This week we drink the only spirit that comes with its own facial expression: Jeppson's Malört, Chicago's wormwood liqueur of legend. We taste it honestly — pine, grapefruit pith, and a finish the company itself describes as "fresh band-aids and earwax" — and we respect it deeply for being the single most honest product in the liquor cabinet. Then we profile the man who weaponizes it: the Chicago native with a deeply externalized masochistic streak who buys the shot purely to trick out-of-town guests, just so he can photograph their souls briefly leaving their bodies. A loving roast — and an argument that the Malört initiation is, somehow, an act of civic love. Tasting notes and character flaws, as always.