A Blast for Bastille Day

The cafe outside Casa Mon Amour is not Paris. The cobblestones, the Rhine, the patina of the 20th Century’s cultural capital are not there. Instead, one sees the rooftop water towers and burnt-out bodega lights of Brooklyn, the quiet rumble of the East River, and the caked-on rust of a once dead neighborhood quietly rediscovering life. No, on Bastille Day, French Independence Day, Casa Mon Amour does not offer you the world of Hemingway and Pound, but it did offer a French Barbeque that no freedom-loving man, woman or child could pass up.

July 14 marks the date when almost 600 French citizens stormed the castle at Bastille in the fear that King Louis XVI would roll back their civil rights. It started when Louis XVI fired his finance minister, Jacque Necker. His minister was beloved by the French people for publishing a treatise on government expenditure, something that had never been published in the country before. Because of his publication, the French people began to demand more involvement in the way their government was run and how it spent its money. He also advocated for the Third Estate, which was the citizenry, and was a force behind the legalization of the National Assembly, which gave the French people more power.

So when Necker was fired, the French feared that Louis XVI would renege on all the progress that had come with him. A mob formed and stormed Bastille, which was famous for holding political prisoners. 98 of the French citizens died in the take, and it became emblematic of the French freedom struggle.

On Bastille Day, everyone is a little French. At least, in the way that everyone is a little Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. So when Casa Mon Amour offered a special French barbeque, it felt only right that, as a vegetarian, I throw caution to the wind and indulge myself. It wasn’t Lady Freedom leading the people to autonomy, but small steps, small steps.

The plate came with with steak, pork, chicken and rice with tuna, olives, roasted peppers and tomatoes. I also ordered a glass of French Rose. The food was very good, maybe a bit overspiced, but I’m used to veggie burgers so it didn’t really bother me. In fact, the novelty of it took me more than the taste. And with French Pop God Joe Dassin floating out of the jukebox and over the outdoor cafe, it was a very novel experience.

Later, at the bar, I indulged in some of the more Francophilic vices. I ordered a glass of Ricard pastis, an anise flavored liqueur that is basically indistinguishable from Sambouka. Then I decided to go as far into French Stereotype territory and ordered a glass of absinthe, complete with the sugar, the fire, the whole shebang.

It became legal to sell absinthe in the United States in 2007, despite its notoriety. The drink, which became infamous as the “Green Fairy” because of its supposed psychoactive effects, was banned throughout Europe and in the United States because of thujone, a chemical derived from wormwood that is thought to cause hallucinations (although that is disputed, and I’ve never had any). Now, though, thujone levels are nearly at zero. Since it’s ban, it’s been held up by romantics as the drink of choice for France’s bourgeois artistic scene in the late 19th Century.

The bartender filled a tablespoon with sugar and poured the alcohol, which was a sickly pale green, over it. She lit the spoon on fire and poured more. The drink would fill up in the spoon and lazily fall into the glass, splashing all over the sides. Eventually the glass was filled with the thin blue flame. I had never seen the absinthe ritual performed, and by the time I started drinking it, it was a milky green color like a mint julep. It tasted like a good deal of the alcohol had burned off, and at about 144 proof, that was fine with me. Regardless, it was still unpleasant. Hot, anise-flavored alcohol is a novelty I’d rather avoid.

Perhaps there’s something perverse in celebrating Bastille Day as such. It’s not just that July 4th just passed, or that I don’t feel a connection with the French Revolution. But commemorating freedom with a dinner deprives it of its unbearable lightness, that which makes it free. Or does the freedom to celebrate freedom supersede its implicit paradox?

I’m pontificating. But regardless, it is about one thing. The small chalk sign outside Casa Mon Amour may have said it best. There it was, smudged and written in English: Revolution!