Sangria

I’m not a big sangria person. It’s so sugary sweet; I hate feeling of fruit juice and alcohol coating your teeth as you drink yourself deeper into the haze. But it’s tasty, and it always goes hand-in-hand with excellent atmosphere.

In Boston, Dali’s (located on the Cambridge-Somerville line, just two blocks from my old apartment) was the place to be. Yes, there was delicious sangria on Newbury Street and sure, other restaurants offered better tapas to accompany the sangria, but Dali’s was perfect. Walking into the dimly lit bar, you were engulfed by whispered conversations and laughter, silverware softly hitting plates, ice cubes and fruit swishing in glasses. The mirror along the farthest wall played the entire scene of the bar/restaurant back to you, adding to the surreal atmosphere. The fish and fruit above the bar helped, too. I remember sitting there one evening with my best friend and a pitcher of sangria; by the time I had one glass she’d already drank the rest.

In Paris, it’s Bar Dix. This weekend I called one of my new school buddies up: “What are you doing?”

“Um, nothing?”

“Do you like sangria?”

“Yea, love it.”

“Meet me at Odéon at 10:00pm.”

After getting lost (as usual), I glanced at the map and led him to #10 and down the stairs. There we found my Dali’s of Paris.

Tucked into the basement of an otherwise nondescript bar, Bar Dix serves delicious (teeth-coating) sangria in old clay pitchers beneath ancient artwork. The ceilings are arched as they so typically are in Paris; the walls are made of old stone. Huddled into this tiny square room, we passed the night. And loved it.

A colleague and friend recommended it to me. I’d recommend it to anyone who comes to Paris.