When I was a teenager, my British born mother gave me a taste of English marmite. It is a thick, angry looking spread in a glass jar, imagine blackish brown jam. She buttered a slice of toast, then spread a thick layer of marmite on it. It tasted like heavily salted gasoline or lighter fluid. I spat it out and said “Mom, that's disgusting.” We had a rambunctious little Boston terrier who would eat anything, and he eagerly wolfed down a bite, then whined, yelped, and ran and hid behind the sofa!