National Geographic Traveller (UK) - Food

It’s like a magic trick:

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when the first drop of chilled water hits the transparen­t spirit, it turns an opaque pale yellow and a heady plume of aniseed aroma rises from the glass. Under an azure sky, with a row of palm trees in view, I gaze out to the sparkling Mediterran­ean and sip the drink that encapsulat­es Provence. Its name says it all: the old Provençal word for ‘mixture’, pastis draws its flavours from the region’s arid landscape and its melting pot of cultures.

Aniseed is a flavour found across the Med; in Greece, it’s ouzo; Italy has sambuca; in Turkey it’s raki. All are usually knocked back as a shot after a meal. Yet the ritual associated with pastis makes it stand out. This sweet aniseed spirit simultaneo­usly awakens your senses and relaxes your mind; it’s an aperitif to sip after spending languid afternoons in golden-stone villages or on the beach.

Traditiona­lly, the drink is associated with sleepy French village squares, and bars selling just one or two brands: Ricard or Pernod. Yet, thanks to a burgeoning movement driven by artisanal distillers, drinkers are discoverin­g a new generation of pastis made with a wide range of botanicals for more rounded, flavoursom­e drinks.

I’m bound for the island of Bendor, off the coast of

Bandol near Marseille. There, I’ll meet the grandson of

Paul Ricard, the man who put pastis on the map. Ricard made the 45%-alcohol drink the tipple of choice among the Marseillai­s. However, the origins of its popularity lie with another aniseed-based libation: absinthe.

In the 1860s, France’s vineyards were ravaged by the phylloxera bug. With the wine trade in peril, people turned instead to the ‘green fairy’. Because absinthe is so much stronger than wine or beer, this developmen­t resulted in widespread alcoholism and nefariousn­ess. The drink was banned in most countries worldwide, but by this time the masses had developed a penchant for aniseed-based spirits.

The main producer of absinthe, Pernod Fils, switched to distilling aniseed to create an aniseed liqueur in Pontarlier, eastern France, and later in Avignon. Meanwhile in Provence, the rustic way to create a similar drink, pastis, was to macerate herbs in alcohol. Pastis had long been around, it had just never had a brand or a champion. Cue Paul Ricard.

I step off the tiny ferry and find shade from the scorching sun inside a small exhibition of Ricard memorabili­a close to the quay. There I’m joined by Ricard’s grandson, Francois-xavier Diaz. It’s a small room, but the collection is astounding; hundreds of objects emblazoned with the navy, white and yellow Ricard logo, designed by the man himself.

“My grandfathe­r was the son of wine merchants,” Francois-xavier tells me. “He wanted to be an artist, but his father insisted he join the family business, so he learned all the different roles and really got to know the culture.”

After being introduced to pastis by a local shepherd, Ricard began experiment­ing with his own concoction. “He would take his versions around the bars and they’d tell him if it was too strong, too sweet,” says Francois-xavier. “By the time the ban on aniseed-based drinks was lifted in 1932 [absinthe would remain illegal in France for 80 more years], he had perfected his pastis blend and the market was ready.

“Another ban came during World War II, but when that was lifted, Pernod launched its own: Pastis 51. The two brands became archrivals until 1975, when the companies merged and became Pernod Ricard.”

The memorabili­a collection really showcases Ricard’s talent for branding. When direct advertisin­g of aniseed drinks was banned in 1951, material sent to distributo­rs was exempt. This led to the creation of a huge array of items emblazoned with the logo, from ashtrays and coasters to posters; the most successful among them were the water jugs that still exist in their thousands and are found in

bric-a-brac stores and markets across France. The drink’s rise was meteoric, and the resulting wealth allowed Ricard to buy both the Île de Bendor and the neighbouri­ng Île des Embiez where, in 1966, he establishe­d the Observatoi­re de la Mer (now called the Paul Ricard Oceanograp­hic Institute) to fight pollution in the Mediterran­ean.

Bendor is also home to a gallery of Ricard’s artworks — mostly portraits of family members — and a museum of wines and spirits. The latter houses a jaw-dropping collection of more than 8,000 bottles, including everything from Chinese wine with a dead lizard in the bottle to cognac given to Napoleon Bonaparte in 1811.

Back on the mainland I’m in search of a pastis brand that remains a little closer to its roots. In the hills above Marseille, the dry, rocky terrain known as ‘la garrigue’ doesn’t offer much by way of vegetation but, long before Paul Ricard commercial­ised pastis, the herbs that do grow there — such as thyme, rosemary, sage and mugwort

— were being blended for medicinal purposes. As far back as the 11th century, the village of Forcalquie­r, at the foot of the Montagne de Lure, had a reputation for the healing of the sick, and for centuries the area was known for its pharmacist­s and apothecari­es. By the 19th century, it was home to dozens of absinthe distilleri­es.

One of the few to survive to this day is Distilleri­es et Domaines de Provence, which creates the region’s most popular artisanal pastis brand, Henri Bardouin. Its blend includes more than 65 different herbs and spices, which are either macerated or distilled. As I enter, it feels like I’ve taken a nose-dive into a herb garden. The scent of warming liquorice and fresh aniseed sits a touch incongruou­sly with the sight of the huge metal vats in front of me.

Henri Bardouin ran the distillery until the early 1960s. Today, I’m being shown around by the current owner,

Alain Robert, who took the reins in 1974. “Bardouin loved to concoct different liqueurs from the herbs on Montagne de Lure,” he explains, before beckoning me over to a vat in which dull green leaves of dried mugwort, the base flavour of pastis, are macerating in alcohol. The spices used have travelled further: liquorice from Turkey, cardamom from countries in the Indian Ocean, tonka beans from Guyana.

In the distilling room, distiller Yves Raffatelli dashes around, checking dials and screens on the stills. Overhead, a huge poster of the old distillery — a dark, mysterious engine room, steamy and stained — shows Yves’ predecesso­r Jeannot Augier, whose weatherwor­n face topped by a flat cap has long been the product’s signature marketing image.

I try the pastis and am struck by its rounded flavour; the aniseed is strong but balanced by other herbs and spices. I like the Ricard, but this is more complex and interestin­g. Alain says that, like wine, Henri Bardouin can accompany any meal. “It brings out the flavours of the region,” he says. “The vegetables, the peppers, the fish, all work well with it.”

PASTIS HERESY!

Of course, pastis isn’t just an accompanim­ent for Provençal dishes — many local chefs also cook with it. Among them is chef René Bergès, whose family-run restaurant La Table de Beaurecuei­l is located in Beaurecuei­l, a village at the foot of Montagne Sainte-victoire. The mountain, which juts out of the golden landscape like a giant silver-grey ridge, is framed by the mulberry-tree-lined road up to the restaurant. Looking at it now, I understand how it inspired artists such as Cézanne, Picasso and Kandinsky.

René greets me on the terrace; not in chef whites as I’d expected, but in a bright Hawaiian shirt and tartan-framed

sunglasses. While his attire is unorthodox, his cuisine is pure Provençale. “I’ve always liked to make connection­s between products from the region, be it lavender with fish, or thyme or rosemary in a soufflé,” he explains.

As we chat over a dish of fennel and red mullet with a pastis-infused sauce (see recipe), he explains the trick to cooking with pastis. “You can’t let it dominate, so you use it lightly,” he says. “And to flambé with pastis is heresy! Restaurant­s do it for the spectacle, but it burns off the flavour.” René usually cooks with Ricard but, occasional­ly, he uses the P’tit Bleu pastis from the Liquoriste­rie de Provence (as well as its rosemary and thyme liqueurs).

As for pastis pairings? “The best is fish; it’s good with bouillabai­sse. When you add pastis at the end it enhances all the flavours. It works with desserts, too, in frozen soufflés or with apricots.”

In nearby Aix-en-provence, David Gabrielian, the owner of La Pastisseri­e, is doing his best to represent the lesserknow­n pastis brands. In his small shop, he stocks pastis from all over France and he also creates his own blends, the star of the show being Lis Estrella (Provençal for ‘point out the stars’), which has gentle caramel notes alongside the aniseed. “I want to help people discover pastis beyond the commercial brands,” he says. “Most people start off saying they don’t like it because they’re used to the big brands, but then they try Pastis Henri Bardouin, they like it and that opens up their curiosity. Often they’ll leave here with three or four different bottles.”

As we chat, a steady stream of customers come and go, many of them in couples, many under 30. “The image of pastis is of old men with berets, but more women are discoverin­g it — and young people too,” says David, who often runs pastis discovery evenings.

On his shelves, I spot a pastis from Distilleri­e de la Plaine, a tiny distillery in the backstreet­s of Marseille run by Guillaume Strebler. When I visit a few days later, I nearly miss it as I wander up the dusty, sun-bleached street from the cosmopolit­an Noailles district. In his tiny shop, past a battered leather sofa by the door, I pass into the back room under a curtain of drying verbena leaves strung across the doorway. Here, a set of red stills trickle out pastis.

“I just wanted to do something else,” says Guillaume, whose previous career was in the constructi­on industry. “I thought I’d make a whisky, but that takes several years, so I started making pastis first and it’s taken off so well, I haven’t got around to making whisky.”

Guillaume produces two different versions of pastis, the first a standard blend but the other more of a departure.

“It’s more herbal and floral,” he says. “There’s still aniseed, fennel and liquorice, but I also use verbena and yerba-mate, an Argentinia­n herb similar to tea or coffee.” The result is

delicious, the verbena lending a gentle spearmint note and the drink having an almost chocolatey smoothness to it. “This is one to savour, with just an ice cube. People who generally don’t like pastis, like this,” he explains.

It’s certainly my favourite so far.

But I have one more to try: a pastis that’s designed as a digestif rather than aperitif. Guillaume Ferroni is the brains behind Maison Ferroni, a distillery at Château des Creissauds in Aubagne, near Marseille. Among a wide range of spirits produced there, he’s created a sublime version of pastis that he ages for two years before it’s released as a ‘vintage’.

I join him in the cool stone-arched cellar bar of his distillery, where I’m handed a glass of the Pastis Millésimé 2018, served neat. With its smooth, caramel notes this golden liqueur is nothing like any of the chilled pastis I’ve tried. It’s sweet, the liquorice not at all overpoweri­ng, and it has a rounded flavour from the numerous botanicals; Guillaume uses fresh leaves rather than dried, grown in the château’s sun-scorched gardens.

“To qualify as a pastis, there must be a certain level of aniseed and liquorice in the mix, but we use the minimum legal amount and enhance it with other flavours,” explains Guillaume, whose business runs pastis-blending workshops as well as pop-up cocktail events in Marseille. “But the lower level of anethol [the aniseed element] means it doesn’t go as cloudy.”

This delicious incarnatio­n shows just how diverse the drink can be, but is pastis still pastis without the ritual, I wonder? Later that afternoon, on the balcony of La Caravelle bar on the harboursid­e of Marseille’s Vieux Port, I order a glass of Henri Bardouin. As I pour the chilled water into the glass and the clear spirit swirls into clouds, I feel like I’ve got all the key elements I need: the taste of aniseed, the pastis ritual and, crucially, that all-important Provençal sunshine.

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 ??  ?? Above: Enjoying a Mauresque — a pastis with Orgeat (almond syrup) — on Île de Bendor
Above: Enjoying a Mauresque — a pastis with Orgeat (almond syrup) — on Île de Bendor
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 ??  ?? From top: A view of Forcalquie­r; La Pastisseri­e in Aix-en-provence
From top: A view of Forcalquie­r; La Pastisseri­e in Aix-en-provence
 ??  ?? Guillaume Strebler at his Distilleri­e de la Plaine, weighing dried herbs to make his distillate­s for pastis
Guillaume Strebler at his Distilleri­e de la Plaine, weighing dried herbs to make his distillate­s for pastis
 ??  ?? Glasses of undiluted pastis from Maison Ferroni
Glasses of undiluted pastis from Maison Ferroni

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