Let’s talk about grapefruit. Nobody likes it. It’s a sour, pock-faced bloated orange, and you know it. Anybody that says they actually LIKE grapefruit is also running a shady ponzi scheme in their basement. Don’t trust them.
To compensate, the French came up with a lusciously provocative word for the last-picked, overweight nerd at volleyball camp. Pamplemousse. We have a knack for these things. Taking your parapluie to the bibliotheque sounds like you’re meeting James Franco for naughty times in the stacks. In reality, you’re slogging through puddles with your broken umbrella to study orgo.
POMP-le-MOOSE. How alluring is that? Lord Pamplemousse. We would have cocktails, and I would spend the night. In the morning, I would quietly let myself out, harrowed by the vision of his suffocating girth. Here at le Château, we have giant grapefruit trees. Terrifying amounts of them. Enter the Isle of Pines. This is the reason the grapefruit exists, and it’s perfection. Get yourself a suitably elegant glass, throw in a bit of ice, equal parts grapefruit and pomegranate juice, and leave room for rum. Toss in a little. Or toss in a lot. Finish it off with a pinch of sugar, et voila.