Bochet Mead, a whispered alchemy of flames and honey, emerges from the cauldron’s depths.
Our honey blend, golden and unyielding, meets an unrelenting heat. Stirring, stirring—until it spits black steam, a volcanic tantrum. The honey blisters, bursts, and transforms. 
 
Bochet, also known as burnt-honey mead, emerges from this fiery baptism. Its hue deepens, like the heart of oak barrels. Imagine toffee, molasses, and whispers of ancient bees.
 
The meadmaker, like an alchemist, Burns the brew. Honey meets Fire and saved by water, then time nods its approval. Fermentation whispers its secrets in French, turning sweetness into a Burnt Honey ambrosia.
 
It’s not true what we say, when we suggest that we tried to make a good mead and botched it only to French it up and call it Bochet, It was in fact the French mind that envisaged this variety originally
In 1393, a French writer penned the recipe for bochet in “Le Ménagier de Paris”. Amid advice on subjects long relegated to the archives, there it was: “Put it in a cauldron on the fire to boil.” Stir until the honey sings its darkened song. 
 
Fermentation nods, a secret pact. Bochet, a lost style resurrected, whispers of feasts and forgotten courts. of gentry and chateaus of elegance, 
 
Picture a glass of finished wild ferment bochet. Taste the honey’s defiance, the caramel’s embrace, and the centuries that vanished. It’s not just a drink; it’s a portal.
 
Over ice for those who seek a cool delight, ice cubes clink. Bochet Mead chilled and relaxed, waltzes across the palate. A sip, a memory—a frozen fiery kiss, an echo of French history
 
Bochet Mead, where flames meet sweetness, where obscurity yields to curiosity. Raise your goblet, fellow seeker, and sip from the well of forgotten lore.
 
So, raise your goblet, dear wanderer, and sip from the well of ages. Bochet Mead, the liquid echo of time, awaits your reverence.