Marseille

“Guys let’s take a shot,” Sho says as he hands out seven milky-looking shots that nobody asked for.

“What’s this?” Justin asks, wrinkling his nose.

“Some French stuff,” Sho says casually. “I just picked the first one on the list.”

I grip the glass and toss it back like a champion. As the one-point-five ounces of potency touch my tongue, a memory train roars to life. It burns. It burns loud; it burns clear.

“Fuuuck me that tasted like shit,” Brian yells, his face contorted in pain.

“What the fuck was that?” Dave asks, scrambling for the menu. “Pastis?”

“Yup, that’s pastis alright.”

The revolting taste harkens back to 2006 when we all had a cocktail called Machu Picchu that we all vomited back into the glass. In 2016, pastis has us all scrambling for chasers, a legendary summer drink in southern France raved by scores of writers and in literature no less.   

Renowned travel writer Peter Mayle had the following to say about pastis:

“For me, the most powerful ingredient in pastis is not aniseed or alcohol but ambience, and that dictates how and where it should be drunk. I cannot imagine drinking it in a hurry. I cannot imagine drinking it in a pub in Fulham, a bar in New York, or anywhere that requires its customers to wear socks. It wouldn’t taste the same.  There has to be heat and sunlight and the illusion that the clock has stopped. I have to be in Provence. (Peter Mayle, Toujours Provence)”

Mayle makes pastis sound like the elixir of life. DJ and I first crossed paths with this milky bombshell eight years ago in France. We followed Mayle’s exact recipe – Provence, summer sunshine, the outdoors at the port…the whole nine yards. The beverage came in a quarter-filled glass along with a jug of water. We tried it both neat and diluted, both to devastating results.

A two-time drinker now – and with the benefit of eight years of maturity – I offer my scathingly honest account:

“For me, the most powerful ingredient in pastis is not aniseed or alcohol but the drinkers themselves. I cannot imagine drinking it in a hurry. In fact, I cannot imagine drinking it at all, of my own will. Money has to be involved, and even then I would prefer to drink from my own dog’s water bowl. I have to be in Provence, already drunk, and on a dare. (Gerald Yeung)”