Drinking their History

"I have always felt that if you are drinking an artisan distillation, you are drinking the history of a people, of a region," writes Steve McCarthy, in his recent post, The Pursuit of Pleasures in Pure Spirit from the New York Times blog, Proof.

This is exactly how I feel when I drink patxaran. When I bring the over-sized snifter of the red elixir to my lips, it's like I'm sitting out on a café-terrace in the hills of Navarra in the late afternoon sun, or happening upon a group of comrades in white, seated at a long table in narrow street who've fallen into spontaneous song after a hearty breakfast. Patxaran goes down your throat like a Jota ballad, its syrupy liquid is exaggerated, longing and soulful in your belly. It's a vigorous red dance with ice, waiting on a varnished bar at 3 am in the morning. Patxaran is the 6th of July, with a whole damn week ahead and nothing to do but live it. Patxaran is strong and sweet and stays on your lips long after it's gone, like the coveted first kiss from a perfectly sculpted stick-boy.
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