WINE
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder
By Mark Criden

Illustration by JP Thimot.
Here’s simple math as practiced by the 19th Century Morals Police: Absinthe + Van Gogh = Depravity. Proof = Missing ear.

There’s no doubt our man Vincent was tormented by poverty, heartbreak, and mental illness. But if you were a prohibitionist in France, there was only one evil insidious enough to precipitate a lobectomy: the emerald-colored drink called absinthe. And there’s bad news if you’re concerned about a full set of ears today: after a hundred-year ban, absinthe is back.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the case against the drink dubbed “the Green Fairy” pretty much made itself. Scratch a debauched artiste, and you’d find an absimaniac. Modigliani, de Maupassant, Strindberg, Manet, Rimbaud, Gauguin, Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec, and—oh yes,—Van Gogh were all heavy users. Poe, Wilde, Mary Shelley, and later, Hemingway, Maugham, Picasso, and London were enthusiastic disciples as well.

A 150-proof distillate of wormwood, anise, and fennel, absinthe wholly captivated the intellectual elite of 19th century Paris. Its reputation and use spread widely among artists, writers, and professional café habitués, who claimed it raised their perceptions and consciousness, allowing them to turn out more inspired work.
But in addition to the Absinthe Effect, there was the Absinthe Affect, the elaborate voodoo required to prepare the drink. Because it’s both high octane and bitter, absinthe needs to be diluted and sweetened, so pour 2 ounces into a glass, then place a sugar cube atop a flat, perforated spoon that rests on the rim. Slowly drip 4-5 ounces of ice-cold water over the cube, which slowly dissolves into the absinthe. The emerald liquor releases a floral bouquet and clouds—or “louches”—into an opalescent greenish yellow.

With trés cool ritual and repute, absinthe became so popular that in most cafés, 5 p.m. signaled l’heure verte (“the green hour”) and by 1880, it became the drink of France. This naturally alarmed the Bushies of the Belle Époque, who were indignant at the notion of artists enjoying themselves. They funded a series of biased medical experiments that portrayed absinthe as a dangerously addictive, psychoactive drug. In 1890, the book Wormwood: A Drama of Paris vilified the stuff, highlighting the downward spiral of hallucinations, degeneracy, and homicidal mania that inevitably follows a sip. It was Reefer Madness for the fin de siècle.

The final nail was driven by a drunken Swiss farmer who, in 1905, murdered his entire family. The headlines (“Absinthe made him do it!”) ignored the inconvenient facts that he drank, in addition to two glasses of absinthe, a crème de menthe, a cognac and soda, two bottles of wine, and two belts of brandy the day of the murders. The farmer, and absinthe by extension, was convicted of murder the following year. Dozens of countries—ours included—banned the stuff.

But like all results dependent on the cohabitation of religion and science, one’s mileage may vary. Most of the blame for the drink’s supposed side effects was heaped on wormwood and its active ingredient—the stimulant thujone. But modern research has shown that thujone was barely present in 19th century absinthes. And none of the evidence used to declare absinthe a health hazard has withstood the test of time, or shown it to be any more dangerous or psychoactive than ordinary alcohol. The hallucinations, in other words, were themselves a hallucination.

Thanks largely to the efforts of the chemist and historian Ted Breaux, absinthe is making a dramatic comeback nearly a century after its near-global ban. Working with original antique copper absinthe stills in Saumur, France, and using the same recipes and ingredients—including wormwood—employed by his 19th-century predecessors, Breaux helped convince the Europeans to adopt a safe thujone threshold of 10 parts per million; when the FDA adopted them in 2007, the way was paved for an American revival as well.

The first legal absinthe to be sold in America in nearly a century, the 124-proof French Lucid, sold out at $60 a bottle as soon as it was released last year. And now, at least two other brands, Kübler from Switzerland (about $75) and St. George Absinthe Verte from California (about $80), are currently being sold in the United States. All are made from a classic distilled blend of wormwood, anise, and fennel, along with other herbs and spices.

Despite the romance, absinthe is not for the faint of heart. Its taste is strong—with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball—and unless you’re a fan of Pernod, or Good & Plenty Martinis, it takes some getting used to. Even with the sugar and ice water dilution, the flavor is full-bore and uncompromising. Take a sip and you’ll think, “Holy mother of God, what just exploded in my mouth?”

There are some differences, of course. Lucid is dry and herbal; its anise taste is prominent but not overwhelming. It harmonizes with the other elements of the flavor, resulting in a sophisticated complexity with soft notes of wood and earth, spice and flowers, and an evocative depth of flavor. St. George is more robust and earthy, and packs a tongue-numbing wallop.

There’s no doubt the pouring/diluting/louching ritual adds to the enjoyment, providing a kind of fetishism that makes you feel trés chic. Your second glass will go down easier, and by the third, you’ll likely decide that, yes, you like the taste of absinthe. And then you’ll notice: the buzz has an odd way of focusing the mind.

Though fortified with formidable alcohol, a depressant, absinthe is also infused with powerful stimulants resulting in a very odd lucid drunkenness. With absinthe, you’ll be both intoxicated and clear-headed, with the buzz inversely proportionate to the powerful flavor. An aged single malt scotch or a 1961 Haut Brion will bring on a roaring, vision-inducing drunk, but with absinthe, the effect is far subtler. It’s the difference between Kid Rock and kid gloves. If the absinthe of old was like this, it’s not hard to see why it had such a maniacal following.

But no matter how lucid you feel, don’t operate heavy machinery, and don’t drive. And just to be safe, keep sharp objects away from your ears.

Mark Criden (mcriden@yahoo.com) is a nonprofit executive and the former chair of the Buffalo Branch of the International Wine & Food Society.


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