Rewrite this detailed account of Ted Breaux's efforts to recreate authentic absinthe in a 19th-century French distillery into a suspense filled tale of a man trying to unlock a long-lost secret recipe.

By Ted Breaux's estimate, there are only a few dozen people alive who have had the opportunity to taste authentic absinthe, the drink whose notoriety defined the Belle Epoque and which had been banned in many countries for almost a century. It is a number that he is determined to increase. On a crisp, clear fall morning, he greeted me at the Combier distillery, in Saumur, in France's Loire Valley. It is here that Breaux, a thirty-nine-year-old environmental chemist from Louisiana, is trying to reverse-engineer absinthe, precisely as it was made a hundred years ago.

In the near distance, the towers of Saumur's castle rose above the slate roofs of the town like an image from a medieval Book of Hours. On the street outside, a pair of young men in military fatigues and black berets cycled past before disappearing into the dressage yards of the adjacent Cadre Noir, the elite equestrian academy that has taught the French cavalry since the eighteenth century. Across the way stood the commandant's house, an elegant Second Empire building cordoned off from the street with pink and red roses.

Like the castle and the Cadre Noir, the distillery, whose interior was designed by Gustave Eiffel, is a survivor from an earlier age. Breaux refers to it as "the Temple," and, as he took me past pallets of empty bottles and a row of potted lemon tees, there was certainly a resemblance to sacred architecture: one of the region's Romanesque chapels, perhaps, with their pale limestone walls and vaulted ceilings. The narrow doorway was surmounted by a rose window, and graceful arched windows ran along one wall beneath a steep slate roof. Instead of incense, the air was heavy with the aromas of anise, fennel, and lucerne and the sharp tang of alcohol. Breaux was preparing to distill a batch of his Verte Suisse 65, one of three that he makes based on vintage recipes.

The distillery was built in 1834, and though various features have been added, all its significant equipment predates the twentieth century. "It's an anachronism," Breaux said. Inside, it looks like something from a Jules Verne novel. A spaghetti tangle of pipes and tubes emerges from two rows of bulbous copper alembics that line the walls on either side. The stills were acquired in 1920, after the breakup of the Pernod Fils absinthe distillery in Pontarlier, in the French Jura, once the centre of the absinthe industry. The Combier distillery is, literally, a museum; Breaux, who distils there every few months, has access to it in return for a small commission on every bottle he produces. During distillation, an occasional group of tourists wanders through, admiring the alembics. When I visited, sacks of herbs were stacked in every available space; there was a container of grape alcohol the size of a small car, and an electric pump. Near the entrance stood an immense plastic tub of wormwood, absinthe's distinctive and contentious constituent, which, since the late nineteenth century, was held to cause insanity. Down the center of the room, suspended fifteen feet above the floor, ran a wrought-iron passerelle, or walkway, whose lacy gold-and-maroon ironwork clearly bore the signature of Gustave Eiffel. Since Combier began operating, techniques of distillation have moved on to embrace new technologies such as mechanized mixing and electronic temperature and pressure controls. But obsolescence is precisely what Breaux wants.
system
Rewrite this detailed account of Ted Breaux's efforts to recreate authentic absinthe in a 19th-century French distillery into a suspense filled tale of a man trying to unlock a long-lost secret recipe.

By Ted Breaux's estimate, there are only a few dozen people alive who have had the opportunity to taste authentic absinthe, the drink whose notoriety defined the Belle Epoque and which had been banned in many countries for almost a century. It is a number that he is determined to increase. On a crisp, clear fall morning, he greeted me at the Combier distillery, in Saumur, in France's Loire Valley. It is here that Breaux, a thirty-nine-year-old environmental chemist from Louisiana, is trying to reverse-engineer absinthe, precisely as it was made a hundred years ago.

In the near distance, the towers of Saumur's castle rose above the slate roofs of the town like an image from a medieval Book of Hours. On the street outside, a pair of young men in military fatigues and black berets cycled past before disappearing into the dressage yards of the adjacent Cadre Noir, the elite equestrian academy that has taught the French cavalry since the eighteenth century. Across the way stood the commandant's house, an elegant Second Empire building cordoned off from the street with pink and red roses.

Like the castle and the Cadre Noir, the distillery, whose interior was designed by Gustave Eiffel, is a survivor from an earlier age. Breaux refers to it as "the Temple," and, as he took me past pallets of empty bottles and a row of potted lemon tees, there was certainly a resemblance to sacred architecture: one of the region's Romanesque chapels, perhaps, with their pale limestone walls and vaulted ceilings. The narrow doorway was surmounted by a rose window, and graceful arched windows ran along one wall beneath a steep slate roof. Instead of incense, the air was heavy with the aromas of anise, fennel, and lucerne and the sharp tang of alcohol. Breaux was preparing to distill a batch of his Verte Suisse 65, one of three that he makes based on vintage recipes.

The distillery was built in 1834, and though various features have been added, all its significant equipment predates the twentieth century. "It's an anachronism," Breaux said. Inside, it looks like something from a Jules Verne novel. A spaghetti tangle of pipes and tubes emerges from two rows of bulbous copper alembics that line the walls on either side. The stills were acquired in 1920, after the breakup of the Pernod Fils absinthe distillery in Pontarlier, in the French Jura, once the centre of the absinthe industry. The Combier distillery is, literally, a museum; Breaux, who distils there every few months, has access to it in return for a small commission on every bottle he produces. During distillation, an occasional group of tourists wanders through, admiring the alembics. When I visited, sacks of herbs were stacked in every available space; there was a container of grape alcohol the size of a small car, and an electric pump. Near the entrance stood an immense plastic tub of wormwood, absinthe's distinctive and contentious constituent, which, since the late nineteenth century, was held to cause insanity. Down the center of the room, suspended fifteen feet above the floor, ran a wrought-iron passerelle, or walkway, whose lacy gold-and-maroon ironwork clearly bore the signature of Gustave Eiffel. Since Combier began operating, techniques of distillation have moved on to embrace new technologies such as mechanized mixing and electronic temperature and pressure controls. But obsolescence is precisely what Breaux wants.
user
In the mysterious world of spirits, authentic absinthe – the infamously potent beverage that charmed the Belle Epoque – has been shrouded in a veil of obscurity for nearly a century. Today, only a handful of living souls have had the chance to taste this legendary concoction. But there's a man, a man named Ted Breaux, who is on a mission to lift that veil.

Under the vivid canvas of a fall morning, we found ourselves at the gateway of the Combier distillery, situated in the charming Loire Valley of France. Breaux, a chemist by profession and Louisiana by origin, was there, embarking on a daring journey. His quest? To resurrect absinthe, just as it was crafted a century ago. The silhouette of Saumur's castle loomed majestically against the skyline, a spectacle reminiscent of a scene from a medieval manuscript. Beyond, the rhythmic pedalling of youthful soldiers in dark berets echoed through the streets, their destination - the hallowed Cadre Noir, a prestigious equestrian academy steeped in French military history. Amidst this backdrop of history and elegance, a quaint Second Empire building adorned with blooming roses stood defiantly – the commandant's abode.

Inside the distillery, lovingly referred to as "the Temple" by Breaux, one could feel an atmosphere akin to a sacred sanctuary. The intricate designs by Gustave Eiffel, the aged limestone walls, and high vaulted ceilings lent an ethereal quality to the structure. The air within the temple was thick with intoxicating fragrances of anise, fennel, and lucerne, underpinned by the potent aroma of alcohol. Breaux was on the verge of distilling his Verte Suisse 65, one of the three vintage recipes he was attempting to reincarnate.

The distillery, a timeless testament from 1834, was a labyrinth of intricate copper alembics and labyrinthine piping, an ambiance that would befit a Jules Verne narrative. Breaux, in a reciprocal arrangement with the owners, was allowed to utilize this living museum. Amid the chaotic arrangement of sacks of herbs and vast containers of alcohol, Breaux was focused on his mission – unlocking the secret recipe of authentic absinthe. The heart of absinthe, wormwood, known for its controversial reputation of inducing insanity, lay in an enormous plastic tub near the entrance.

The distillery was a relic of a bygone era, untouched by modern innovations in distillation technology. But for Breaux, this was perfect. After all, he was not looking to the future; his mission was anchored in the past – in the resurrection of a long-lost secret.
assistant
<|system|>
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<|user|>
Rewrite this detailed account of Ted Breaux's efforts to recreate authentic absinthe in a 19th-century French distillery into a suspense filled tale of a man trying to unlock a long-lost secret recipe.

By Ted Breaux's estimate, there are only a few dozen people alive who have had the opportunity to taste authentic absinthe, the drink whose notoriety defined the Belle Epoque and which had been banned in many countries for almost a century. It is a number that he is determined to increase. On a crisp, clear fall morning, he greeted me at the Combier distillery, in Saumur, in France's Loire Valley. It is here that Breaux, a thirty-nine-year-old environmental chemist from Louisiana, is trying to reverse-engineer absinthe, precisely as it was made a hundred years ago.

In the near distance, the towers of Saumur's castle rose above the slate roofs of the town like an image from a medieval Book of Hours. On the street outside, a pair of young men in military fatigues and black berets cycled past before disappearing into the dressage yards of the adjacent Cadre Noir, the elite equestrian academy that has taught the French cavalry since the eighteenth century. Across the way stood the commandant's house, an elegant Second Empire building cordoned off from the street with pink and red roses.

Like the castle and the Cadre Noir, the distillery, whose interior was designed by Gustave Eiffel, is a survivor from an earlier age. Breaux refers to it as "the Temple," and, as he took me past pallets of empty bottles and a row of potted lemon tees, there was certainly a resemblance to sacred architecture: one of the region's Romanesque chapels, perhaps, with their pale limestone walls and vaulted ceilings. The narrow doorway was surmounted by a rose window, and graceful arched windows ran along one wall beneath a steep slate roof. Instead of incense, the air was heavy with the aromas of anise, fennel, and lucerne and the sharp tang of alcohol. Breaux was preparing to distill a batch of his Verte Suisse 65, one of three that he makes based on vintage recipes.

The distillery was built in 1834, and though various features have been added, all its significant equipment predates the twentieth century. "It's an anachronism," Breaux said. Inside, it looks like something from a Jules Verne novel. A spaghetti tangle of pipes and tubes emerges from two rows of bulbous copper alembics that line the walls on either side. The stills were acquired in 1920, after the breakup of the Pernod Fils absinthe distillery in Pontarlier, in the French Jura, once the centre of the absinthe industry. The Combier distillery is, literally, a museum; Breaux, who distils there every few months, has access to it in return for a small commission on every bottle he produces. During distillation, an occasional group of tourists wanders through, admiring the alembics. When I visited, sacks of herbs were stacked in every available space; there was a container of grape alcohol the size of a small car, and an electric pump. Near the entrance stood an immense plastic tub of wormwood, absinthe's distinctive and contentious constituent, which, since the late nineteenth century, was held to cause insanity. Down the center of the room, suspended fifteen feet above the floor, ran a wrought-iron passerelle, or walkway, whose lacy gold-and-maroon ironwork clearly bore the signature of Gustave Eiffel. Since Combier began operating, techniques of distillation have moved on to embrace new technologies such as mechanized mixing and electronic temperature and pressure controls. But obsolescence is precisely what Breaux wants.</s>
<|assistant|>
In the mysterious world of spirits, authentic absinthe – the infamously potent beverage that charmed the Belle Epoque – has been shrouded in a veil of obscurity for nearly a century. Today, only a handful of living souls have had the chance to taste this legendary concoction. But there's a man, a man named Ted Breaux, who is on a mission to lift that veil.

Under the vivid canvas of a fall morning, we found ourselves at the gateway of the Combier distillery, situated in the charming Loire Valley of France. Breaux, a chemist by profession and Louisiana by origin, was there, embarking on a daring journey. His quest? To resurrect absinthe, just as it was crafted a century ago. The silhouette of Saumur's castle loomed majestically against the skyline, a spectacle reminiscent of a scene from a medieval manuscript. Beyond, the rhythmic pedalling of youthful soldiers in dark berets echoed through the streets, their destination - the hallowed Cadre Noir, a prestigious equestrian academy steeped in French military history. Amidst this backdrop of history and elegance, a quaint Second Empire building adorned with blooming roses stood defiantly – the commandant's abode.

Inside the distillery, lovingly referred to as "the Temple" by Breaux, one could feel an atmosphere akin to a sacred sanctuary. The intricate designs by Gustave Eiffel, the aged limestone walls, and high vaulted ceilings lent an ethereal quality to the structure. The air within the temple was thick with intoxicating fragrances of anise, fennel, and lucerne, underpinned by the potent aroma of alcohol. Breaux was on the verge of distilling his Verte Suisse 65, one of the three vintage recipes he was attempting to reincarnate.

The distillery, a timeless testament from 1834, was a labyrinth of intricate copper alembics and labyrinthine piping, an ambiance that would befit a Jules Verne narrative. Breaux, in a reciprocal arrangement with the owners, was allowed to utilize this living museum. Amid the chaotic arrangement of sacks of herbs and vast containers of alcohol, Breaux was focused on his mission – unlocking the secret recipe of authentic absinthe. The heart of absinthe, wormwood, known for its controversial reputation of inducing insanity, lay in an enormous plastic tub near the entrance.

The distillery was a relic of a bygone era, untouched by modern innovations in distillation technology. But for Breaux, this was perfect. After all, he was not looking to the future; his mission was anchored in the past – in the resurrection of a long-lost secret.</s>
