I picked up this rarity at my neighborhood liquor shop while buying orange juice for my kids. It was sitting in a glass display cabinet marked "Sale!" next to the cash register and a crate of eggs that looked as if they were made of shellacked wood. Those ever-present eggs. Who buys them? Why are they a deep, glossy brown? After shelling out a mere 90 yen, I was the owner of what I was certain would be a deeply unpleasant beverage. Slated to expire in exactly 30 days, this coffee had probably aged on some dusty shelf for a good year before entering my (at times simian) life. A crack of the widemouth lid released notes of hazelnut, caramel and amaretto. Not a bad start. The coffee itself was not Elmer's Glue white, as I had feared, but rather a pleasant beige.

An expert sip accompanied by a professional smacking of the (huge and rubbery) lips was in order, so that's what happened next. This sip gave rise to many random thoughts that are difficult to parse now that I'm naked and agitated and very, very drunk. The overriding theme, I suppose, of these notions was surprise — surprise at how drinkable it was, surprise at how even though it tasted like a mocha milkshake that had been sitting in the back of a hail-damaged 1983 Mazda GLC for two days, it made me coo and waddle like a chimp in diapers. So in my leathery palm I cradle this can, hopped-up on its contents and gamboling about my apartment, lips peeled back and shrieking for eggs.

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