When Bertrand said “la grolla” a hush fell over us. He disappeared and came back with a wooden pot, carved with grooves curving up to six pouting spouts off the top and a little round lid and ball knob. Allison and I came to Bordeaux for wine, but what lingers is the warmed grappa, coffee, and lemon he poured into la grolla that night we spent sharing its contents. He rubbed sugar along its rim and lit a blue flame that flew in a circle and vanished.
We took turns sipping, watching each other’s eyes close and open with knowing smiles. Days before, we were strangers. He and Anna were our Airbnb hosts, chefs who’d fallen in love in Australia. She came from northern Italy where la grolla is a mountain ritual. Anna taught me to throw sea salt over the sautéing onions of risotto. Coarser salt absorbs their moisture, slows the sautéing. I’ve never not done that since.
When la grolla rounded again to Bertrand, I noticed his tattoo, a Celtic knot of triangles, M.C. Escher’s Penrose triangle. “An impossible object,” Bertrand said. “A reminder that I can do anything.” He was almost too wonderfully French to bear with his accent and hair pulled back, a black and white striped shirt, and suddenly open face. As he told his story, I saw for the first time just how much younger he was.
He grew up with epilepsy. He was told he could never travel. So he just decided to. He set his mind to it, spent his adolescence saving money, and then just went to Australia. “The amazing thing is, I’ve never had a seizure or taken medication since,” he said.
I want a grolla with eight billion spouts.
