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Absinthe Goes Stateside

A U.S. company has decided to manufacture absinthe for sale in the United States. For those who have never tried it, absinthe is an anise-flavored liqueur with a taste similar to that of black licorice—everybody’s favorite flavor. Well, perhaps not, but absinthe has always been about more than mere taste. Its reputation and history are of mythic proportions. It is the ultimate insider cocktail, the one that says you have been around the block—not just the block in your neighborhood, but the croisette in Cannes, or the Piazza Duomo in Milan. Absinthe possesses more cool factor than Hemingway’s mojitos and James Bond’s martinis together—shaken or stirred.

Absinthe originated in Switzerland, but reached the height of its popularity during the Belle Époque in France, particularly among Parisian artists and writers. Name the figure and he or she had a relationship with absinthe. Oscar Wilde penned verse about it, and painters such as Degas (his L’absinthe appears above), Toulouse Lautrec, and others made the drink a subject of their work—and a prime objective of their evenings. References to Pernod—the most popular brand of absinthe at that time—abound in early twentieth century fiction the way "Moet" pops up in American rap songs. Over time, absinthe gained a reputation for being dangerously addictive, even psychologically damaging, with the chemical thujone being fingered as the culprit. By 1915, the drink was banned in many European countries and the United States, even though there was no evidence—then or now—showing it to be any more psychoactive or addictive than ordinary alcohol.

A black market for absinthe arose. Owning a bottle became a sign of prestige. People plied one another for their absinthe conections. In the early 1990s the European Union legalized it once again, but in the United States, the chemical thujone remained a controlled substance. Fortunately, the law of the U.S. has never yet been the law of the world, and Americans could try absinthe simply by boarding an airplane and flying far away. The first time I tried the drink was in Finland. I discovered that despite the presence of thujol, star anise, fennel and grand wormwood, absinthe’s main ingredient is really its cloak of ritual. Even in a crowded bar in Helsinki, where people probably drink absinthe fairly often, people tend to observe the process. As the drink is prepared, you begin to feel spotlighted, like a violinist about to take a solo.

One reason people may watch is because preparing an absinthe is a detailed undertaking, with a somewhat illicit taint. The machinations bear superficial resemblance to those for preparing a spike of heroin—this is if you use the burn method, which was preferred in the bar I was at (pictured above). In the burn method, a spoon containing a sugar cube is placed over the glass and the liqueur is poured over the cube until the glass is filled. The cube is then lighted. As it burns, cold water is dripped over the sugar, extinguishing the flame and diluting the drink to taste. The components that are not soluble in water, mostly those from the anise and fennel, cloud the drink, resulting in a milky opalescence called the louche. The flame also burns off some of the alcohol, doubly tempering the drink—not a bad idea when dealing with a substance that commonly tops out at 140 proof.

By the time you bring the absinthe to your lips things will have quieted down a fraction in the bar. People will have noticed the cool blue flame, and are perhaps discussing the first time they tried absinthe themselves, or explaining the ritual to friends. In that way, absinthe seems a superior drink to me—it changes the mood in a bar, very slightly. In that way it’s very much like the pop of a champagne cork. It’s a signal to others that the evening is gearing up just a little.

There are other methods for drinking absinthe. The bar where I ordered it in Portugal just a few months ago didn’t subscribe to the flame technique. I did a round with the bartender and a girl, and the bartender filled a shot glass first, added a sugar-covered lemon and skipped the water entirely. He mentioned that a good quality absinthe doesn’t necessarily require sugar either, but that girls overwhelmingly prefer the drink sweetened. I knew from looking at labels that some Swiss distillers recommend sugar-free consumption of their brands, but for my money, the sugar helps. In this case he used brown sugar—a surprise, but a pleasant one.

As far as absinthe driving men to madness, I can say that while I may have gone mad later that evening, it had nothing to do with the absinthe, but more likely the many cuba libres I drank afterward and the fact that I stayed out in the bars until 4:30 a.m. Every time I drink absinthe this happens. But I think it simply means that I only order it when I mean to signal unusually evil intentions for the night. I used to carry a small lock which I used as a keyring, and it served the same purpose. On certain nights I would use a key to open the lock. The open lock meant Lord Pig was loose. Absinthe is the same for me—it means my primal self is free.

The U.S. company planning to market absinthe—Viridian Spirits of Manhasset, N.Y.—has invented a version free of thujol to avoid any nasty legal entanglements. It also plans to cut back the anise flavor, producing something more palatable for Americans. Other manufacturers have done exactly this in other countries. For instance Czech absinthe contains little or no anise, which makes it considerably more bitter, but also does away with the black jellybean flavor. Whether Viridian’s absinthe-lite will catch on is another question entirely. Already I hate the brand name—Lucid—because it seems like a disclaimer, a one-word public service announcement stenciled on a bottle of 140-proof booze. When you can already see the minds of the legal protection team at work in the name of a product you have to feel some suspicion. Perhaps Lucid's marketers don't mean it that way, but in the end the name doesn't matter. The idea of American absinthe doesn't sound quite right. As I told a friend: “It doesn’t really have that cool factor, does it? It’s like smoking a cigar that isn’t Cuban.”

Labels: absinthe, degas, helsinki, portugal

posted by Egan Ehlers @ 9:29 AM