Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
In China, the snake wine. In Prague, the venom.
Until I visited the Czech Republic, the story I told at cocktail parties was about cruising the Li River in China. Aboard ship and bored, I downed shots of white snake wine poured from a bottle stuffed with a marinating snake with black diamond markings, snakehead included.
Often, listeners changed the subject, expressing a revulsion. Apologizing, I let the conversation move on, but as my breathing turned shallow, my voice faded. Gradually, I put the moment out of my memory. Only the sense of invisibility lingered.
I don’t tell that story anymore.
I’m an adult in my forties. I’m told that I am a popular high school teacher. Most days I think I’m a good father. Yet, to prove I-don’t-know-what to I-don’t-know-who, nowadays at dinner parties I stick to confessing my fondness for black licorice.
Licorice is a safe subject. Black licorice less so.
I avoid mentioning that the people who like red licorice are my lesser-admired friends. Argument upsets my stomach, disagreeably.
If anyone ever asks why my spirit candy is black licorice, I tell them about growing up in California. By the armfuls, I bought the licorice candy bars called tar bars sold at the Nut Tree restaurant on Interstate 80. “The place was shuttered twenty-five years ago. I still mourn its closing. A black day for black licorice,” I quip—half to entertain, half to hide my grief.
“If medical science allowed it, I’d take licorice intravenously.” No one thinks I mean it, but my liquor cabinet—stocked with ouzo, Sambuca, pastis, Pernod, arak, anisette, raki—says that I do. My liquid secret.
“I’m told the ancients used licorice to unclog stuffy noses and loosen bowels. Drano for my intestines.” People smile.
To stay safe, I turn to travel memories. “In Rome, I went back so many times for licorice gelato at Giolitti that the owner offered to name an ice cream scoop after me. In Reykjavik, I bought so much salted black licorice that I had trouble shutting my suitcase.”
“In Prague. I taste-tested absinthe. It’s unbearably cute nickname—the “green fairy”—called to me.” I assume everyone knows it’s made with anise and fennel.
I descend the grand stairway at the Hotel Paris Prague, its art deco, intricate wrought-iron banister beneath my hand. I’m dressed like a black licorice twist brought to life: black sport coat, black slacks, black turtleneck, black shoes.
In the lounge, I imagine a gowned lady, rustling her petticoats, wearing white gloves and a white plumage hat, nodding her head in my direction and saying, “Good day, your lordship.” And that was before getting buzzed by absinthe’s notoriously high alcohol content.
My first sip is a pungent, liquefied explosion in my mouth—like a violent disagreement. My eyes water. Gums and glands go numb. Absinthe may not make the heart grow fonder, but the volcanic detonation on my palate comes close to stopping it.
Snake wine, absinthe, exotic foods, my children—they are my protection. They guard me from boredom. They are how I know I have a story to tell—even if no one cares to listen.
