The bar I'm running at night lately is an interesting spot. Think of a bastard child of league of gentleman crossed with cheers and you are close.
Anyhow, we have a wretch of a chef, from an alpine European village. A degenarete really. He is neither young nor old, but crumbling mentally and physically.
Anyhow, last night I was drunk and sitting on the the outside of the bar, and was spitting on the bar footrail constantly, for I have terrible sinus always.
So, today, I went to work at 6pm, and the chef takes me aside to confide in me that, while cleaning in the morning, he found "this burnt caramel stuff" on the bar rail, and it "reminded him of smoking Speed in Europe", so he tasted it and "It tasted good".