A Midsummer Night's Drink
Travels through Switzerland in search of green fairies and blue absinthe
Reprinted from Distilled Issue 8
Words and Photography by Johanna Ngoh
“Truthfully I no longer care for absinthe, not since the ban was lifted.” It’s an inauspicious start coming from the first local we meet in Val-de-Travers, this being the birthplace of absinthe as marked by the self-anointed Absinthe Trail that runs its length from Noiraigue to Pontarlier across the French border. But as we soon learn, much about this lush, hidden valley is a contradiction in terms, as well as an unexpected departure from the usual Swiss tropes of alpine peaks, glacial lakes, and rule of law.
Like many valleys of the Jura mountains, Val-de-Travers has evolved in isolation, both physical and cultural, nestled in Romandy, the French-speaking bosom of western Switzerland, framed to its south by Lake Geneva and to its west by the Franco-Swiss border. The result is a melting pot of Swiss precision and Gallic ‘joie de vivre’; a more relaxed countenance than you’ll find among their Germanic counterparts – and a more rebellious nature, as plausible an explanation as any for how a subculture of moonshine has flourished for more than a hundred years, in a country known for its slavish adherence to rules and regulations.
Absinthe’s prohibition in Switzerland is well documented at La Maison de l’Absinthe in Motiers, a 10th century village first populated by a religious priory, along with the fugitives, traders, smugglers and free spirits who sought respite and refuge in the mountains’ vast wilderness. It is here that the first mention of absinthe was recorded in 1750, and its production thrived until it was banned in 1910, giving rise to a tradition of illicit distilling that was passed down through generations of families, along with their recipes.
To the outsider it’s a surreal juxtaposition: a pocket of law-abiding Swiss who take special pride in flaunting the law, aided and abetted by friends, neighbours and, in some instances, the police. But it’s a singular heritage, exalted in both French and German at La Maison de l’Absinthe, a museum purpose built by the ‘Association interprofessionnelle de l’absinthe’, the region’s formal trade association. It’s an impressive and well-funded space, brimming with marketing copy that invokes “the spirit of insurrection” and “resistance to the established order”, an appeal to the “epicurean with a taste for forbidden fruit, as well as nostalgia for the romance and glamour of La Belle Epoque.”
It’s a persuasive if wearying bit of programming that leaves us with more questions than answers, so we make our way less than a hundred steps to the Distillerie du Val-de-Travers for a tasting with Christophe Racine, proprietor and ‘absintheur’. With a shop and bar boasting more than fifty absinthes from small producers throughout Val-de-Travers, Racine is the region’s de facto absinthe ambassador, as well as the founder of the Association of Artisanal Absinthe Distillers, a community of distillers, many of whom, “have no heritage, no experience, no family recipe; they do it out of a passion for absinthe.”
“My story is particular,” Racine continues. “I’m from a family of ‘clandestins’ – moonshiners – but I trained as a druggist, selling botanicals and chemicals for pharmaceutical purposes. This was how illicit distillers sourced their plants for almost a hundred years, so I knew many ‘clandestins’ outside my family. Did they openly announce what they were doing? They didn’t have to, they’d come with a shopping list for two kilos of anise, two kilos of fennel, two kilos of lemon balm – someone lugging twenty-five kilos of plants is obviously making more than herbal tea.”
To better understand the many nuances of Swiss absinthe, Racine seats us at his bar and recounts its three chapters. The first dates back to the eighteenth century, a time when Val-de-Travers was covered in fields of Artemisia absinthium, otherwise known as wormwood, the main botanical used to flavour absinthe alongside mint, lemon balm and hyssop, all of which were grown throughout the region. “The pre-ban recipes used five, six plants at the most, and in very different proportions; far less fennel for example, as you had to go to France on horseback just to buy it.”
Switzerland’s ban of absinthe in 1910 marked the beginning of its next chapter, as the government compensated wormwood producers with subsidies, and illicit stills sprouted across the valley. “Was it illegal to grow wormwood during the ban? No, but like cannabis, it was the best way to attract the attention of the authorities; these aren’t decorative plants.” In hindsight the absence of homegrown wormwood was a boon for absinthe as distillers adapted their recipes and sourced botanicals from druggists such as Racine. “These were pharmaceutical grade plants coming from around the world, and with a greater purity than anything grown locally, adhering to much stricter quality controls. And they’re very expensive. But during the ban there was no other option.” With the advent of the commercial air transport in the 1950s, imported goods from around the world flooded the market, and prices dropped accordingly. “Liquorice and star anise: during the 1930s and 1940s no one could use it, the price was prohibitive. But once it became affordable it became crucial to masking the inherent bitterness of wormwood, making for a much softer, more balanced absinthe.”
Come 2005 absinthe production is once again legal thanks to the lobbying efforts of Kübler and other commercial distillers making digestifs such eau-de-vie and schnapps; their sales had been fast falling as drinkers switched to apéritifs – such as absinthe. Meanwhile, illicit distillers in Val-de-Travers had been buying roughly 100,000 litres of pure alcohol per year from Alcohol Suisse – the government monopoly that oversees the production and wholesale of all neutral spirit – which translated roughly into 200,000 litres of absinthe being made illegally. “Everyone knew how much pure alcohol was being sold in Val-de-Travers, but the government looked the other way given how much tax they collected.” Racine shrugs. “It’s very Swiss.”
If the second chapter of absinthe’s biography is one of rebellion, then its third is being written by commercial distillers that favour story over craft, much to the dismay of Racine and other small distillers looking to preserve absinthe’s traditional production, most importantly the use of imported botanicals including wormwood.
“People want the romance of absinthe, but the reality of making it commercially is quite different, so distillers embellish the truth.” It has culminated in a legal clash between the two factions as the large distillers, represented by the Interprofession, seek a PGI (protected geographical indication) stipulating that bottles certified as ‘Absinthe de Val-de-Travers’ use nothing but wormwood grown locally, “a marketing angle that has nothing to do with how absinthe has been made for over a hundred years,” sighs Racine.
He illustrates by having us crush two cultivars of wormwood with our hands. The first, grown in Val-de-Travers, gives off a very strong, pungent aroma, yet is surprisingly weak and floral on the tongue. The second example is pharmaceutical grade wormwood from Hungary, an example of what moonshiners used during the ban with scant aroma but a bitter, acrid taste, “which necessitated the inclusion of many other botanicals to mask the bitterness,” Racine explains. “Ultimately one is not better than the other, but a distiller needs to understand the plants to determine how they’re best combined. What counts is the taste and that’s based on know-how, on understanding the properties and provenance of what you’re distilling.”
“Industrial distillers like the word ‘terroir’ but a PGI doesn’t automatically make an absinthe taste better, and unfortunately it doesn’t guarantee know-how or craftsmanship. They have their own agenda which differs from the many small, mostly part-time ‘absintheurs’ in Val-de-Travers. We’re doing this as a passion, and don’t mind using more expensive plants to make a product that is unique, top class.”
There is little to rival a spirit in situ, so we seek out a taste of the fabled green fairy in the wild, entering a vignette of verdant greens and the stone of bridges that span rushing streams. It’s a pristine and unspoilt landscape, an enchanted forest dotted with fountains for the tired wayfarers that have plied these trails for the last millennium. Stopping at a fountain we treat ourselves to greedy inhalations of air rich in oxygen and chlorophyll, paired with a glass of absinthe diluted with cold, glacial water, compliments of an anonymous bottle placed next to the fountain – a symbol of defiance that arose during the ban, and a tradition in Val-de-Travers that continues to this day.
Back at Racine’s shop we elicit laughter among locals when recounting our travels in search of ‘la fée verte’. “The local custom is to sit and drink from a bar!” we are informed by a regular, as she helps herself to a measure of absinthe from one of the many open bottles on the counter, placing her glass under the spout of a ceramic fountain filled with ice water. “It’s important to figure out how you like your absinthe,” Racine emphasises. “One part, two parts, three parts water; it’s highly personal.” As water drips directly into the clear spirit Racine swirls the glass and whorls appear. “Watch as the fairy starts to dance in the middle,” and just as quickly she disappears, as the spirit turns milky white with a blue hue. “Even when you hold a clear absinthe to the light you get an opalline reflection, hence why Swiss absinthe is known as ‘la bleue’,” Racine explains. “Locals never ask for absinthe or a green fairy; when I’m with my friends I talk about having a ‘bleue’, and yes, even when I’m drinking green absinthe – ‘une verte’,” he laughs.
We taste a limited edition of his ‘verte’ bottled at 68% abv, a clear absinthe that rests for three to four months in a stainless steel tank while it is macerated with additional plants, hence its colour and intensity of flavour. Racine describes green absinthe as ‘more’. “More mint, more bitterness, often more alcohol – just more. But never with sugar,” he cautions, “and never with ice. The ice is added to the fountain to chill the water, the colder the better. That’s the golden rule when drinking Swiss absinthe.” He then demonstrates the proper preparation of a ‘real’ absinthe by pouring a jug of ice water with his arm stretched overhead. “You want to mimic the noise of a waterfall, the water pouring into the glass quickly as bubbles form; that’s the oxygen can breaking up the congeners and releasing the absinthe’s aromas.”
Racine dismisses the idea of adding water drop by drop as, “pure marketing. It’s part of the ritual of drinking French absinthe which is, for the most part, bitter and without balance. These are absinthes that need sugar, there is no finesse… although Aymonier in Pontarlier makes very good absinthe, but he came to study our techniques here in Val-de-Travers!”
On Racine’s advice we make our way to the village of Fleurier, but not before a detour for lunch at Hôtel de l’Aigle in Couvin. The meal begins with a ‘bleue’ as an apéritif, and concludes with ‘soufflé glacé’ – the absinthe-laced semifreddo that was cheekily served to French President François Mitterrand during an official dinner in Neuchâtel in 1983, one of the most flagrant displays of contempt for absinthe’s ban.
It seems appropriate that such an infamous dessert should segue to Absintherie à Guilloud, one of Val-de-Travers’ most renowned moonshiners for more than twenty-five years. Using a recipe from his grandmother found in the pocket of an old jacket, Guilloud set to work distilling in the bathroom of his modest flat. In short order he achieved a quality of such repute that his absinthe came to be known by the possessive ‘Celle à Guilloud’, which he sold from his television store. An outspoken character and one of the true personalities of Val-de-Travers, Guilloud rued the day absinthe was legalised but eventually obtained a distilling licence, opening an ‘absintherie’ and shop in the village square. “After twenty-five years as a moonshiner you build up an impressive clientele,” says Pierre-André Matthey, who purchased the distillery upon Guilloud’s retirement after training with his mentor for six months.
The shop continues to enjoy a steady stream of customers, both young people “who adore absinthe”, and long-time devotees who extol absinthe’s medicinal virtues, providing vivid testimony to its laxative properties. A businessman first and foremost, Matthey is faithful to Guilloud’s original recipe, going so far as replicating his 80-litre still, to double capacity without risking any change. But he has also developed his own recipes, including an absinthe made from local plants – “a completely different character profile” – as well as a green absinthe made from ‘sativa cannabis’. Developed as a digestif to be drunk neat at 54% abv, it is complex and moreish, bringing to mind a brighter version of Chartreuse.
Business is brisk and Matthey has the hustle of someone on the clock, multitasking as he keeps five balls in the air at once. “I’ve always liked absinthe and absinthe likes me,” he explains of his impetus to take over the distillery. “But you have to be willing to work long hours, distilling, bottling, labelling. And then you have to put on a tie and sell your absinthe. That’s probably the hardest part.” With absinthe now being made in other Swiss cantons, keeping his market share is a concern and by his own admission Matthey doesn’t welcome the competition. “I see absinthe going the way of craft breweries, saturating the market with small ‘absintheurs’ popping up everywhere. It’s not regulated so anyone can make absinthe, it’s a pity.”
The official Absinthe Trail highlights the village of Boveresse as the site of a ‘sechoir’ from the 1800s, barns built for drying wormwood and other plants, but we make our way instead to La Distillerie Maison des Chats, housed in its namesake, a heritage estate built in 1778.
It is here in a renovated kitchen pantry that Kevin Nebel makes absinthe in a 14-litre illicit still from the 1950s, using wormwood that he cultivates and dries on-site. Born in Switzerland to a Sri Lankan mother, Kevin has the bearing of a sage and a quiet, humble demeanour, describing himself as the smallest distiller in Val-de-Travers, “part of a new generation growing their own plants, local and organic.”
We pass through wrought iron gates to tour his garden, as Kevin recounts how the estate was once surrounded by thirty hectares of wormwood, fields that thrived courtesy of a high water table and rocky soil rich in limestone. Plantation workers were boarded in La Maison des Chats and used its attic as a drying barn for the plants.
Kevin’s acreage is considerably smaller at a 1000 square metres, but hosts an enviable repository of wormwood from around the world: “France, Mexico, Turkey, even the valleys of the Grisons in Switzerland’s easternmost cantons. I’m planting as many varieties as possible as each yields a different taste, similar to single varietal mezcals.” Kevin points out an heirloom variety that he’s currently distilling, grown by planting dust collected from the floorboards of the estate’s attic which he has resuscitated as a drying barn. “Smell: this is the cultivar native to Boveresse. The higher the level of thujone in the plant, the stronger the aroma. And the taste, so bitter!”
Kevin leads us to see the attic for ourselves. It’s a perilous climb on steep, uneven broken floor boards, but we are rewarded as we bear witness to a living absinthe museum, for the most part undisturbed for more than two hundred years. Interspersed between bundles of drying wormwood are the remnants of its many tenants, an old top hat, an officer’s jacket, a child’s toy, even a watchmaker’s bench laid out with tools of the trade. “Absinthe of that era was seasonal work; in the summer they grew the plants, and in the winter they kept busy with horology.” It is the spirit of absinthe past, and testimony to the many lives lived within these walls.
Following studies in oenology and distillation in Nyon, Kevin apprenticed with moonshiners in the valley, many of whom shared not just their recipes but their techniques. “Everyone in Val-de-Travers has a family recipe but ultimately it’s about technique. To make an old absinthe you need to know who developed it, during what era, and using which base alcohol – grain, eau-de-vie, beets? The very first absinthes were made using fruit eau-de-vie – apples, prunes – and the taste is completely different.”
It’s also a little known fact that prior to the ban, absinthe was matured in oak casks like rum or whisky, anywhere from six months to six years. “Moonshiners stopped ageing absinthe as they couldn’t risk getting caught by letting it sit in a cask. They also made their absinthes clear to pass them off as kirsch or schnapps in case they were stopped by the police.”
Kevin waxes lyrical of the numerous absinthes he’s sampled from the 1800s, distilled from eau-de-vie instead of grain, and aged in oak. “They’re just delicious, exquisitely good, but it’s a character profile that people no longer appreciate.” To illustrate he pours us a sample from a pre-ban bottle made of hand blown glass, found locally in an ancient cellar, round and supple on the palate, heavily flavoured with anise and sweet from a base of wine. “It’s difficult to be sure of the year as it was common practice to reuse bottles.”
Kevin remarks that the allure of absinthe from yesteryear remains strong, both in Val-de-Travers and beyond. “Imagination is a powerful thing. It’s a common meme, that absinthe during the ban tasted better so you have distillers who pretend they used to be moonshiners. But the fact is that most illicit distillers continued to make absinthe illegally once the ban was lifted. Guilloud was the exception, not the norm. For many ‘clandestins’ the idea of paying taxes and filling out a mountain of forms made no sense, especially for those who already had a clientele. The paperwork alone is an administrative nightmare – there are days I’m doing nothing but filling out paperwork and paying taxes, and I ask myself why I’m not a moonshiner.”
We sit outdoors with a bottle of Absinthe des Chats, Kevin’s standard offering of clear absinthe made using fourteen plants, eight grown on the estate. “The goal is to eventually distil nothing but my own plants. This would mean foregoing ingredients such as star anise but pre-ban recipes didn’t use imported spices or botanicals.” The addition of water unveils a soft, floral absinthe with a luscious mouthfeel and peppery finish, a satisfying midsummer night’s drink that both refreshes and restores.
“In truth, my problem is that I’m never happy with what I’ve made, it’s never finished in my opinion. So I live in this corner with my still and I drink my absinthe. But to be 100% satisfied with one’s handiwork… I don’t think that will ever happen. It’s a bit like a painting, it’s never done.” Kevin waves at a bus driver going by. “Another ‘absintheur’ – very few do it full-time. I do, but I make next to nothing, which is fine; I don’t need much to live on and I’m pursuing my passion.”