The Daily Diary of a Wandering Restaurateur
Pastis

This from author Peter Mayle:

Tin tables and scuffed wicker chairs are set out under the shade of massive plane trees. It is close to noon, and the motes of dust kicked up by an old man's canvas boots as he shuffles across the square hang for a long moment in the air, sharply defined in the glare of the sun. The café waiter looks up from his copy of L'Équipe and saunters out to take your order.

He comes back with a small glass, maybe a quarter full if he's been generous, and a beaded carafe of water. The glass turns cloudy as you fill it up, a color somewhat between yellow and misty grey, and there is the sharp, sweet smell of aniseed.

Santé. You are drinking pastis, the milk of Provence.

For me, the most powerful ingredient in pastis is not aniseed or alcohol but ambiance, and that dictates how and where it should be drunk. I cannot imagine drinking it in a hurry. I cannot imagine drinking it in a pub in Fulham, a bar in New York, or anywhere that requires its customers to wear socks. It wouldn't taste the same. There has to be heat and sunlight and the illusion that the clock has stopped. I have to be in Provence.

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