Après-Midi

France in 1967. Tommy was dehydrated and delirious and when he fell off, asked spectators

to put him back on his bike. Tragically to no good effect. The legend Eddie Merckx also

required oxygen at this stage of the Tour in 1970 having nearly collapsed.

The final bend is a 20% hairpin but short enough to allow a final push for the summit,

where you will find stalls seeking sweets, cakes and souvenirs as if you are on Brighton pier.

Finally, the tower looms over you. You made it. Along with a hundred other people

sightseeing.

Ventoux is legend. It is mountain, it is a personal challenge, it is history. It has

romance, death and beauty. It has its fair share of tat and twats in cars thinking it is a road

race. It is accessible and also inaccessible at the same time. It is science, geology and

geography. It belongs to no one; it belongs to everyone. It is the centre piece of Provence.

Chapeau!

The fiercest of heat, the whiteout of sunlight, the near oppressive ambience make for

an afternoon whose only function is to guide one through the interregnum between a well

watered lunch and dinner punctuated by pastis. The stones in the field between the vines

stand quite still. Any pools of water that might have collected from any overnight shower have

long evaporated. Lizards bask, snakes somnambulate, sparrows languidly frot between shady

perches. Cats have their snooze spots; dogs can’t even be arsed to yap. Bars and restaurants

proudly announce if they have terrases ombragée - havens of open-air spaces but with shade,

to take an aperitif. The Vin de Enzens ‘ombragée’ in Caromb has a view across the countryside

towards ‘Les Dentelles de Montmirail’- a jagged saw tooth ridge of an arête on the final

limestone and scrub oaked slopes of Ventoux. They shimmer in the afternoon heat. In Villes

sur-Auzon the ‘La Nesque’ restaurant has an ombragée which should suit anyone with a

desire to just relax. Unfortunately, two English gentlemen turn up and are not used to the

Provençal version of time, hurried as they are in wanting their orders taken. Twice the

proprietors say “j’arrive” but this is not quick enough. Finally, they get up and leave their

table in a huff. The French chef and owner are clearly not impressed with their attitude. Mad

dogs and Englishmen go out expecting rapid English service in the Provençal afternoon sun.

If you try to win Agincourt again on French soil, you will lose.

The afternoon is not for clock watching, it is for surviving preferably with a pastis or a

cold beer or even a cold pichet of Rosé. Finish your lunch, find a shady spot - ombragée - and

decide if you are going to snooze, people watch or drink beer. Or all three.

There is a point at which it is definitely pastis time. This is not easy to pin down

exactly when it is according to the usual methods of timekeeping. One could think of a pastis

as marking the march of an hour, or a half hour. Things get complicated because pastis could

be drunk mid-morning, as an aperitif to lunch or as an aperitif to dinner, with dinner, after

dinner or as a night cap. So, perhaps it is always ‘pastis time’. I like the to think the hot sunlit

afternoon is designed for a special pastis at an allotted but undefined hour. This will depend

on one’s demeanour, one’s previous forays into the experience or the degree of labour left to

be accomplished in the day, should you be in the unfortunate position of having to think

about work.

One’s demeanour should always be open to the suggestion, regardless of actual need,

of a pastis. If the question is asked whether a pastis might be required, a small amount of

time is allowed for its consideration. Too rapid a response may indicate an over fondness for

such liquidity unbecoming to one’s status, unless one is a farm labourer, in pain or English.

However, one should not let the question dangle in the air lest the question poser mistakes the

assumed hesitation for real hesitation and then might feel that a ‘faux pas’ might have been

committed. They may ask themselves if indeed they have gone off half-cocked and misjudged

whether it is actually pastis time. To save embarrassment all round I suggest a ‘momentary

pause’ before giving the affirmative. Expert pastis drinkers know exactly how long that pause

should be. Novices should watch their betters in this regard. The requisite skill will, however,

be learned and with practice soon be mastered.

Many French bars bring a glass of pastis already diluted, and with a cube of ice.

Others bring a separate pichet of water to give full control over to the customer. If you are

making this at home, then it is merely a matter of preference. There is however a sweet spot

above which the point of dilution makes the taste turn into a liquorice laced piss. Practice,

and you will find your own sweet spot. Pernod is Parisian and is for dilettantes. In the South?

Then head for the Marseille produced Ricard or 51. Most Provençals seem to prefer Ricard

and drink it like it was mother’s milk or as the English drink tea.

It never tastes quite the same in England, except perhaps in the afternoon heat at a

village fete or regatta, although it is the same product. Although I have to say, in the

afternoon heat in St Ives Bay, it is perfect. The British taste buds are of course differently

trained to the French and are used to stronger punches of whisky, rum and gin. It is a fair bet