When my bread cools, I saw off a piece and put it in my mouth. The better language for describing the E300 is the massively more colorful conversation our mind has with itself when we eat something wonderful but just can’t convert into words. I slowly chew; the crust is thin and crunches like an eggshell; tiny flakes of toasted almondy-flavor pepper my taste buds. After that is the bread’s “meat,” as Lahey calls it. A soft, moist texture is made complex by its random voids and earthy-sweet flavor. To answer Allyson’s question, the E300 Benz is a meal tasted by your hands as the steering liquidly moves, by your heels as they read the floorboard’s economical description of the road’s surface, by the balls of your feet against the pedals as you press for power or stopping. It’s rich and subtle. Sliced bread is one-dimensional. This is five or six.