Provence has been fortunate in its laureates. Long praised by Medieval bards in lyrical odes composed in soupy Provencal Occitan dialect—and so popular among 14th century Catholic clergy that they temporarily relocated the Papacy there from Rome—it has the rare distinction of having inspired career-defining works from such artists and writers as Paul Cezanne, Emile Zola, Marcel Pagnol, Vincent van Gogh, and Albert Camus. In fact, so many have been persuaded by these famous ambassadors to visit the region and experience for themselves the “light” that so aroused van Gogh, that during the mid-1990s the region became known as the “California of Europe” as much for its gridlocked traffic as for its relaxed, outdoor lifestyle. And though this has meant that “summering in Provence” has become as much of a weary cliché as singing the praises of its rustic, biscuit-colored villages and fields of lavender, it’s certainly not difficult to appreciate the region’s beauty in spite of the crowds.

 

However, if the thought of spending your two-week August vacation elbowing your way through the narrow streets of Menerbes, Bonnieux, Carpentras, or Cavaillon past hordes of peevish English pensioners in search of a decent cup of tea fills you with anxiety, then I advise you to do as the locals do and self-medicate with alcohol. After all, where better than a shaded terrace set back from the crowded streets armed with a cold glass to view and poke fun at the curiously shaped sunburn patterns sported by those ghosts from cooler, damper climes? Not to mention that there are few better ways of savoring the agreeable Provencal life than with one of its signature flavors, pastis.

 

 

I forget when I had my first pastis, but I very much doubt I was anywhere close to the legal drinking age. My mother used to order one occasionally during our annual family retreat from sodden English summers seeking the reliable sunshine and warmth of the south of France, and, perhaps thinking that, since it was diluted with water, it was a soft drink, I took my first sip. And ever since, the sight of a glass, perhaps a third-full with yellowish-green pastis and a solitary cube of ice next to a sweating pitcher of water, never fails to remind me of those halcyon summer vacations of my youth, of warm stone floors under my feet, the hum of cicadas in the bushes, and the prospect of something delicious and garlicky for dinner.

 

It’s certainly an evocative memory and it (mostly) prevents me from drinking pastis during weather that necessitates wearing shoes or socks. To me, pastis simply connotes relaxation and warm summer evenings, and it seems I’m not alone. In his second book, Toujours Provence, all-around Francophile author Peter Mayle says that he cannot imagine drinking pastis in a hurry. “There has to be heat and sunlight and the illusion the clock has stopped.” Now, few of us are lucky enough to be able to regularly enjoy our pastis with a view of Mount Ventoux and fragrant fields of lavender swaying into the distance as he does, but I think the recipe for enjoying pastis is one that can travel anywhere given the right kind of weather (which most of us are getting this summer) and the right attitude.

In the US, pastis is fairly easy to find. Almost all decent French bistros sell it, or at least, have a bottle of it behind the bar, and are most likely to stock one or both the two most popular brands in France: Pernod and Ricard. Perhaps owing to the fact that it’s not that popular over here, few places really know how to serve pastis properly. I was once served a 12 ounce glass of pastis at restaurant in Brooklyn, NY, was charged $5 for it, and barely managed to make it through the ensuing meal without falling off my chair. Pastis, you see, is 45% alcohol and should always be diluted.

 

Interestingly, the alcohol content has a lot to do with the rise in the popularity of pastis. At the end of the 19th century, absinthe was hugely popular, but being distilled from wormwood and wine must to around the 68% mark, it was hallucinogenic, addictive and dangerous—Van Gogh’s visions of the Provencal sky in his magnificent “Starry Night” are reputed to have been brought about by absinthe, as was his ill-starred ear-slicing episode—and so in 1915 it was banned in France.

 

No doubt dismayed by this turn of events, owner of one of the largest absinthe distilleries at the time, Jules Pernod decided to move with the times, adapting his recipe to use legal and readily-available anise seed—found in abundance throughout the region—in place of wormwood. 

 

 

Paul Ricard, though, was a relative late-comer to the business when he launched his own brand in 1932. He managed to overcome this though, with a canny knack for promotion, subtitling his beverage le vrai pastis de Marseille, or, the true pastis of Marseille. The sprawling, souk-like port city of Marseille on the Provencal coast is renowned in France for its salty reputation and its inhabitants are understood to be blageurs—exaggerators, liberal with the truth. These traits lend Ricard a slightly exotic quality that has had it flying off the shelves ever since. Indeed, Ricard’s pastis is so synonymous with the city that he has a racing circuit at Castoullet, just outside Marseille, named for him—le Circuit Paul Ricard, though it is highly recommended that those partaking of his beverage do not attempt to reach racing speeds on any kind of machinery.

 

So, whether you find yourself in Provence or just with an hour to spare before dinner one evening this summer and you feel like partaking of Provence’s signature aperitif, here are some tips on how to enjoy your pastis. Find yourself somewhere to sit outside—the fire-escape on your apartment building is just as appropriate as a nicely furnished back-deck (just be sure to hold on tightly if you’re rocking your pastis on the former). Remove your shoes and socks. Place feet on warm ground (if it’s within reach, otherwise steady yourself according to your environment). Now, take a high-balls glass and pour a generous shot of whichever brand of pastis you like—depending on the quality of your liquor store there may be several, including the excellent Henri Bardouin, to choose from. Then, fill-up the glass to about ¾ full with cold water and watch the pastis change from syrupy and yellow (or slightly green in the case of Pernod) to a milky pastel. Top off with a couple of lumps of ice, and enjoy.

 

It’s definitely worth noting that it is common practice in France for pastis drinkers to re-dilute their pastis once they’ve drunk it down a ways, extending it and, perhaps, sobering-up a bit. Beware though, it’s France’s number one apertif for a reason—and the French don’t prepare for their national sport (gastronomy) with just any old booze in hand—pastis never fails to give you a roaring appetite, so you might want to try it with a bowl of tapenade and some rounds of crusty bread. Enjoyed in this way with bare feet and the sun sinking into the horizon, it’s the perfect way to begin a relaxing summer meal, preferably also taken outdoors, surrounded by the gentle noises and aromas of the season.