'In our language it means "mother's milk"'

 My induction into the bitter world of Fernet-Branca is going all too well – already I love the stuff. I think, however, even I might draw the line at galasiya, the (mercifully fictional) national tipple of (equally fictional) Voynovia. In this scene from James Hamilton-Paterson's Cooking with Fernet Branca, Marta has received a worrying visit from two local carabinieri, which, thanks in part to Gerald Samper's presence, has ended well. Relief all round. Samper tells what happens next...

'"This calls for a drink [declares Marta]. A very special drink from Voynovia ... Just an amaro [she tells the carabinieri]. If you like Fernet you'll love our galasiya."
"Well, just a small one, signora. We're really still on duty." 
... The glasses of dense black liquid are passed around. It looks like sump oil.
"Salute!" everyone echoes, and takes an obligatory quaff.
Holy bicycling Christ, I think as projectile tears leap from my eyes and splash into the glass. I dimly recall Marta having mentioned this stuff as being a more butch version of Fernet Branca made by huntsmen or something. Actually tasting the distillation of gall and lighter fuel simply confirms what I've long known, that Voynovians lack an essential element of human physiology. A central nervous system, possibly. Through dancing lenses of tears I can see the maresciallo has been equally hard hit but is bearing up with noble shreds of dignity. 
"Madonna putana della Madonna, ma quanti gradi ha?" he rasps at last, his vocal cords evidently cauterised.
"Ninety-two, I believe," says Marta brightly, examining the bottle. "But they seldom put it on the label. Everyone in Volnovya knows galasiya. In our language it means 'mother's milk'."
... The maresciallo's sidekick, I notice, is looking thoughtfully at his empty glass and shaking his head with an incredulous smile. A serious drinker. When his commanding officer has recovered enough to walk, the two men take their leave ... Watching through the window, I am touched to see [him] solicitously take his senior comrade's elbow before he finishes his totter to the car. All very mystifying, but the interlude has taught me one thing: that in a world containing galasiya, the brothers Branca must look to their laurels.'

I don't think even Kingsley Amis, the past master of writing about booze and its effects, could have topped that evocation of the impact of galasiya on the unwitting drinker.