In the spirit of collegial concern, I want you to know that I’ve discovered what very well could be the scroogiest restaurant in America. By scroogiest, I mean that every aspect of the experience was fine-tuned to provide all things in penny-pinching minimality.

I won’t share the name or location of the restaurant except to say that it exclusively sells Panera Bread products and that I was in North Olmstead, Ohio when I made the discovery. I’ll leave the rest to you, the intuitive reader.

Specifically, I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. As a side, I was granted a choice between a bag of kettle-cooked chips and a baguette. Having just traveled three hours on a relatively empty stomach and seeing a nearby assortment of unusually small baguettes, I chose the chips. A drink was not included. I asked for a Coke. They did not have Coke. They had Pepsi. For me, either was fine. Concerning the beverage size, I did not specify one, assuming I’d be afforded a reasonable container.

The meal’s total came to $16.07.

I paid. The cashier asked for my name. I told her. She handed me the receipt and a tiny plastic cup, the kind you might fill with water before giving to a soccer player returning to the sidelines for a break. It could hold fluids, but to adequately quench thirst would require multiple refills from the cooler.

Assuming refills were free, I disregarded its size and wandered toward the beverage dispenser.

A few minutes passed before my name was called. A plate with a sandwich and an accompanying bag of chips was set on a countertop and nudged toward me. The sandwich had been cut in half. If I were to guess, each half was no more than two inches squared. Having already filled and consumed two cups of Pepsi, I filled the tiny vessel one more time before taking the underwhelming meal to go, sit, and eat.

I was given no napkins. I searched for a dispenser but found only a short stack of cocktail-style naperies near the beverage machine. I took a few and returned to my seat. I opened the bag of chips to pour them onto the plate. Barely five or six and a dusting of crumbs emerged.

Observing the pathetically thin particulars before me, I couldn’t help buy vocalize my disappointment. Anyone within listening distance heard me say, “For sixteen dollars, I could’ve gotten more from a hotel vending machine.” Regardless of my disappointment, I ate.

Before leaving, I visited the restroom.

After finishing my business, I waved my hand before the motion-sensing paper towel dispenser. As if the meal’s insufficiency wasn’t already enough, out came a portion of paper that was a fraction of the previously described sandwich’s width. Indeed, barely an inch scrolled forth. It took sixteen swipes of the less-than-responsive machine to get enough paper to dry my hands. In fact, by the time I had the paper in my hands, they were nearly air-dried from waving them before the sensor.

I share these things with you because they mirror the unfortunate realities one might encounter in other aspects of life—like sipping a whisky that overpromises and underdelivers. Just as my meal was an exercise in underwhelming portions and thin gestures of hospitality, some whiskies present themselves with grand labels and rich promises, only to fall woefully short when you actually take a sip. And as fate would have it, I recently came across just such a dram. It looked the part, sitting proudly on the shelf, but much like the miserly offerings of a particular restaurant in Ohio, it failed to deliver anything relative to its price tag, let alone the integrity of its upbringing.

For starters, while Kaigan Whiskey claims Japan, it’s likely the whiskey is little more than an American whiskey riding the unique Japanese vibe. A little bit of research will show that the details surrounding the region it heralds and the source river it claims just don’t add up. A little more digging and one realizes there is no Kaigan Distillery at all. Instead, the whiskey is a brand created for and sold by Total Wine.

As $16 for a would-be grilled cheese sandwich is a dreadful bait and switch, so also is Kaigan Whiskey’s attempt to pass itself off as something it clearly is not. The bottle suggests a depth of tradition and craftsmanship, evoking the allure of fine Japanese stock, but what it delivers is disappointingly thin—both in flavor and in character.

The nose is faint, offering little more than generic citrus that wafts medicinal saccharine. The palate offers hints of sour grapefruit and toast, but it is not a homemade breakfast. It’s more the hotel continental breakfast food recycled from yesterday’s uneaten portions.

The finish is a short rendition of the nose and palate. Thank the good Lord for this.

In the end, the Kaigan lacks even the fundamental complexities one would expect from a spirit making such grand claims. You desire a grilled cheese sandwich, not two grilled cheese-like nuggets. You expect an enjoyable stack of chips, not an afterthought of chip-like fragments. Much like the scroogiest restaurant and its overpriced meal, the Kaigan leaves you wondering where your money went.