Moderate Alcohol Consumption May Improve Memory
“Drinking alcohol in moderate amounts may improve the ability to create and maintain memories properly, according to a new study from the University of Auckland in New Zealand and Ohio State University in Columbus, Ohio.
Published in the September issue of the Journal of Neuroscience, the research found that rats that drank alcohol in moderation seemed to have superior cognitive skills when compared to non-drinking and heavy-drinking rats, in ways that may occur similarly in humans. …” – from The Wine Spectator online newsletter
Spring was just over the horizon and the dogwoods were blooming along with tourists in the sixth arrondissement here in Paris as I purchased my yearly supply of yellow ochre and Davy’s gray from Sennelier on the Quai Voltaire, historical suppliers of artist materials to such talents as Sonia Delaunay and Picasso.
It was close to noon and I was in the mood for a confit de canard (duck confit) and a good Bordeaux. I strolled down rue Bonaparte, past the galleries and the École des Beaux Arts, breathing in the intoxicating aroma of fresh crepes and diesel. As I passed Les Deux Magots, once famous for the literati, I spied a rat perched on the back of chair at a table on the sidewalk. It was my good friend Jerome. He had a small glass of red wine in front of him.
“Bonjour, Jerome!” I said. “Ça va?”
“Oui, ça va,” he said. “Viens, prends un verre. Come and have a drink.”
“I haven’t seen you since you worked at that testing lab at Ohio State,” I said. “They were experimenting on you with different food substances if I recall.”
“Oui,” said Jerome. “It was heck, l’enfer. They filled me so full of nicotine, caffeine and chocolate Ding Dongs and Tastee Cakes that I have no blood cells left. Coffee and monosodium sulfates only run through my veins now. And wine.” He held up his glass. “They finally let me go when I could no longer show a reaction to anything.”
“What was the last test?” I asked.
“How alcohol affects memory, “Jerome said. “They theorized that small amounts of a Bordeaux or Cotes du Rhone could stimulate some brain cells and improve the memory.”
“Did they prove it?”
“Bah!” said Jerome. “They got it all wrong. They pulled us out of cafés after they heard us talking about old times with friends. It wasn’t the wine and the alcohol that improved the memory. It was sitting here, with good pals, remembering the old days, the good times. It’s the café culture here in Paris that encourages remembering.”
“The cafés?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “Ecoute. Listen. What do you do when you get together with friends? Talk of the old days, the boyfriends and girlfriends, the great bistros you visited, the vacations you took. You talk of growing up in the small towns and the large cities where you shopped. You buy a good bottle of wine and remember, you laugh and cry. And where is it? A café. The perfect Time Machine. La machine à remonter le temps.”
“I never saw it quite like that,” I said. “But memory is a good thing.”
“Ah oui, bien sûr,” Jerome said. “But it can be a curse. We’re trying to forget as well. We don’t always want to remember everything. “Look at old Jacques there,” Jerome said. He pointed to a rat on another table. He was bent over a pastis, a Gauluois hanging from his lips. “Old Jacques was with me at the lab. He’s a hard drinking rat; he remembers everything. He remembers his first glass of Châteauneuf-du Pape, his first plate of moules frites, his first kiss. He remembers the War, how the German tanks rolled past the Arc du Triomphe, the Resistance. He comes to this café every day to forget.”
“He remembers the War?” I asked. “That was over 60 years ago. He can’t be that old!”
“They filled him full of other things there at the lab,” Jerome said. “He’s well preserved; probably will live forever. He’ll be directing traffic for the Horsemen of the Apocalypse on Judgment Day. No, my friend, it’s our good companions that spark the memories.”
I was about to speak when a sudden trumpeting sound rattled the café windows. A pink elephant in a black beret and red scarf lumbered towards Jerome’s table.
“Jerome, mon vieux ami!” the elephant cried.
“Flaggot!” said Jerome. “Come! Sit! Have a glass! How long has it been?”
“I haven’t seen you since the riots of ’68,” said Flaggot as he filled a glass. “Ah, those were the days! Remember that policeman with the moustache? Ha! He looked liked a walrus with a halibut stuck in his teeth!”
“He was a walrus with a halibut stuck in his teeth!” Jerome said. “But I was with, oh, who was that weasel with the guitar at Place de la Bastille singing those Gainsbourg tunes. Ah, Flaggot! She was a cute one…”
I quietly walked off, letting the two friends talk over old times. I thought about how good friends, wine and food can bring out old memories and solid companions. Who needs a scientific report to know that friendships are forged over the warm, comforting steam from a hot cup of coffee or the simplicity of a good house red as well as in the blazing fires of conflict and survival.?
I also promised myself that I would change my afternoon meal from a confit and Bordeaux to a simple salad and Perrier. After all, I had just seen a pink elephant and it was before noon.
Illustration by Doug Cushman.
Doug Cushman is a former Redding artist and author who now lives and works in Paris. He was born in Springfield, Ohio and moved to Connecticut with his family when he was 15 years old. While in high school he created comic books lampooning his teachers, selling them to his classmates for a nickel a piece.
Since 1978, he has illustrated and/or written more than 100 books for children and collected a number of honors, including a Reuben Award for Book Illustration from the National Cartoonists Society, New York Times Children’s Books Best Sellers, and the New York Public Library’s Best 100 Books of 2000. He enjoys hiking, kayaking and cooking (and eating!). Learn more about Doug, his art and his books at his Web site, http://www.doug-cushman.com/index.htm
