Dear Café Rose,
Humph. We discussed, when you first advertised yourself, that I had reservations about you. Your close association with Mr. Ford (his reality-defying ego confuses me) and your cost gave me pause.
But, you assured me, your notes would definitely include saffron, black pepper, roses of various stripes, coffee, incense, amber, sandalwood, and patchouli. “Even Tom,” you told me, “would not send me out into the world with a name like ‘Café Rose’ if I did not smell of café and roses.”
Yet all along you knew you were offering but a thin veneer of watery Bulgarian rose, some cold and stale office-coffeemaker dregs, and a mélange of messy leftovers. And all of them but the messy leftovers gone within 10 minutes, even when one applies three sprays on a single arm.
You’re a dog’s breakfast, and you’d better not come around here anymore. Not that I’d be able to smell you if you did, of course.
Bitterly, but without any real surprise,