Absolution from Absinthe's absence
Libation's charm comes from the ceremony
By Bill Lascher 12/20/2007
Our tale begins on a fall day in the offices of a local newspaper. A writer passed on to her editor — me — a Nov. 13 story from the New York Times about the resurging popularity of absinthe in the United States, and thus, a new obsession emerged.
The article described how the drink — which earned an inaccurate reputation as a mighty hallucinogen that caused painters, writers and others to go mad — was experiencing a resurgence. Two bottlers — one Swiss and the other French — recreated 19th century absinthe recipes. Those recipes were analyzed by United States government authorities who deduced that the recipes did not contain enough thujone — the chemical supposedly responsible for absinthe’s nefarious reputation — to be prohibited in this country, the Times reported. Soon afterward, the companies’ products were legally made available in the United States, becoming the first “authentic” absinthe recipes for sale in nearly 100 years.
The news meant a chance to explore how the new legitimate recipes in the states would stand up to legendary Czech varietals I tried as a college student and an Oregonian home brew a distiller in Portland once shared with my brother and me. Nostalgia obscured my mixed feelings about the actual substance as my excitement grew.
Although more local retailers probably carry the Lucid Absinthe Supérieure and Kübler Absinthe Superieure mentioned in the Times article, the editor zeroed in on two who have come through before with obscure libations: Regal’s Wine & Spirits in Ojai, and the Wine Castle in Ventura. It was difficult to justify Lucid’s $80 price tag at both stores, where the drink sells for $20 more than the Beverages and More chain and other locations.
It was strange that I’d find it hard to spend that money on what, at that price, would probably be an amazing bottle of wine, but I hesitated little on plunking it down for a harsh, anise-flavored concoction that my licorice-hating friends were unlikely to enjoy. Lucid’s marketers are certainly milking the Absinthe mythos, as evidenced by the Web site www.drinklucid.com, where the piano of Chopin’s Nocturne in B-Flat Minor adds suffocating atmosphere to a site emulating the bottle’s design.
Regardless, I had made my choice. My excitement still churned and the spirit of adventure grew heavy as the night approached.
Finally, night descended around a Downtown Ventura apartment complex to the strains of otherworldly classical music. Two figures — a man and a woman — approached the building’s rear gate and a brick walled corner unit. They greeted the lone occupant — me — as they neared the wrought iron bars, their voices piercing the still air. I leapt and shrieked, my body convulsing in terror.
I recovered and recognized the visitors as friends just as they squeezed through a corner of the fence. I let them in, my heart still pounding on waves of adrenaline. Their faces were giddy, expectant. Even as they moved from a blanket of dark skies to the comfort of electric light and hardwood floors, the air continued to percolate with anticipation. We chatted furtively, as if we could be punished for our plans.
As we awaited our other companions I made the final preparations. On an old wooden desk I set out five clear glasses. A sleek, dark bottle stood on the edge of the desk, two verdant eyes staring straight ahead from its surface. Their earnest solemnity and the fin du siecle overtones of the label evoked the practiced misery of a high school drama reading his first Rimbaud and fantasizing about rainy nights along the Seine.
One more guest arrived and I peeled off the bottle’s foil, twisted off the cork and poured four glasses amber than emerald shots. Gently laying a slotted spoon across the mouth of one glass, I placed a sugar cube on the spoon, then slowly poured cold water until the sugar dissolved. As a whiff of licorice and sage floated into the air the fluid turned a soft, milky white. The act was repeated until each glass but one — that of a guest who would arrive later — was filled.
At my urging we toasted the 19th century, then brought the drink to our lips. Each tasted cautiously, hopefully, but ultimately found disappointment. The watered down anise tones stirred thoughts of Sambuca, not the green dragon we all both secretly feared and hoped for.
In that moment, the entire façade of the experience collapsed. With it, the reality of adulthood set in, and we remembered this was just another libation, although one caught in the clouded aura of its mythology. It was ultimately just a drink — a strong drink, but just a drink.
Snobbish connoisseurs might claim that to expect otherwise would be foolish, that tales of absinthe’s near mystical qualities were inflated by forces with a vested interest in its demonization. Yet those same individuals perpetuate the myth, trying to outdo each other with tales of ceaselessly more authentic absinthe sampling. Like indy rock fans who knew the band before it was cool, they denounce the drink’s newfound popularity even as they rave about its complexity.
But simply because we found ourselves in a different altered reality than that which we expected, the experience wasn’t for the worse. We may have abandoned the fantasy just as the fantasy abandoned us. Yet, instead of an image carefully constructed by our excitement — in truth, it was my friends swept up by my own bubbling enthusiasm — we created a new tradition, an old tradition.
We created a new legend and celebrated the simple presence of new friends sharing a new experience and laughing for hours. We abandoned tradition even in our drink of choice for the evening, which we began to drink in shots or left behind in favor of our favored poisons, which we enjoyed, straight up.
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