Nuff said.