J. Peterman: I was halfway through the Umbrian hills, trench coat billowing like the mainsail of a schooner, when I first tasted something like it — bitter as betrayal, black as a moonless Balkan night, and twice as invigorating. 15W40 Dark Italian Roast. It doesn’t so much say “coffee” as it declares war on your circadian rhythm.
Sgt. Rock (gruffly, lighting a cigar): This ain’t your hipster’s latte-art bean juice. This brew punches harder than a Kraut ambush at the Siegfried Line. One cup and you're ready to crawl under barbed wire or argue with a colonel. Hell, maybe both.
Peterman: There’s a viscosity to it — yes, viscosity — reminiscent of the oil-stained spoons of Moroccan truck stops, where men wear stories on their faces and coffee must be earned. A deep roast, bordering on the metaphysical. Not for the faint of palate.
Rock: It’s got that diesel-powered depth. Hints of charred walnut, scorched leather, and post-traumatic espresso. Drink this and you won’t sleep — not because of the caffeine, but because your ancestors demand action.
Peterman: I drank it, and suddenly felt the urge to purchase a decommissioned Vespa and ride it across an abandoned airfield. This coffee dares you to live dangerously.
Rock: Or die caffeinated.
Peterman (wistfully): 15W40 — it’s not just a roast. It’s a lifestyle. The kind best lived at full throttle, preferably on two wheels and with questionable border paperwork.
Verdict: Drink if you dare. But pack light. The road ahead is dark, hot, and gloriously over-roasted.