Provence takes its drinking seriously, and there are vigorous differences of opinion about the merits or faults of everything from Champagne to bottled water. The majority of drinkers, however, would agree that the most popular ways to relieve a Provençal thirst are pastis and rosé, two very different drinks, each with its enthusiastic supporters.
First, pastis, a most deceptive drink. With ice cubes, and diluted with the recommended five parts of water until its color changes from gold to an opaque greenish white, it seems light, refreshing, and innocuous. On a hot day, the first one slips down so easily that your empty glass takes you by surprise. You have another. Not until you stand up are you reminded that pastis, with 45 percent alcohol, is more powerful than almost any brand of whiskey, vodka, or Cognac. How the French manage to drink twenty million glasses of it every day (as they do) and still function is one of life’s mysteries.
According to legend, pastis was the brainchild of a hermit who lived in the Luberon, in a hut festooned with plants and herbs that he had gathered from the hills. Hunters and other passersby would see him from time to time, crouched over a cauldron as he simmered his curious concoctions. Many years of simmering passed. And then came the plague.
A symptom during its final stages was a terrible debilitating thirst, which, if left unchecked, would end in extreme dehydration and death. One of the villages most severely affected was Cucuron, where 942 inhabitants died. And then, just in time, a stranger arrived in the village. The surviving inhabitants, desperately weakened, were astonished at his appearance. He glowed with health, a rare sight in those sickly times. It was our hermit, who had been protected from the effects of the plague by drinking his herbal potions. He distributed doses to all the surviving villagers. Miraculously, their thirst was quenched and they were cured.
The hermit, his work there done, moved down to Marseille. He had clearly had enough of the hermit life, because he opened a bar by the old port. It was called Au Bonhomme Passe-Soif (the fellow who conquers thirst), and the specialty of the house was, of course, the magic drink that banished thirst. In time, the name changed from Passe-Soif to the Latin-inspired Passe-Sitis, and from there to pastis.
If you happen to like the flavor of aniseed, there is no more delightful drink than pastis, but I have to admit that only in Provence can I enjoy it as one should. Surroundings influence taste, and I am used to sunshine and blue skies with my Ricard. It just isn’t the same drink in a restaurant in London or New York, possibly because of the dress code. Pastis, suits, and socks don’t mix.
The second liquid standby, rosé, has been treated in the past with great disdain by the wine snobs. “No sooner made than drunk. No sooner drunk than pissed away.” This jewel of scorn was the response of a wine critic—was he sober at the time?—when asked for his considered opinion of vin rosé. It is an outdated and peevish comment, another smudge of tarnish to add to an already much maligned reputation. And yet one can see why pink wines have, until recently, been condemned as being frivolous and inconsequential.
Rosé has always been thought of as a summer wine, more often associated with sunbathing than good food; a wine to drink en carafe at a beach restaurant, a wine that is equally happy with a grilled sardine, a barbecued chop, or a salade Niçoise. It is a simple, obliging wine. Apart from a short period of chilling before serving, it needs no special attention. It doesn’t presume to make an appearance on vintage charts. It lacks the complexity and the mystique of the better reds and whites. It is neither expensive nor pretentious. Given these homely virtues, it is hardly surprising that it has not been taken seriously by the critics. But things are changing. There are more and more well-made rosés to choose from, and they are in a different league from the lurid tipple of the past.
By definition, rosé is pink, but not just a single shade of pink. It can be almost as pale as a white wine, with the faintest ruddy tinge. (I hesitate to use the word “blush,” a more elegant and appropriate word, because it reminds me of the bad old days when early Californian rosés were called blush, and had the sticky taste of cheap lollipops.) Or it can be cherry red. Or any rosy tint in between. The final color depends on the length of time the skins of the grapes—which are black—are left in the fermenting wine. The currently fashionable extra-pale rosés are made from grapes that are barely picked before they are in the pressoir. For the darker wines, or rosés d’une nuit, the skins are left overnight or longer.
Rosé has more to recommend it than a pretty complexion. It is a wonderfully versatile wine: light yet satisfying enough to drink on its own, and good with a surprisingly wide range of foods. It goes well with the brandades, aiolis, and grills of Provençal cuisine, as you would expect; also, as I have discovered, with curry and with anything pink, such as prawns, prosciutto, and steak tartare.
But does it keep? I have heard of a venerable rosé from the 1985 vintage that was described as still being “vivacious” and of a twenty-year-old that was “remarkably complex” (make of those descriptions what you will), but as a general rule most rosés should be drunk within two or three years of being made.
Memories of drinking rosé last much longer. On a shady terrace, around a smoky, fragrant barbecue, outside a café on market day, by the pool before lunch—it is a wine that accompanies some of the most pleasant moments in life. Perhaps that should be noted on every bottle.