Pisco Sour
¾ Pisco
¼ Lime Juice
1 ½ Tbs. Sugar
½ An Egg White
Dash of Amargo Angostura (Bitters)
Directions: Shake hard with ice and strain into glass.
Splash bitters on top and enjoy.
There’s an urban legend my friend tells about a gypsy gigolo. The story goes that he picks up wealthy women on airplanes destined for tropical resorts. He works the plane like a pickpocket, hanging out by the latrine until he finds a mark that he can manipulate with his dark skin and enchanting ethnic eyes. When they land she takes him to her hotel room. He waits until she is asleep to steal all her money and anything else of value. Then, he returns to his gypsy village with enough jewelry to support the whole clan for a year.
I’ve always found romantic versions of gypsy culture fascinating. In the stories they don’t really work and they go to extreme measures to live a carefree nomadic lifestyle. To an artist, like myself, it sounds like the perfect bohemian existence: Drinking and writing by day and dancing around a bonfire by night. If only I could join one of these Winnebago wagon circles maybe I could finally write without working. At least that’s what I was thinking when I went in search of a gypsy shanty town.
East of Strasbourg’s city center the streets are bare of tourists. There aren’t any cathedrals out there. It’s a seedy industrial area connected to the city by rail and canals. We’d been told there was a gypsy encampment nearby but after hours of searching all we’d found was an unsavory part of town. Along the III (il) River there were anchored barge ships which had been transformed into shady discothèques. Gnarled dogs ran freely through the dump heaps as if they had been trained to sniff out heroin for their masters.
After following some abandoned railroad tracks for about half an hour we finally found it. Stopping on the outskirts, we studied it for a moment. Caravans made a semicircle. Behind them were hills of rusted car parts and old kitchen appliances. Children scampered about the center using an old mattress as a trampoline while their parents lurked about. Some of the men sat around a crate using it as a card table, while others just stood leaning against their campers glaring at us. This was a place for the straight faced. Nothing romantic or artistic revealed itself, only a type of poverty kept secret and hidden.
None of us felt comfortable moving any closer to the encampment but before we had a chance to turn around the children accosted us. They blocked our escape by circling us on all sides and demanding that we give them cigarettes. I wasn’t sure what to do until the smallest child in the group said, “Donne moi ta couronne.” My girlfriend told me he wanted my hat. I had forgotten I was wearing a paper burger king crown. I took it off my head and placed it on his. Instantly this caused an uproar amongst the kids. They all wanted the shiny golden crown. The little boy bolted away, trying to save his treasure from the rest of the group.
In the midst of the mayhem we were about to depart when the boy’s father called to us from where he was sitting on a metal foldout chair. He asked if we were lost and when we told him ‘no’ he told us to sit with him. We explained why we’d come and how we were interested in gypsy culture. He didn’t seem to understand but he offered us a beverage from a clay jug he had on the ground next to him. The drink was called ‘Pisco Sour’ and was from the same place he was from, Peru.
It turned out that none of the people in the colony considered themselves gypsies. They were all poor Peruvians or Chileans. Most of them worked in the local steel mill but couldn’t afford the high prices of accommodations in the center. I was a little disappointed that they didn’t have the answer of how to be a writer without working, but as I sipped my Pisco I thought, I’ve found something far better. These Peruvians were way more bohemian than gypsies. They mixed their drinks with raw egg whites.
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