by Austin Girl
In Castelnaudary, France, there are no Starbucks – only bars. I visited one such bar appropriately named: ‘The Caffe’ Bar.” It serves beer, whiskey and wine.
Locals drink the “stop-your-heart” espresso shots in the morning and either beer or Pastis, at night. Pastis is a favorite among the French. The French must have a warped fetish for licorice. Watered down, I could not stomach Pastis. Drunk, I could not stomach Pastis. The preferred way to drink this liqueur is watered down -- my preferred way is NOT. Eschew. Avoid. Just say no. Stay far, far away unless you want to have licorice nightmares. The aromatic, sharply pungent chewy smell of licorice conjures up haunting memories, ugly, nasty haunting memories… the kind of memories that rise to the surface and pop like a huge-ass zit from a seventh-grade science nerd’s face. Speaking of zits, The Caffe’ Bar plays an awkward blend of misty-eyed American Jazz and outdated Sonic sock hop, which locals don’t seem to understand.
Quickly realizing there may be an interesting plot twist for my next screenplay, I jotted this important information down for future referencing. I titled my page: ‘Pastis: Poison Disguised as Licorice?’ and snapped a photo of a really cute guy across the street.
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