Not that alcohol is the most appropriate topic to continue writing about, but, after all, it is that season when most of us need our cockles warmed (in this northern hemisphere, anyway), and the strong stuff does provide an interesting way to travel without going far from home! No, I’m not encouraging inebriation to the point of altering your reality – I’ve just been considering how drink, like food, can be an inroad into culture. It must have been all the overindulgence of the holidays that inspired my latest armchair travel itinerary: late one night after an uncomfortably large meal, I began my tour of the digestifs of Europe. You know -- the bitters, the stuff they supposedly drink not with any ulterior motives of intoxication, but simply to aid digestion.
I began in a predictable place, with the trendy liquor du jour in my town, San Francisco: Fernet Branca, the digestif from Milan. You may have read about Fernet lately in the SF Weekly, or even in the NY Times, which sent a writer out here to find out why half of all our bar patrons, and more than half our waiters and bartenders, are downing shots of this liquid that’s been compared to both Robitussin and Pennzoil, and chasing it with ginger ale. The general consensus seems to be that you’ll hate it before you love it, and I’d have to agree. It’s medicinal, it enflames the esophagus as it goes down, and it brings on an immediate sensation that could only be called heartburn. But the more I sat thinking about the forty mysterious herbs that make up the Branca family’s secret formula, somehow the better I felt. In the same way that the intense lavender and patchouli of Aveda hair products can be comforting even as they overpower the user (and anyone within a five-foot radius of the user), the Fernet-Branca felt…healthy.
The next stop on my tour was in Wolfenbuttal, Germany. In an episode that could easily bring nauseating fraternity flashbacks to many, I cracked open a huge (hey, it was on sale!) bottle of Jagermeister. True, this noxious potion was marketed in the U.S. as party shot, but it really did originate in 19th century Germany as an after-meal sipping drink. For anyone who didn’t go to those kinds of parties in college, this stuff really is like cough syrup: cloyingly sweet with strong licorice flavor, and a thick, gummy texture. For anyone who did go to those parties, you’ll probably understand why I couldn’t get enough Jager down to fully validate its purported gastrointestinal benefits. I quickly continued further north to Rheinberg, Germany, home of Underberg. This intriguing little bitter comes in tiny bottles, wrapped in paper and packed three to a box. Each bottle is well under an ounce. After my Jagermeister trauma, the miniscule serving size of Underberg gave me courage, even though its smell was still uncomfortably licorice-heavy. I was pleasantly surprised – even though the box declares that Underberg “cannot be explained,” I would attempt to describe it as a cross between Jagermeister and Fernet-Branca. Certainly a distinct anise flavor, but nowhere near as sugary as its cousin. Even though the Underberg didn’t make me “feel bright and alert,” as its package promised, I still had every intention of continuing my digestif journey into Denmark to try Gammel Dansk. But just as I was crossing the border….I should mention that these bitters, while they each contain a unique and dizzying variety of herbs, all seem to contain the herb gentian, known to stimulate digestion and ease stomach pain. They also all have a high alcohol content: Underberg at 44%, Jagermeister 35%, and Fernet Branca 40%. Maybe that’s their real secret: they aid digestion by making you pass out after eating. At any rate, I hightailed it back to Italy for a quick glass of Campari (only 24% alcohol) which, although still considered a bitter, is usually served as an apertif, before a meal, rather than aiding digestion afterwards. But hell, by this point in my travels, it was almost time for breakfast anyway!