L'absinthe by Edgar Degas 1876I first tried this magical elixir while in Prague in the fall of 2000. My mate Mack and I descended into an underground pub and sat down at a long wooden table; he ordered a brew (the beer in The Czech Republic is second to none) and I asked for an absinthe. Although we both ended up buying multiple bottles at the end of the week and bringing them back to Paris with us, I suspect on this first occasion he wanted me to play the role of the guinea pig. The burly Czech waitress asked me if I'd ever tried absinthe before and when I replied with a negative she gave me a crafty, knowing look and shuffled back to the bar, stopping at a table full of German tourists along the way to report what the stupid American had just ordered. I imagine she must have said something like, "Get ready for a good show." A very cruel race, these Eastern Europeans.
Now, I must make it clear that though I'd never actually sampled it, I'd read about the ritual of drinking absinthe in books by Hemingway and Sartre and I was expecting to be served with the same ceremony. Their characters would typically receive a tumbler with some absinthe in the bottom, a sugar cube, a slotted absinthe spoon, and a pitcher of water. One would balance the spoon across the rim of the glass, place the sugar cube upon it, and then pour the water through both the sugar and the spoon. As the sugar water makes contact with the clear emerald liquid, the oils within it are emulsified and the bitter wormwood-derived liquor swirls into a milky, opalescent concoction. One would then sip the resulting mixture like a cocktail and proceed with a discussion on Existentialism or the end of The Age of Revolutions or something else equally cultured. This, I later learned, is "the French method" for imbibing absinthe: it is very refined and, with all the accoutrements, has the artful appeal of a Japanese tea ceremony...it also has very little in common with "the Czech method," to which I was about to be introduced.
Our Teutonic barmaid/tormentor (let's call her "Conan") brought me a whiskey glass filled with about 3 or 4 shots of the green fairy. She looked at me and inquired in her broken English whether or not I knew "how to dreenk." I glanced from her to the bartender, to the other waitress, to the tableful of Germans, and to my friend Mack -- all of whom smiled back at me expectantly -- but nowhere did I spy the intricately carved spoon and ewer of water that I expected. Confused, I shook my head. She grunted, broke into a broad grin, and put a cube of sugar onto an (gasp!) ordinary, rather sad-looking spoon: this she dunked into the absinthe to soak the sugar. She then produced a lighter from her pocket, gave me the spoon, and lit it on fire.
The green sugar burned an alternately blue and invisible flame like a bunsen burner. The cube bubbled and crackled, and caramelized and melted, all while encased in the azure flame at the end of my spoon. The room fell silent as the flame shimmered higher and brighter. It was beautiful, and all else around me seemed to dim. For a thrilling moment my idyllic notions of turn-of-the-century Parisian cafes returned. Then the flame guttered and died; the waitress grabbed my wrist and forcefully guided the spoonful of smoldering melted sugar into the glass, stirring it vigorously. "Now SHOUP!" she bellowed, while gesturing with her gigantic ham-fist towards her face, as if she were taking a shot. I think I might have giggled and muttered some lame excuse about wanting to sip it (like those oh-so-refined French!) to savor the taste. I don't really remember what I said. All I remember is that she weighed more, and had more testosterone, than Mack and me combined.
"NO! HAHAHA! SHOOOOOOOUUP!" She pushed the glass into my face and threw my head back. I gulped: I felt like I'd just swallowed a glassful of magma. I felt rivulets of molten rock percolating down into my esophagus and spreading into my gut. I had to look down to make sure my torso wasn't engulfed in licorice flames. Then the real pain kicked in. I couldn't catch my breath – I could only exhale ethanol fumes; my sinus cavities burned like I'd just snorted a line of anise-flavored wasabi; tears shot from my eyes like twin squirtguns. Have you ever seen that old Looney Tunes cartoon in which Bugs Bunny drinks the mad scientist's potion and turns green, then red, then plaid, then polka-dotted? That's what happened to my skin. The barmaid gave me good-natured slap on the back; it felt like a punch from a linebacker. The waitresses, the bartender, and the Germans all roared with laughter, and I knew then why the word schadenfreude is Germanic in origin. After wiping my tears off his face, Mack (good ol' American Mack) scooped me up and ushered me outside to the cheers and toasts of our new German and Czech friends. Eastern Europeans...such a cruel race.
