A French Approach to Afternoon Pleasures
Parisian apéritifs, mineral water, and the perfect wine and cheese for 4 PM
The voice came from down the hall where there was a pile of clean tangled socks and underwear, lukewarm and fragrant on the green-blue tile. Another load thumped gently in the dryer and still another was stuffed in a canvas tote inside a closet.
“Do you miss Paris yet?” the voice asked.
My eyes were on my bowl. The meat was mixed with 10 percent beef heart, coconut aminos, homemade broth, garlicky spigarello, and leftover rice. Tomatoes were budding outside, hard and green, from thick woody stems in my garden. I could read all the ingredients on the back of the labels at the grocery store.
“Not really,” I said.
“I miss going to Ambassade de Bourgogne for an aperitif,” he said, which made me pause.
Ambassade was a small wine shop in St. Germain where a glass of clear, crisp cremant cost six or seven euros. The gougères— puffed pastries full of cheese and black pepper—were presented hot and swaddled in little wicker baskets. They were better once cooled and deflated, squished between two fingers and chased by a gulp of cool, white Burgundy. Outside the patio, where we sat, was a tall white apartment building overflowing with windowboxes of pink gardenias. Every evening before dinner we watched a square patch of sun slide along the front of the building.
“There’s nothing like it,” I said at last.
“Not even close,” he said, sitting down beside me. He picked up his bowl of ground meat, which now felt clunky, juvenile, and overly virtuous. Not even close, I thought to myself, remembering an old bottle of Pignan, duck organs spread on a bed of vinegary greens, the taste of nearby cigarette smoke, and the fresh, wet slices of Brillat-Savarin on a cool, slender silver knife.
As a kid, pleasure was what I felt while eating toasted English muffins stacked with tuna and potato chips. It was humping my pillow at night when no one was looking. It was the pucker at the back of my mouth when the acidic, sweet goo of gushers pleasured my tongue. It was sugar or else it was strictly forbidden.
Pleasure, for Southern Baptists, was often scant and served with whopping doses of guilt and shame The ‘Full Armor of God’ functioned as a sort of self-protective fastidiousness which tended to keep out out more of the good than the actual bad.
Just to see how wrong I’d been about the word, I decided to look up ‘pleasure’ in Roget’s Thesaurus and discovered a synonym which I did not expect. It was buried deep within words like enjoyment, amusement, and desire. The surprising word was this one: will. Will. Also meaning choice, volition, determination, decision. Pleasure sat in proud company within the likes of intention, animus, objective, and even command.
My mind panned to the French again upon reading the tiny four-letter interloper. Every day around 4 or 5 PM, Parisians step from their offices and onto the streets to sit in wicker chairs beside wobbly tables with tiny tea lights. They drink, smoke, talk, and judge the outfits of passersby. The wine is never great and food is scarce or nonexistent. These hours stretch into dinner and are furnished with small bites of cheese, crackers, pretzels, or pickles. They call these small tableside moments an apéritif, the name for an alcoholic beverage taken before a meal to stimulate the appetite.
In France, as in my thesaurus, pleasure is something like a daily posture, an open-handed decision to steep in the beauty of the moment—no matter what it is—with a glass of something sweet, crisp, pale gold, and carbonated. Pleasure is a decision, an act of the will. It is far more than the feeling you get as a result of said decision.
It’s one that I, an American with a palate for hot fudge sundaes, corn on the cob, and big fat whiffs of gasoline on the way to eye Little Debbie snacks at the gas station, am still learning to practice. I start small. I pick a time, leave the phone in the house, grab a glass, a bottle (suggestions for both at the end), put some cheese on a plate, trouble a box for some crackers, and go outside.
Then what? Then nothing. I used to smoke. I don’t now. I miss smoking so much it almost makes me shut my eyes. Smoking used to situate me back into the habit and miracle of breath. Taking a big, long drag makes the inhale intentional. Also, real, tangible, and full of taste. All of the sudden, there before me in a plume of grey, was the satisfying result of my exhale. But regular old breathwork counts too, I guess.
It will probably come to pass as I slide those soft and bendable folds of fat onto my tongue, that I will think a thought like this: something else should be happening right now. But it is happening. It’s called a life. And it passes through my body every second without much notice on my part. So I notice it now, one bite of cheese, one sip of champagne at a time.
Suggestions for Aperitif
A Parisian friend once suggested to me that the true nature of an apéritif is friendship. But if you have to choose between having a moment for pleasure or having none at all because your friends have canceled, you should still have a moment of pleasure.
This can be, as it has been recently for me, a box of biscuits with tea. Sure, it can be a walk, a deep breath, a shower, a talk with a friend, blah, blah, blah. But really, it should be an entirely non-sensible food eaten and relished in the daylight, with the mind attuned to the pleasures of the tongue.
Here, in no particular order, are a few things to get you started:
wine—For this, I’ve recruited my husband. In a word, he suggested white Burgundy (and all the soccer moms rejoiced!). Here’s what he said:
“White Burgundy is exclusively chardonnay. Chardonnay from Burgundy is mineral-driven, focused, and well-balanced. It’s the pinnacle of balance, mouthfeel, and acidity. Generally winemakers in Burgundy use less oak when winemaking, meaning the soil speaks for itself. The winemakers want you tasting regions and parcels and learning about the taste differences between those parcels much more than they want you to know their name or reputation. Generally speaking, the region of the wine (Saint Aubin for example) is the largest thing written on the label and the winemakers name is the smallest on the label. The white wines of Burgundy are generally lower alcohol content than American wines, and are the best expression I have found of a white wine I want to drink every afternoon in the spring and summer."
Tony’s Favorites:
Haut Cote de Nuits
Saint-Aubin
Chablis
Mersault
non-alcoholic—Some of you are going to skip a drink for the right reasons (pregnancy or alcoholism). Others of you are not going to drink because you’re just not that fun to be around right now. I can’t control either circumstance so I suggest the following: ice water with lemon and basil. This will give you that tart herbaceous flush of cold which a proper white wine does beautifully.
Another option is mineral water. This is like a sparkling water but with a mineral, salty taste to it. It’s divine and pairs well with a good white wine. The best in the world is Chateldon, also called the water of kings. It’s sold out in most places, but is always worth a sign up so you can purchase some when they’re back in stock.
My other favorite mineral water is just as good and it’s called Saint Géron. It’s less mineral but still full of a very heady, mountain-air freshness to it which I can’t get enough of. A similar choice is Vichy Catalan, which is, to my taste, the most salty of all. For American sparkling waters, the clean, fresh taste of Mountain Valley and Cascade Mountain are also very good. The more neutral, less mineral-driven taste of Antipode is also, in my opinion, flawless.
crackers—My two favorite crackers are Jovial’s Einkhorn Sourdough and Organic Pantry’s Flaxseed Crackers.
I find that Jovial’s crackers go stale quite fast but they are lovely, light, and full of flavor—dare I say a bit soft? But not in a chewy way. In a melt-in-your-mouth way. The flaxseed crackers are gluten-free as well as seed-oil free. They also pair with every kind of cheese—high or low-end.
cheese—One day, we will have a very long talk about cheese. But we are starting small. Here are three greats available everywhere, all the time.
comté—Comté is a semi-hard cow’s cheese made in the Jura region of France. It has a nutty, rich, almost funky flavor. The longer this cheese has aged, the more expensive it is. This doesn’t always make it more flavorsome. If you are in a cheese shop, always ask for a sample of the different ages so you can learn which one your palate prefers. I tend to prefer younger. This also always pairs well with comté’s counterpart: a white Jura wine.
chèvre—chèvre is a soft, fresh goat cheese. Personally, I like every chèvre I’ve ever had—including, gasp, Trader Joe’s chèvre. This cheese is acidic, spreadable, forgiving, straightforward, and wonderful with all sorts of jams and jellies.
aged cheddar—Honestly, I could have cheddar and only cheddar for the rest of my life and be perfectly happy with it. Hook’s is a great choice available in most markets and not too expensive.
olives—In general, I believe that olives purchased in fresh bulk at a respectable co-op, deli, or cheese shop are the best. These and others from Nuvo are a wonderful replacement.
cornichons—I believe a pickle plus a glass of white burgundy is the only proof you and I need that God is at work in this world. The french have their own special pickle called a cornichon and it does beat every other one on the market. These are fortified with herbs and have just the right amount of vinegary tart sweetness. Maille are fine. Maison Marc Extra-Fins are the best I’ve ever had.
Please let me know what small moments of pleasure you take for yourself with food and how it has changed your life for the better. Always love learning from others in this way!
Edits: Lauren Ruef
Pictures: Tony Anderson