Pamplemousse LaCroix
(image via www.quotecatalog.com/quotes/inspirational)
It's the golden hour in North Oakland. The air is fresh and crisp. The workday is over, and an afternoon of meetings have left me parched and wanting. Though I long for the office-fridge drinks of bygone days, I've learned to fend for myself. I throw on a pair of shoes and head to the corner store to purchase a single can of Pamplemousse LaCroix.
I rarely buy loosies, but today it feels like the right move. I've got a fridge full of spindrift and I'm not looking for a commitment—this outing is for a refreshment, not a restock. I was hoping for a can of "pure" LaCroix, unadulterated by chemical additives, but it's not available Instead, I opt for their flamboyant and singular brand flagship: Pamplemousse.
The price is exactly one dollar. I break a five and cruise back home. In transit, the can is uncomfortably cold in my hands, the sort of cold only attainable by commercial refrigeration, a consistent hair's breadth from frozen. I hike the stairs, return to my bedroom office, and open it.
Crack, hiss, pop.
It's good enough. It's familiar, unobtrusive. Though it aspires toward grapefruit, the first sip has neither the acidity nor the bitterness to get me there. It takes a couple more swallows for the natural essences to bloom. I allow a mouthful to sit and soak, getting the full mousse's worth of pample, and post-swallow I find that subsequent swigs linger longer. The flavor is indelicate, but fragile; although the initial taste is forward enough to make its presence known mid-snack, it's eager to fade into the background.
But flavor is only half the story. Let's talk carbonation. Understanding LaCroix's carbonation requires understanding the context of the American sparkling waterscape. On the finer end of the spectrum we have Perrier, pinprick bubbles that subtly tickle. On the more aggressive side, we have the dense, medium-large bubbles of Gerolsteiner. Beyond that is a no-man's land of store brands, club soda, and questionable discounts. Crystal Geyser is the most conspicuous representative of this suspect bunch. It is the sparkling water equivalent of air horn.
La Croix's carbonation clocks in at a balanced medium. That's important: with no minerals to speak of and no romantic backstory for what spring or geyser poured it forth, carbonation is critical. I find the texture reminiscent of McDonald's fountain soda. It's enough to excite, but not to hamper large mouthfuls. Too bold a bubble slows the sipping, and La Croix isn't meant to be measured out. It's meant to be briskly and thoughtlessly enjoyed. I'd place the intended drinking speed at an andante allegro, but experienced beer chuggers would find La Croix eminently slammable.
What strikes me about LaCroix, though, isn't what's in the can. It's what surrounds the LaCroix. LaCroix is an accessory, a lubricant, a gesture. It's a signal that even in the daylight hours, it's okay to have a little fun. Not too much—not a memorable amount of fun—but some. In the same spirit, the can's coloration and logo manage to be simultaneously ostentatious and invisible. The blotchy pink and orange patches connote palette-shifted camouflage, while the swooping typography makes an empty pronouncement: "the cross" does not exist. The sole mark that could pass for a cross is the terminal 'X,' elevated and oversized, signifying nothing.
I notice this just as I notice I've accidentally consumed most of the can. Like a bag of chips unconsciously nibbled, LaCroix infiltrates, becomes part of the cultural fabric of our lives, and jumps down our throats with its constant subconscious suggestion to leaven our stomachs with its gaseous payload. And that's fine. It is, after all, pretty much just water. And shouldn't we drink more water? All of us? On the net, are we not healthier, happier, our skins more aglow, our whistles wetter and more tuneful, when we're popping and swigging and crushing can upon can of vaguely flavored party water? Maybe this is more fun. Maybe life should have been this fun all along, but it wasn't because we weren't holding a can. Was life better back in the imagined decade the can depicts, the smear of 80's and 90's design thought representing a freshly retro non-history that evokes surfy beach flirtations, sober tailgating, power lunches on the patio, an all-ages family-friendly block party vibe that anyone can afford and everyone can enjoy?
I regret my context for this drink. My vision has been narrowed by the forced aesthetic of San Francisco's infinite supply of Instacart-buffered refrigerator refreshments. Maybe I never understood those ping pong tables, but oh! did I avail myself of those cans. For better or worse, LaCroix meant a blur of work and pleasure, neither quite extricable from the other. But now, drinking on my own dime, in this moment when waiting room drinks are scarce and backyard cookouts are plentiful, when our houses are fuller than our offices, LaCroix feels different. I feel different. Surely this is growth. Surely this is better.
Or maybe it's just the bubbles. My can is empty. My next round will be tap.
