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FLEX-FRO FOLLIES Chartreuse Dreams
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| LET'S GET ONE THING straight: though today I am a mild-mannered composer, husband, and Chicago-area home-owner, back in college (Washington University in St. Louis) I spent three years as a brother in a fraternity—a football fraternity. Though I was already beginning to part ways with the life of a jock (in college I progressed quickly from jock to hippie to English Major to literate hippie jam-rocker to hippie-jazzer to jazzer to classical-head), it was a foregone conclusion that come my 21st birthday, hippie-jock or not, I would be drinking with my frat brothers. And we would be drinking chartreuse. What is chartreuse? Well, it is nothing less than the elixir of long life. Technically, it is a brand of liquor that commonly comes in a green variety, and sometimes yellow. It goes at least as far back as 1734, where it was produced by the Chartreuse Order of cloistered monks, a Franco-Christian religious order founded in 1084 by a guy named Bruno. (Later he became Saint Bruno, but his friends still called him “B”.) He gave up the life of a respected professor, scholar, and dean of the University of Reims for the life of solitude and meditation. According to the history of the order, what Bruno founded was none other than a bunch of organized cats who are “contemplatives, dedicating their lives to listening in silence to God.” So apparently, the monks went about the task of centering their prayers and breathing in the spirit of Christ as a glowing embodiment of love, making friends, erecting stone buildings, and all that other stuff that goes with generating a monastery. But in the early 17th century, it all changed, for in 1605, an emissary of King Henri IV gave the order an ancient manuscript titled "An Elixir of Long Life". It was a recipe for a sacred beverage that uses all natural plants, herbs and other botanicals — with over 100 herbal ingredients. Problem was that no one could read it, for the recipe was written in chicken-scratch. It took 132 years for the monks to consult with their apothecaries and sort the thing out. We can credit one Frère Jerome Maubec for undoubtedly using some form of the broad scientific method — first experiment, then illumination, then communal verification — all to unlock the libatory code. Conversely, we might think of him now as if a proto-Blues Brother, on a mission from God. What are the specs? The original, mother concoction was 71 per cent alcohol by volume, 142 proof. Yee-haw, we can only wish for that today. Our contemporary green chartreuse is 55 per cent alcohol, 110 proof. Yellow chartreuse — the drink for ninnies — weighs in at 40 percent alcohol by volume, 80 proof. The green works. I discovered the stuff that fateful night in Riddle's Penultimate Wine Bar on Delmar Ave. in St. Louis. Besides having one of the cooler bar names of all-time, this place had a wine list like you wouldn't believe. I was actually about 4 years away from caring about wine, or knowing what “pinot noir” meant (beyond sounding like “film noir”, which I didn’t understand either). For me it was good old-fashioned booze. Now, when you mention booze to frat boys, they come out of the woodwork like ants. They were more or less good guys — we were just going in different directions, thus the rub. Such things are papered over amongst guys when someone turns 21. All juice at the chance to send the birthday boy home in a slobbery stupor. Stupor is as stupor does. And I was. What did I drink besides chartreuse? No idea. At the very least, several shots of Dewar's whiskey, several shots of vodka, several shots of tequila, a couple Jagermeisters, and a couple more shots of Dewar's. Standard stuff, really, at least in this tribe. What really kicked it, though, was the — yep! — green chartreuse. This stuff — it tastes like a pine forest on fire! The stuff doesn’t extinguish after five shots. As it happened, a couple hours went by (real time: 20 minutes), and my friends announced it is time to take silly Matthew home after 16 shots. All of this is vague to me, because at this point I was way too involved in giving a hug to every damn person in the joint. I even went behind the bar and hugged the bartender, Chloe. She was cool, and gave me one more shot of chartreuse before I left. How could I refuse? There was so much love in the room! All else is smoke. I woke up the next day at 4 pm. I had vomited several times during the night (no, in the bathroom). Though I guess I may have puked on the street while sitting in the passenger’s seat of a moving car, the door of which was open and the driver of which was holding my arm to keep me from falling onto the pavement at 35 mph, like a true rock star. I could have burned out right there. Yet for god's sake, I got my 21st birthday out of the way, and I didn't drink another shot of chartreuse until a couple months ago. How was it? Like a pine forest on fire. St. Bruno would be proud. |
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| Matthew "Flex-Fro" Dallman draws black ovals on five-lined paper in the High Fidelity neighborhood of Chicago, IL. Though he turned 21 way back in 1995, his breathe still reeks of Dewar’s. |
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