If I had fancy dac gear I'd test it myself. But I know it's just the ASR version of audio cables.
My phone's a coathanger that does just as well as your mogamis.
(Then again, I can barely tell a Sansui X balanced from a cap-coupled amp, so it's even easier to discount my very correct opinion.)
Speaking of DACs, as well as coat hangers (which, I’ve discovered, come in many forms), I was doing work with a billionaire and art collector who spent his money like most of us do—that is, as we choose to and on what we value—whether on amplifiers or staff or real estate or jewelry or vehicles or boats or horses or drugs or newspapers or vacations or art or sex or interconnects or whatever—even expensive DACs.
I was meeting him at 9:00 am on a brisk winter day at his UES Manhattan townhouse. On the way from the subway, I grabbed a hot Starbucks coffee and walked the few blocks to his mansion.
The exact moment I arrived at his front door (without ringing or knocking or announcing myself)—without missing a step—it was opened by a doorman and I was greeted by name and escorted to the lobby elevator, which also immediately opened.
When I exited the elevator (without pushing a button), a butler took my Starbucks coffee and placed it on a silver tray, whispering to me that I wouldn’t be needing it; as another took off my coat in one swift movement, folded it over his arm, and vanished. If I hadn’t been surrounded by Picassos and Arps and Legers and Braques, I would have felt like I’d been perfectly mugged.
Five seconds later I was offered, from another silver tray, a cup of hot coffee in a white porcelain cup, and an array of sweeteners and creamers. Then, my host greeted me and we toured his home and art collection.
As we arrived back at the elevator to travel on to his country home upstate, my coffee cup was removed and my coat arrived back on my body—again, seamlessly.
We continued to engage in lively conversation, as the doors downstairs, including those to his awaiting limousine parked outside, seemingly opened on their own. When we sat down in the car, someone lowered tray tables, where bottles of cold water, a hot pitcher of coffee, fresh squeezed orange juice, warm scones, butter, and jam were placed. A white linen napkin magically appeared in my lap.
Back in NYC that early afternoon, we arrived, without a reservation, for lunch at his favorite restaurant. As soon as we entered, he was enthusiastically greeted by the staff.
Our coats, not quite as seamlessly, were removed by a woman and we were seated at
his table. “We weren’t expecting you,” the maître de’ said, “But we are happy to see you!” Almost immediately after we sat down, hors d'oeuvres and two ice-cold martinis arrived at the table—followed by wine, pastas, entrees, and desserts. (No menus or bills ever appeared.)
When we stood up to leave, our coats, again, were eased effortlessly onto our bodies.
There are coat hangers—and, then, there are coat hangers.