Pastis and Petanque

Another of my goals this summer was to sit at the edge of a dusty town square somewhere and sip pastis while watching the locals play boules.  Late Saturday afternoon we chose Cogolin, since it was short drive away.  

Despite the lingering heat of the day we found a number of games in progress, side by side across three makeshift courts.  They stood out in the open sun, the square having been renovated and the stubby plane trees still a few years away from giving shade.  The men playing were younger and had more of the look of bowlers or billiard players, with their T-shirts, sneakers, and disappointing absence of good mustaches.  Worst of all was that my vantage point was blocked by people standing out along the front of a similarly renovated cafe, with glassed-in sides and nary an outdoor table.   

It was all a far cry from what I had envisioned from watching  films based on the novels of Pagnol.  LYL assured me that the old ways do exist, but more so further up in the hills, though it is doubtful anyone wears suspenders and fedora as well as Yves Montand.  So I soothed myself with my first taste of pastis, heavy and thick like licorice.  I'm not a spirits person, and the high alcohol content quickly brought a heat into my body that could rival that of out in the square.  I could see that it was drink only for a dry climate, for the liquor itself is like humidity in a glass.  The thought of sipping it on a sticky August Kyoto afternoon brought a feeling of claustrophobia.  

Glass empty, we needed to run a few quick errands in town, one of which was the pharmacy.  As we stood in the queue, a woman came in leading her dog on a leash, one of those bull terriers with their weird shark-like head.  As we all waited, the dog plonked itself onto the cool tile floor with a great burst of a sign, its belly flattened like a yogi to completely maximize the cooling effect.  The woman took little time with her prescription, and as she left, the dog seemed unwilling to go, ignoring the first couple of tugs on the leash.  Instead the woman dug her heels in, and walking backward, turned the still supine dog completely around and began dragging it toward the door, its legs still splayed behind, and in between,  a pair of its own boules glided steadily across the floor. 


On the turntable:  Blossom Dearie, "For Cafe Apres-Midi" 
On the nighttable:  "Paris Was Ours"  (Various)