The Potion of Oblivion

Or: The Spirits of Giulietta

It was past my bedtime and I was flipping through the cable channels when I stumbled upon a frail, gender-fluid mystic, fresh from her bath, advising a big-eyed woman as to the sounds one should make during sex and the ways in which one might bite one's lover: the blind bite, the breathy bite, the torn cloud, the wolf bite. An acolyte, wrapped in a beautiful sari, makes animal noises accompanied by crisp, performative hand gestures.

The mystic suggests the rather prim-looking woman should act more like a whore to please her husband, then falls into a convulsive, guttural trance.

Unsettled, the woman leaves, but not before the acolyte imparts a final message to her. Something new and beautiful will soon come to pass, and we hear the parting words of the mystic from behind the door.

“Sangria. It quenches the thirst of those who drink it.” The voice deepens into that of a man’s as they add, “It quenches our secret thirsts, too. They call it the potion of oblivion.”

I had absolutely no idea what I’d just witnessed, but I was spellbound. What bored and horny, sheltered adolescent boy with dramatic pretensions wouldn’t be? I sat there, cross-legged with my eyes twelve inches from the television screen, trying to take everything in as the woman left that strange, thaumaturgic androgyne's hotel suite, got into a car with her companions, and told them in stunning flashback how her grandfather flew off with a voluptuous circus performer in a biplane as they drove home.

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I had stumbled into the middle of Giulietta degli Spiriti-- my first Fellini film. In less than two minutes, I was overstimulated, but thoroughly open to suggestion, which is why the relative calm of the subsequent scene left such an indelible impression.

In a moonlit garden, a tall, handsome Spaniard of indeterminate middle age makes sangria for the wide-eyed woman, Giulietta.

"Three slices of lemon, three of orange." The Spaniard instructs Giulietta's housemaid as she drops the slices with silver tongs into a pitcher of red wine. "Mineral water. Three teaspoons of sugar."

"In Valencia they like to add clove. In Córdoba, they prefer a more delicate taste."

The maid presents him with a champagne flute in which to pour the concoction, but he requests an ordinary glass. He ladles the sangria into a large tumbler and hands it to Giulietta. She likes it. He tells her sangria quenches the thirst of those who drink it. The voice the mystic channeled back at the hotel was his.

Even at a young age, I understood that man was offering her more than simple refreshment. I had my own secret thirsts, which I knew would have to remain unspoken for quite some time. It would be years before any of them could be legally quenched.

Especially the newly-discovered one for Spanish men with greying temples.

In the decades since I sat in front of that television set, I am happy to report that my thirst for Spaniards has been thoroughly satisfied. My thirst for Fellini and citrus-spiked wine, however, has not. I would gladly drink sangria and watch Il Maesto's films without tiring of either until death finally overtakes me. Or oblivion.

Whichever one comes first.

Sangría de Olvido

With my particular version of sangria, I'm never quite certain which comes first, because I make a rather potent one, adding port wine and brandy. The film’s called Juliet of the Spirits for a reason. At least, that's my reason. And when offered the choice, I always opt for the fast track to oblivion.

I've seen so many "sangria" recipes which do not include red wine. These beverages might be delightful and refreshing, but they are not sangria. They are fruit punch. Or worse: wine coolers. Sangria is a red wine-based drink. Its name derives from the Spanish word for bleeding and therefore should remind the drinker of blood. Whether it is the blood of bulls or toreros, Republicans or Nationalists, the suffering Christ or a child who has fallen and badly scraped her rodilla is entirely up to you. But do yourself and the people of Spanish a favor: make your sangria with red wine. If you really must make it with white, try calling it el corpúsculo blanco or something similar, if only to keep in theme.

Just hope no one who drinks it speaks Spanish.

Serves 4 to 5, depending upon what you consider an ordinary glass.

Ingredients:

• 1 bottle of inexpensive-but-decent Spanish red wine. Or, if you have more money than sense, use a bottle of 1973 Château Mouton-Rothschild, since a Spanish guy designed the label
• 6 slices of Valencia orange (I have omitted the lemon and doubled up on the orange)
• 12 or more spikes of clove, because I am not from Córdoba
• 3 teaspoons of sugar
• 3 ounces of Spanish brandy (other brandies may be substituted)
• 3 ounces of port (madeira may also be used if you prefer it less sweet)
• Cold sparkling water (optional)

Preparation:

1. Cut the orange into six ¼" slices and pierce each rind with 2 cloves. Or three, if you simply can’t help yourself. Place them at the bottom of a glass pitcher or 1-liter mason jar (which I prefer because of the accompanying lid). Sprinkle sugar over the orange slices.

2. Pour in wine, then add the brandy and port. Give the whole thing a firm but gentle swirl to help dissolve the sugar. Leave covered for at least 4 hours to let the flavors mingle. If you are letting the concoction steep overnight, refrigerate. The Spaniard in the film served his sangria immediately, but I much prefer to let the flavors blend together. Then again, I am not a Spaniard.

3. To serve, remove the sangria from the refrigerator to shed the excess chill. Sangria should be drunk cool, but not cold. Pour into glass tumblers, taking care not to let the slices of orange splash into the glass and onto your clothing, and fill the glass half way. Add the sparkling water, if you feel like it, until the glass is 3/4 full. Garnish with a slice of what now looks like blood orange.

To drink yourself into oblivion, you'd better make a double batch.

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