Henri Toulouse-Lautrec walks into a 19th century Parisian bar and sees Vincent Van Gogh in the corner having a drink. ‘Hello Vincent.
Do you want an Absinthe?’ he asks. ‘No thanks, Henri’, replies Van Gogh. ‘I’ve got one ear.’ Chuckle not, my friends, for I’m a deadly serious Gallic giggle juice. I’m a wild Green Fairy liquid initially imbibed by such clever cognoscenti as Toulouse-Lautrec, Verlaine, Rimbaud and Joe Le Taxi, but by the 1860s, with vineyards struck down by disease, everyone wanted a bit of me. These days, you can only get me in my original, full-strength form in the Czech Republic. They say Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder, yet it also makes the brain grow dafter and hair grow in places it shouldn’t. But they just don’t understand me, I’m like a pitbull – I only make mischief when mistreated and I scrub up super in a Sazerac. Of all the lunatic ingredients in my locker, wormwood is the most potent. Its unbearable bitterness is mellowed by my aniseed fl avours, herbaceous lemon notes and soft black licorice on the finish.

How to serve me Pour 25ml into a glass. Rest perforated absinthe spoon on glass. Place two lumps of sugar on the spoon. Drip water over the sugar until it’s diluted 1:5. Stir until it goes cloudy. Then cut your left ear off and give it to a prostitute. (Don’t do that – Ed.)

Where to drink me Khalo Sami’s street stall on Monot Street – grab a glass and sip it on the roadside… Or buy me off the shelf from Spinneys.