IT intoxicates gently, fills the body with warmth, and the soul with enthusiasm,’ sighed the poet and philologist Frédéric Mistral. ‘In its essence it concentrates the strength, the gaiety of Provence—sunshine.’ Ah, aïoli, not merely a garlic-powered mayonnaise that, when made properly, could halt a blood-crazed vampire horde. But a mighty Provençal dish in its own right, a lavish and lovely cornucopia of southern French abundance, held together in a slickly luscious allium embrace.
For Le Grand Aïoli is all about celebration, of harvests, life and love. And the feast days of a dozen different saints, a communal banquet eaten at long tables in shady village squares. ‘A mad, joyous circus,’ in the words of artist and writer Richard Olney, of vegetables cooked and raw, of hard-boiled eggs and salt…