Après Moi Le Déluge

In the Light of Versailles, On the Brink of the Flood

Some teas are born first with their recipe, then with their name. Après Moi Le Déluge is the exact opposite.

The story began in London. One day, unexpectedly, our daughter Forough said, "Why don't you make a tea with this name?": Après moi, le déluge.

The word, from the very first moment, held more than a cup of tea could possibly convey. Grandeur and indifference, elegance and impending disaster, the illuminated halls of the palace and the darkness outside the door… But a beautiful name is not yet a recipe. Especially not one that carries such a heavy history; it is certainly not a label to be attached to a few fragrant ingredients.

First, we started investigating the matter.

The phrase " Après moi, le déluge ," meaning "After me, the deluge," is most often attributed to King Louis XV of France. Another, possibly older, form , "Après nous, le déluge "—"After us, the deluge"—is associated with Madame de Pompadour, the king's mistress, whose influence at court was greater than many official titles, though she held no formal title.

According to the accounts, the year was 1757. During the Seven Years' War, the French army had suffered a heavy defeat at the hands of the Prussian forces at Rossbach. Louis XV was in low spirits; Madame de Pompadour, to console him, told him not to dwell on future misfortunes, adding the phrase: "Après nous, le déluge" (After us, the disappointment).

We don't really know if it was actually said in those exact words at that moment. Some of history's greatest phrases have been attributed to the people we want to believe said them. Some sources attribute the quote to Pompadour, others to Louis XV. But the meaning of the phrase remains the same throughout the centuries: What happens after us doesn't concern us. If the system is to collapse, let it collapse after we're gone. If a flood is coming, at least let our shoes not get wet.

Of course, this statement would later be read as a harbinger of the French Revolution. Yet 1789 was still far away. The stones of the Bastille were still in place, the guillotine had not yet been erected in the squares, and the mirrors of Versailles still reflected only candlelight, silk robes, and courtiers leaning towards each other for conversation. Still, there was a subtle crack in the old order. While the court was perhaps experiencing one of its most brilliant periods in terms of refinement, art, and taste, daily life in much of Paris was shaped by poverty, the fear of famine, and heavy taxes.

On one side, porcelain cups, saffron, vanilla, powdered wigs, and gardens set up for an evening of entertainment that will last a few hours… On the other side, people calculating the price of the bread they will take home.

Après Moi Le Déluge was meant to bring these two Frances face to face in the same cup.

Dila, whom we call "the goddess of our recipes" in Mama Ram's kitchen, took this idea and didn't immediately turn it into a tea. She spent four months working around it. She experimented with ingredients, removed them, rearranged them; she created different balances, and in each attempt, she returned to the same question: How can a cup of tea convey both the humble kitchen of a home and the immeasurable splendor of Versailles?

The answer was hidden in an old door that opened with the first scent of tea.

Angelica and Basra lemon immediately transport us to our grandmothers' humble homes. To small kitchens filled with dried herbs, lemon peels, old jars, and plants whose uses were known only to the head of the household… To materials kept not for show, but for when needed; to glass bottles that were never discarded, clean tablecloths, and a self-sufficient system established with limited resources.

The dry, tart, and slightly smoky acidity of the Basra lemon doesn't immediately give the recipe a cheerful citrus freshness. It speaks from an older, more reserved place. Combined with the rooty, green, and somewhat medicinal character of angelica, an almost forgotten scent of home emerges in the first layer of the cup. This is not the smell of a palace kitchen. It is the world of narrow rooms, frugal cellars, and women who keep everyday life going with small ingenuities, hidden behind the opulent facades of Paris.

Dried oranges also fall within this humble category. More than the bright, juicy appearance of fresh fruit, they carry the desire to preserve its aroma even after the season is over. Drying is, in a way, a small precaution against time and scarcity: leaving a piece of today's abundance for tomorrow. Like those who suspect a coming flood quietly hoarding provisions on high shelves.

Then the other side of the tea is revealed.

Iranian saffron appears with a splendor far greater than a few fine strands could possibly convey. Throughout history, it has been valued far beyond its weight; an ingredient that not only flavors food but also imbues it with richness, ceremony, and a sense of exclusivity. The tiny pieces of vanilla bean belong to the same world. The vanilla we know today was, in eighteenth-century Europe, a luxury imported from distant lands, requiring labor and not easily accessible to the common. When placed alongside saffron in tea, the gates of Versailles open: gold leaf, chandeliers, heavy curtains, and people discussing which hall will host the next banquet…

Saffron and vanilla aren't just there for their fragrance in this recipe. They are the opulence of the old regime; edible jewels of a world increasingly detached from the lives of the common people.

The black mulberry stands like a dark curtain between two sides. It is fruity and generous, but not as carefree as a cheerful summer fruit. The deep purple stain it leaves when crushed is not easily wiped away. It brings to the recipe both the rich color of palace fabrics and the darkness accumulating beneath all this elegance. It has sweetness, but it is not innocent.

At first glance, the pink peppercorn appears elegant enough to fit seamlessly into the decorations of the era. Its small, shiny, and almost decorative berries could easily find a place on a porcelain plate. But when bitten, it releases an unexpected warmth. It's a slight unease, a reminder that beautiful things may not be entirely harmless; like the first distant crackling of an approaching catastrophe.

All these elements converge against the dark backdrop of black tea. Here, black tea is not merely a trunk carrying the ingredients, but the scene itself. One side is powerful and familiar, the other bitter; a scene vast and dark enough to hold both the dried herbs of the humble kitchen and the saffron of the palace.

The image on the box is Jean-Honoré Fragonard's painting, *The Swing* , dated around 1767. Although the original title is *Les Hasards heureux de l'escarpolette * —“The Happy Encounters of the Swing”— this elegant title doesn't fully capture the play within the painting.

A young woman in a pink, sparkling dress strolls in a private garden shrouded in shadows. Behind her, an old man pushes her upwards, while her young lover, hidden among the bushes, lies in the perfect spot to peer beneath her skirt. The woman's shoe flies into the air; the Cupid statue in the garden, with its finger to its lips, urges the viewer to be silent. Everyone knows something, sees nothing, and the entire charm of the painting stems from this subtle complicity.

The painting is not set in the Palace of Versailles. However, it depicts the appetite for pleasure, secrecy, and reckless games played without regard for the consequences—a feeling prevalent within the privileged world that grew up around the palace—far better than any official portrait of Versailles. Moreover, the Cupid making a shushing gesture on the left is a direct reference to a famous sculpture made for Madame de Pompadour. Thus, the image we use on the tea box not only shows the splendor of the era but also establishes a hidden connection to the phrase from which it takes its name and the woman who is associated with it.

When Fragonard painted this picture, Madame de Pompadour was no longer alive. The French Revolution was more than twenty years away. In the painting, no one seems to be contemplating the impending catastrophe. The woman is at the highest point of the swing; her skirt is billowing, her shoe is flying, and her lover smiles from among the bushes. The garden is dense and beautiful enough to conceal the play taking place inside from the outside world.

But there is an unavoidable nature to swings: no matter how high they go, they can't stay in the same place.

He will have to return after a while.

Après Moi Le Déluge was thus more than just an ornate tea inspired by eighteenth-century France. On one side of the recipe, simple houses are adorned with angelica, lime, and dried orange; on the other, a palace is built by Persian saffron and vanilla bean. Blackberry leaves a dark stain between them; and pink peppercorn ignites a small but unsettling spark in the midst of all the elegance.

This tea doesn't mix poverty and splendor together and erase the difference between them. On the contrary, it holds them side by side in the same cup. With one sip, an old kitchen drawer opens; with the next, the candelabras of Versailles light up. One doesn't complement the other. One questions how the other is possible.

For four months, Dila transformed the France hidden within that name into a prescription.

And finally, while the woman on the swing was still suspended in the air, we poured the tea into the cup.

Because no one knew when the flood would come.

But in the distance, the sound of water could already be heard.