To sip this on its own is nothing less than seven kinds of wrong; it hollers to you: "Sacre bleu! Where's the grass-fed beef?" The fruit is all black cherries and blackberries that dominate from the get-go, strong notes of graphite and dried thyme as the flag-wave for what's in the glass. This is a lean, mean savory machine. In your mouth, get ready for that graphite to morph into school-days pencil lead; to taste the tight, austere gunmetal smokiness of black tea leaves; for the fruit to go from dark to the blackest night. Put this alongside the tender, slightly charred, well-marbled rib-eye and all that darkness becomes like coal rubbed into a glittery diamond.