Pastis of My Heart
A Love Letter to the Ritual of Sipping
It was only when I moved to France that I realized that I drank like an American. I drank to get drunk. I did not sip wine for pleasure, nor liqueurs for a post-dinner treat. I drank like a maximalist, with heavy pours of Jack Daniels cut with a splash of Diet Coke. My drinking culture was intense, founded on a decade of keg races, watermelon FourLokos, and oscillating between binging and sobriety.
At one of my first parties after moving to Europe, a friend of a friend arrived with a mysterious dark handle of “Ricard.” For hours before the meal, he and two other men sat in lawn chairs, diluting a yellowish syrup into murky cocktails and raucously laughing. Of course, I asked to try it.
If you’ve never smelled pastis, it has a deep odor of black licorice melting in the summer heat. It’s off-putting to the uninitiated nose. Its cloudy demeanor tricks the mind into expecting a cool, creamy drink, but my first gulp fired sharp anise through my nose and eyes. I had characteristically overserved myself, disregarded the mixer, and drank the potion with such enthusiasm I was left in tears.
Pastis became popular when absinthe, France’s flagship drink of the 19th Century, was banned a year into World War I. Despite the ban, the French maintained an insatiable appetite for strong, anise-flavored aperitifs. After seven dry years in Marseilles, Paul Ricard, an enterprising son of a winemaker, began building a cult-like following with a new concoction he called pastis. Absinthe’s little cousin, the petit jaune, soon became France’s preferred summer drink.
The honey-colored spirit is an inviting mix of Mediterranean anise seed, licorice from the Euphrates banks, and Provençal herbs of melissa, rosemary, and sage. Pastis requires a ritual alchemical preparation like absinthe, during which the potion becomes cloudy yellow, or louche. (If you drink too much, you can become louche yourself.)
Drinking pastis is as ritual as its preparation. Born in the abundant sunshine of Southern France, pastis is Provence in a glass, resonant of hazy coastal days, long lunches, and afternoon naps. A jaune is prepared by consciously mixing pastis with plenty of water and an ice cube that languidly melts into the afternoon as you slowly sip. The aperitif, coined as the “evening prayer of the French” stimulates your appetite and leaves gentle licorice kisses that linger on your tongue.
At 45% alcohol volume, pastis can pack a punch if you drink it like I did. This method, be warned, will also take all of the fun and pleasure out of the experience. My eagerness for immediate intoxication left a bitter, burning aftertaste against a backdrop of sweet afternoons as the French took their time preparing colorful pastis cocktails with syrups, lemonade, and sodas.
Consumption was always my means to an end, measured by efficiency, convenience, and speed. I pre-gamed with shots of cheap vodka so I’d be wasted by the time the party started. Drinking was a sport where there was no such thing as “just one.” I had a ton of fun, but plenty of nights that ended too soon, and even more I still don’t remember.
Pastis, as good things should, forces you to make it last; you can’t have every drop straight away. I spent my first months in France trying to drink everyone under the table, only to realize no one wanted to be under the table at all. They were seated at the table, making jokes, debating, and drinking well.
My initiation into the ritual of sipping shifted how I drink and eat. Working at a pace of pleasurable sips made time to savor and stretch out delicious days of ample eating and drinking. The point of a night out was to enjoy the company. The goal of a meal was to enjoy it. The purpose of a drink was to complement an experience, not create it. Perhaps, for me, being a better drinker might simply mean being a slower one. Perhaps, even more, a better life meant allowing pleasure to last instead of exhausting its most delicious bits.
