Crisis averted: Cheap vodka for everyone!

I’m over vodka.

There, I said it. I’ve been harboring this tumor of doubt within my besotted soul for a couple of years now. I often fail to appreciate the virtues of the expensive labels, which I struggle to distinguish from the cheap stuff. So I'm coming clean: I am less a connoisseur than merely an arbiter of what’s good and what’s bad.

And that suits me just fine.

In Vino Veritas

It crystalized for me the other night at a wine tasting. As I swished a cloying cuvee blush over wasabi peas, dutifully taking note of how the former softened the latter, I had a blunt tasting note that I withheld from our sommelier: the wine sucked. Hard. It was only remotely palatable* because my mouth was stuffed with Japanese horseradish.

Perhaps this means I have a coarse palate. To wit, my tasting notes for the evening: no … no … no … no … good … eh … godawful (see above)… hell to the no. That night I took home one bottle—of olive oil. (“Good” was $30.)

Which brings me to the existential question that threatened my worthiness of this blog.

Am I Discriminating?

After much deliberation and self-recrimination, I can confidently say, you bet I am. Discriminating, yes; hair-splitting, not so much. I know good. I know bad. And I don’t begrudge the good enough.

Such discernment is put to good use when it comes to vodka. Because there is a lot of good enough vodka. In fact, it's so plentiful that it's the reason I became mired in self-doubt. I liked everything! Was I a fraud, no more discriminating than the village bicycle?

Thankfully, I am not. A fraud that is. I am, however, a vodka slut. Because there really are scores of good vodkas to choose from. And in most cases, good vodka is good enough. Especially if you’re mixing it in a wackatini.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying all vodkas taste the same. Just that many are so close you can opt for the cheaper bottle without sacrificing quality. And the New York Times agrees with me.

Another Bubble Burst

My devastating personal crisis turned out to be a wonderful thing. And we have the recent economic meltdown to thank for it. In the past five years, the focus of vodka marketers has gone from fleecing douchebags (not that I object to the practice) to pedaling fine vodka at reasonable prices.

So if you're not the type to detect hints of fennel and lemon grass in your vodka, try these six bottles under $15, all of which earn my Good Enough seal:

• Luksusowa—dollar-for-dollar, the best vodka available at $14.99. It’s a creamy Polish potato vodka that would be good at twice the price. Move over Belvedere.
• Smirnoff—See my review. Still a solid choice at $13.99.
• Pinnacle—While the outrageous flavored varieties offend me deeply, the regular vodka is damn fine at $13.99.
• 42 Below—See my review. Only $11.99.
• Platinum 7x—We’ve broken the $10 mark! At $9.99, I was skeptical, but it’s legit. Smooth.
• Sobieski—I think throwing money at watered down ethanol in fancy bottles is exclusively an American phenomenon. Proof: this Polish vodka is only $8.99. And it’s good. Trust me.

* I’m being generous

Unfiltered vodka? Da!

The story is that my family—specifically, my great-grandfather Isaac—hailed from Russia. You wouldn’t know it from my surname, which is in no way Russian and can be found on 19th century ship manifests bound from England or points along the Caribbean.

Which could suggest that I am in fact descended from pirates (Isaac = “Aye-Jack”?), but alas it is vodka not rum that stirs my soul. Russian it is.

It is perhaps fitting that vodka, also purportedly from Russia, has had the same fate as my family name in the 20th century: its origins have been obscured to make it more palatable for American tastes.

An Immigrant Story

Isaac had reasons to assimilate. He was Jewish for one. And his bygone last name was probably an unpronounceable pileup of guttural consonants and syllables. So he recast himself as a pirate, married an Irish Catholic, and threw everyone off his scent. So the story goes.

Vodka shouldn’t have such identity issues. And yet in the U.S., vodka is officially defined as a neutral spirit "without distinctive character, aroma, taste or color."

Vodka’s job then was to mix well without making a fuss. Be smooth beyond all else. Agreeable. Whether made with beets, potatoes, wheat or corn, it's all the same.

But of course vodka does have taste and it can be quite distinctive. So what gives?

The Great Melting Pot

In recent years, vodka makers have rediscovered the ancient art of pot distilling. In contrast to the column distilling process, pot distilling is very hands-on. Any industrial ethanol producer can make no-frills vodka by the megaton with column stills.

But making small-batch vodka by a pot still takes an artisan. The process is much like that of crafting a single malt or cognac. The source material matters because you’re going to taste it in the final product. So the wheat (Ketel One), corn (Tito’s), or grapes (Ciroc) you are using had better be good. Which brings us to...

Belvedere Intense Unfiltered

The first adjective intrigued me; I’m not one to favor quiet spirits. The latter frightened me; if it’s not filtered, won’t it be ghastly?

Happily, it is not. Which is a bit shocking. Unfiltered here actually means the vodka is not filtered. And that has made me question all the bluster about filtering out the “impurities” of vodka. Turns out, those impurities hold the flavor. In the case of BIU, the zesty rye really shines with a touch of almond that hits you on the upper palate.

Most surprising, there is no burn. It is in fact downright smooth. If anything, I thought the filtration process was meant to mitigate/eliminate the burn. Not so apparently.

Belvedere Intense Unfiltered is not for everyone. The intense bit can wear out its welcome. And at $30+ a bottle, it’s not for mixing with cranberry. But it is one of the most interesting straight-up vodkas I’ve tasted, one that is certainly not shy about showing you what it’s made of.

Meatball Sundae: A review of Bakon Vodka

Renowned marketer Seth Godin coined the phrase: meatball sundae. It’s two perfectly good ideas that produce unfortunate results. Like when George Costanza tries to mix pastrami with foreplay.

Which brings us to another cured meat, bacon, and its curious liaison with vodka. More specifically, Bakon Vodka.

Yeah, it’s a real thing. A bacon-flavored vodka, and it’s a classic example of a meatball sundae.

This is a stunt vodka is what it is. It serves no purpose other than to elicit a chuckle at a party (“They done put bacon in vodka, that’s CRAZY!”) or to be trafficked as a gag gift (how I obtained mine). There’s simply no reason for it.

And yet, it’s bacon. So it can’t not to be talked about.

Start with the smell. I usually don’t give a fig about a vodka’s “nose.” But you want bacon-anything to smell like bacon. And this smells like bakon (sic). Despite the claim by the Beverage Tasting Institute (more on these charlatans later) that is has “convincing aromas of fatty smoked maple bacon,” to me it smacked of Bac-Os Bits. Actually, that might be too harsh. On Bac-Os Bits.

But how does it taste?

I started by taking a sip neat. Terrible. Again, Bac-Os Bits. If Betty Crocker made a vodka, this would be it.

But I withheld judgment. I figured Bakon is a mixer and might actually work well in a bloody Mary. In other words, I fell for the more is more fallacy. That the meatball sundae will redeem itself as a ménage with, say, a nice piece of fish. Like when Constanza decides to watch some tube while eating his pastrami and doing whatever he was supposed to be doing with his lady friend.

With hope in my heart, I made a bloody Mary. Took a slow, expectant sip. Waited for the flavors to wash over my palate. And the damned thing tasted like Bac-Os Bits. Actually, worse. The alchemy I thought might bring out a smoky, savory essence with help of some salty, peppery tomato juice didn’t happen. It was just as ghastly as it was straight.

Critical acclaim, seriously

I would stop there, but I have to address Bakon’s “critical acclaim.” If you head to their website, you’ll see they have the gall to beat their chest about all the medals they apparently won. Which calls into question the legitimacy of organizations that award such baubles and assign ratings to spirits.

Take the aforementioned Beverage Tasting Institute. Aside from their suspect sense of smell, they give Bakon a 92 rating. To put that in perspective, that is the same rating they give the clearly superior Pravada and Stolichnaya. Also given a 92 is Zubrówka—which is among the worst vodkas I’ve ever tasted—and Pinnacle Whipped Cream Vodka.

Now, I’m about to commit the cardinal sin of the critic and review Pinnacle Whipped Cream Vodka without ever having tried it. And I’m going to do it in two words: meatball sundae.

Obviously, Bakon and BTI were made for each other.

Oh and by the way, the “proof” that backs Grey Goose’s claim as the World’s Best Tasting Vodka®? Yup, it’s BTI’s rating from 1998.

Leave your gin in San Francisco

Junipero gin first came to my attention by way of Mrs. McDrinkerson, who had a measure dropped in her tonic while in San Francisco a few years back. It’s distilled there by the craft-brew pioneers responsible for Anchor Steam beer. Mrs. McDrinkerson liked what she tasted and reported that the locals quite enthusiastically recommended it her.

But alas, I had to wait several years to try Junipero myself, since it has only just become available in Pennsylvania, and only by special order at that.

Junipero claims to the first of the “new gins,” by which they presumably mean the small-batch variety that riff on London drys.

I’m wary of the new gins.

I’m quite happy with the old gin. And the recent incarnations self-consciously try to set themselves apart from the classic recipe. They throw in left-field botanicals and go crazy with the citrus flavors. Sometimes this has surprising results (see Hendrick's and its cucumber and rose petals), but more often they seem faddish and overcooked (see the highly regarded Bulldog).

But I had high hopes for Junipero. For one, “juniper” is in its name. The juniper berry is gin’s raison d’être—otherwise it’s just funny-tasting vodka. And yet, newfangled gins tend to downplay the juniper to prove it aint your father’s gin.

Thankfully, Junipero is true to its name. It’s bold and has some of the high heat you’d find in standard-bearer Tanqueray. Still, it gets a little jiggy with the citrus—thinking grapefruit here. And it just didn’t come together for me. It struck me as very similar to Bluecoat—softer but not as well balanced. Advantage Bluecoat.

In the end, it was not worth the wait. If it were $15 at my local hooch shop I would pick it up occasionally. But as a special order at more than twice that, this San Francisco treat is a one-and-done.

Hendrick's: Waiter, There's a Cucumber in My Gin

It sounded like a bad idea. Surely a gimmick, maybe a joke even. A gin infused with cucumbers and rose petals? Really now. I suppose this is what leprechauns and fairies mix with their tonic. Why not add lavender and chamomile while you're at it.

Yeah, when I first came across Hendrick's gin I was not interested. I prefer my gin with the crisp juniper bite that polite society recoils from. If you're going to go messing with the botanicals in gin, try eye of newt or toe of frog, something that reminds me I'm not drinking tea. But cucumbers and roses? I prepared myself to hate it.

But I didn't. I quite liked it surprisingly enough.

Maybe I shouldn't have been so surprised. Cucumber actually complements gin quite well. Drop a slice in your Tanqueray and you'll see that even your London drys have a hint of cucumber underneath all that evergreen. Hendrick's tones down the juniper and puts the spotlight on the cucumber to give it a nice clean taste. It's floral without being flowery. It's light on its feet, but since it's a hearty 88 proof you'll still respect yourself in the morning.

And if it makes you feel any better, it's distilled in Scotland by people who know their way around a pot still.

Hendrick's Cocktails
Hendrick's makes a splendid martini with a whisper of vermouth. But -- and this is critical -- you must garnish it with a cucumber. I thought at first that that was gimmick too. When I read that mixologists in Hendrick's employ insisted on the cucumber garnish I rolled my eyes. OK, I get it, I thought. Hendrick's is distilled with cucumbers. Throwing one in your martini would make as much sense as tossing juniper berries in your Tanqueray.

But, again, I was wrong. A slice of cucumber made the vegetal essence of the gin explode. It made me feel as though I was sipping a distilled green salad. If that thought repulses you, you haven't tried Hendrick's.

Same for mixing with tonic. Forget the lime (although that will do it a pinch). Garnish with a cucumber and you'll rediscover the G+T all over again.

Cucumbers Pull a Seat up to the Bar
And it's catching on. I can recall ordering a Hendrick's martini a few years ago and when I insisted on the cucumber garnish I got a perplexed look from the waiter, followed by a dozen wooden-match-sized slivers floating in my glass. When the Fenix in Phoenixville first opened, I dispatched the waiter to the restaurant next door for a cucumber slice. Now they keep them at the bar. Another example of my conscientious imbibing making a difference.

You're welcome.

The Ultimate D'bag Vodka

I'm betting Jon Gosselin orders this every bottle service. Yes, I give you ... Ed Hardy vodka. I hear it tastes of rye, coriander and disillusionment.

Iceberg Vodka: The Upside of Global Warming

Global warming might be hard on polar bears, but it is inspiring some lovely cocktails. And no, I speak not of equal parts greenhouse gases, solar variation and Texas hubris, shaken and garnished with a slice of shut the hell up.

By cocktails I mean martinis and the like. Because the inconvenient truth is that icebergs, the ones that have been collapsing into the oceans at an alarming rate, are quite refreshing in a cocktail shaker. While I have not tried this directly, I can attest that icebergs can be used to make a fine vodka.

Specifically, Iceberg Vodka. This Canadian treat is, as advertised, made from icebergs. Which to green-minded folk may seem like making hamburger out of spotted owls. But, rest assured, this would only be true if the owls had first died of natural causes. For the Canucks who make this vodka “harvest” the icebergs. That is, they scoop up the chunks that have broken off and floated toward Newfoundland.

Why icebergs? Icebergs are comprised of fresh water that is about as pure as you can get. Formed 12,000 years ago, icebergs contain barely any measurable contaminates.

Some the fuss vodka marketers make about the water in their vodka may be nonsense (see “Gensac spring water from the Cognac area”), but it is kinda important. Vodka is 60% water by volume. And if you don’t think that matters, why do we drink so much bottled spring water?

I had never thought much before about the effect water has on the taste of vodka, but Iceberg convinced me it's not insignificant. It is really clean. The finish left by the sweet corn used to make Iceberg is somewhat astringent, but on the top end Iceberg is damn near perfect.

And it gives me great pleasure after recommending a $50 vodka to tell you that Iceberg can be had for a mere $14.99. Sort of mitigates the dear cost of global warming. Seek this one out.

Flower Power: St-Germain Liqueur

I’m not generally one for liqueurs. They tend to be oversweet desert drinks high on sugar and low on complexity. The worst offenders are those meted out by the shot glass at college parties and shore houses, often on a dare. Countless hangovers start there.

Consider the regret-filled shudders that accompany the likes of Aftershock, Southern Comfort, Sambuca and the umlaut twins—Goldschläger and Jägermeister.

Still, let’s not impugn the entire category. Many liqueurs do suitably well as mixers. Campari makes a lovely negroni. Cointreau does wonders for a margarita. And Chambord ... comes in a super fancy bottle.

So when I recently felt like mixing things up a bit, I picked up a bottle of the hot liqueur of the moment, St-Germain. It's made from elderflowers. What are elderflowers? Beats me. But I was taken with the method in which they are gathered: In the foothills of the Alps, eccentric Frenchmen pluck the blossoms by hand and transport them by bicycle to market. And according to its bottle, it's the “first liqueur in the world created in the artisanal French manner.” They had me at artisanal.

Celebrated bartenders who like to think of themselves as artisans rave about the stuff. And the New York Times named the St-Germain cocktail among last decade’s best (more on that later).

So, I was expecting something like James Bond at a Monte Carlo casino. An elegant mixer that was subtle, complex, charismatic.

Well, it was not quite like that. Surprisingly, it was not particularly subtle or floral. It was overpowering—more Brown than Bond. Boy, elderflower must be one fruity flower. It smacks of grapefruit. A little peary. Honeyed a bit. Sweet in a not-entirely cloying way, yet still way too sweet for me.

But I wasn’t going to drink this straight. I was planning to mix it. I had a hunch it would go well with gin. And I thought Mrs. McDrinkerson would go for the aforementioned St-Germain cocktail (2 parts sauvignon blanc, 1.5 parts St-Germain, 2 parts tonic). So I made a cocktail for the Mrs. and a “Left Bank Martini” (1 part sauvignon blanc, 1 part St-Germain, 1.5 parts gin) for me.

Both had just a bit too much zing. I rebooted my wife’s drink with a St-Germain and tonic:strike two. So overpowering was the St-Germain that the two cocktails tasted almost identical—just varied shades of indomitable elderflower. It turned away gin even when the latter was trebled. The only spirit to stand up to St-Germain was the last of my Patron Anejo. Flower power indeed.

Still, it actually paired well with some sauvignon blanc and dry vermouth. But I had to use about a quarter ounce—and lots of Beefeater—before it quieted down enough to be called “subtle.”

So in the final analysis, St-Germain is certainly not a wallflower. It is an intriguing mixer, but you really have to exercise restraint with this one. Alas, despite all its uniqueness it is still a bloody liqueur. For better or worse.

Take that London: Bluecoat American Dry Gin

My first experience with gin had every chance to be perfect. I was in Manhattan, decked out in a tuxedo, flush with a corporate credit card. Three female colleagues accompanied me to a bar in the theater district and I grasped that the occasion called for something with a measure of elegance and sophistication. I ordered a martini.

So far so good.

But I was a young pup, my tuxedo was rented, and the credit card wasn't mine. Plus, it was before five in the afternoon -- and there's a whole other story about why I was the only one in formal dress.

See, I made a rookie mistake: I did not specify a brand of gin when ordering and was served up something distinctly bathtub in origin. Stupid tourist, the bartender no doubt said to himself. Needless to say, it was ghastly. I didn't even finish it.

Tragically, I stuck to vodka martinis for the next decade.

I suspect most people have a similar introduction to gin. Otherwise, how to explain why you don't drink more gin?

But there's hope. It's a good time to drink gin. Especially when a dandy one is now distilled locally in Philadelphia.

I speak of Bluecoat American Dry, a complex gin that appeals to educated and virgin palates alike.

It strikes a nice balance of being citrusy without being sweet. The juniper bite is dialed back to make it smoother than the London drys. It has a nose that is chemically clean like a high-end spa -- no kidding, smell it. I usually like a good bit of vermouth in martini, but with Bluecoat I keep it to a whisper. I'm sure it mixes well, but it's so damn good I don't want anything competing with it.

And it's cheap -- under $30 -- with plenty of elegance to go with a well-fit tuxedo. So you needn't be afraid of gin anymore. Drink up.