“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the sensory-deprivation chamber,” said a voice to a room of hostages, your blogger included. We were led two-by-two into a pitch-black tunnel in the West Village last night, not knowing what to expect. We were told only that we would be tasting Pernod Ricard’s Glenlivet Alpha—a scotch so rare the company has produced only 3,500 bottles, none of which are for sale in the United States. But before we imbibe, it is clear the company’s brand ambassador Craig Bridger plans to torture us first.

In the darkness, he tells us he’s not wearing pants, which is surprisingly inoffensive to the rest of the crowd. Perhaps they are giggling because they are slightly afraid. I wonder if I will ever see my iPhone again, which they confiscated from me, prior to assigning me and another hostage to a waiter in infrared goggles and a gray suit vest.

Our waiter introduces himself as “Kevin,” and I ask him how long he trained for this moment.

“All day,” he said, adding that he’d heard about this job through an anonymous “friend.”

He then forced our hands on his back and led us down to a table where we were instructed to take a seat. That’s when Bridger ordered us to extend our hand into the darkness and grab a glass of an unknown liquid. He announced its contents: a 100-proof whiskey with no label, no tasting notes, and no information about its aging process.

We were ordered to “nose” the glass. “Really allow that magnificent bouquet to waft over you,” he said, barring us from actually "mouthing" the glass, which is what most of us were there to do. Our guards quickly removed the tumblers from our hands and replaced them with one full of fragrant cinnamon. We were forced to inhale. My throat threatened to cinch itself shut.

Next came a container of fresh-baked oatmeal cookies, which we were not allowed to eat, only fleetingly sniff. In a move straight out of Torture 101, the tin was torn from our hands after the briefest of sniffs. They were trying to break our spirits.

Next came the scent of liquid vanilla extract. Then came more “nosing.” How much can one person endure?

After what seemed to be hours, we were permitted to take one small sip of Glenlivet Alpha. “I hope you’ll find that the palate confirms what the nose hypothesized,” Bridger said. Words had ceased to make sense in this world. I sipped, and tasted the round, rich flavor of the scotch. It was carefully spiced, but sweet and fruity. A smooth dessert in a glass. Then it was torn from our hands once again.

Next came a small pittance of food—three almonds and a molar-sized chunk of pineapple. The latter we were forced to lickbefore we ate.

A helpless voice, at this moment, whispered into the darkness. “It fell into my lap!”

No one answered or offered aid.

As a grand finale, they slipped a tiny, frail item into each of our hands. Slightly panicked by this point, I crushed mine between my ungainly, blind fingers. It was a banana-cream pie. I licked it gratefully from my palm, and the goggled waiters laughed in mockery.

My throat was dry, and they thankfully cracked open a fresh bottle of cold water, allowing us each one small gulp. The glass of whiskey was forced back into our hand without notice. Again with the nosing. Always the nosing. Then, one glorious sip and it was over.

“Thank you for joining us. Your waiter will escort you back to light.”

“Do we get to keep the glass?” a fellow hostage inquired. But it always already too late. Our hands were placed on the shoulders of our waiter, as we were led above ground to 632 Hudson. We were released to the streets of the West Village. I didn’t have the slightest idea of where I was.