The Discriminating Drunkard

Crisis averted: Cheap vodka for everyone!

2012-01-16T11:40:00.028-05:00

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!

2011-04-13T12:11:00.017-04:00

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

2011-02-24T12:10:00.012-05:00

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

2010-12-28T12:21:00.006-05:00

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

2010-05-05T16:11:00.012-04:00

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

2010-05-01T16:28:00.002-04:00

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

2010-04-03T12:36:00.002-04:00

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

2010-02-15T16:26:00.012-05:00

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

2010-01-24T20:48:00.003-05:00

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.

O Canada

2009-12-27T05:23:00.002-05:00

After eight years of W I can turn wistful for the Reagan years. The C.I.A. and the Clash were on the same page (Sandinista!), and flexing our imperialism meant taking out that country club Grenada so we could have incompetent doctors who couldn't get into a real medical school working in our hospitals.

During that time, my next door neighbor would join my dad on the back patio for a post-work drink, his bottle of Canadian Club and tumbler of ice in tow. This nostalgic tableau came rushing back to me at the first sip of CC recently.

CC is classic. Wonderful rye whiskey redolent of wood paneling, flattop haircuts and reactionary politics. Its taste is similar to bourbon, sweet but without the brawn of its American cousin.

Drink it straight on ice. You can use it in a pinch to make a Manhattan too, but I would use dry vermouth and an extra dash of bitters to add some complexity.

Oh, and an added benefit of drinking your father's whiskey: it's cheap. ~$12.99 a bottle. At that price, there's no reason you shouldn't have this in your liquor cabinet. --And call your dad while you're at it. I bet he would like to hear from you.

-tini: The Most Abused Suffix in Drinkdom

2009-11-27T22:53:00.001-05:00

I recently noticed a colleague of mine sipping an interesting drink at dinner. Its glass announced itself as a -tini drink, but it was not of the fluorescent-colored, overly garnished variety that plaque our drink menus. In fact, it looked like seawater. I was intrigued. I was told that it was a French martini. The drink wasn’t bad; I have since made a couple myself. It was not, however, a martini.

The Cosmo, also not a martini, FYI.

In recent years, "martini" became an umbrella name for vodka-based cocktails served in a fancy glass so bars and restaurants can charge $11 a pop for them. Which is curious because gin, not vodka, is the base for a true, classic martini. Vodka is favored for -tini drinks because of its neutral taste, whereas if you used gin the cocktail might taste as though there was liquor in there. In other words, it would taste like, well, a martini.

I drink both vodka and gin martinis, oftentimes in succession. It’s a matter of preference. But the real deal foe me is gin and vermouth. What makes a martini is how the dryness of the vermouth tempers the juniper bite of the gin. I advocate the term vodkatini when subbing vodka for the gin because they are completely different drinks.

Now that we know gin makes a proper martini, there are plenty other conundrums still to consider:

Ratio of gin to vermouth? Classic recipes usually have a ratio of three parts gin, one part vermouth. I prefer six to one with a London Dry like Tanqueray. For cleaner, new-style gins I prefer something close to what Hemingway called “The Montgomery.” Named after a British Field Marshal, Papa’s drink had a 15 to one ratio, which purportedly the battle odds Montgomery favored.

Shaken or stirred? Stirred. (Sorry James.) You’re not mixing a can of paint. Too much shake causes ice particles to dissolve in the drink, watering it down. The idea is to get the drink as cold as possible. A better way to achieve this is to ice the glass too. Then use a cocktail spoon to give it a vigorous stir for 30 seconds or so. You'll still get some dilution, but not too much.

Olive or twist? I have always been an olive guy, but since getting a zester, I have favored a twist. It really brings out the citrus notes. Twist gets my vote with gin, olives with vodka. Matter of preference.

Bitters? Many believe bitters are essential and some classic recipes included orange bitters. I like it, but mostly I don’t like anything mucking with the gin taste.

Most important thing is to keep it simple when it comes to a martini. Besides, if you have a few, they will cause plenty of complications.

Make Your Margaritas Count

2009-11-27T11:45:00.000-05:00

Come summer I do fancy a margarita. A good margarita. And, let's get this out of way, not a frozen margarita.

We do not discuss Slurpees here.

Real drinks do not give you brain freeze. Nor are they sucked through straws.

Besides, more often than not, all that shredded ice is there to hide the skank of bottom-scrapper tequila.

And we should all know by now, boys and girls, that every drink starts with the booze.

Tequila often gets a bad rap. One's first experience with it typically involves the application of peer pressure, something soon to be regretted and the licking of salt off your arm (or, optionally, someone else's person). There's not so much sipping involved as there is a brisk throwing back. But tequila is some complex hooch and it makes the margarita.

For a margarita, I start with clear tequila, known as blanco or silver. This is unaged and sweeter, purer than it's golden cousins. Tequila picks up color when it's aged in barrels. Not a bad thing in itself, but this adds a woodsy, scotch-like taste that doesn't sit well in margaritas. These are your sipping tequilas. They aint for body shots.

Second, make sure your tequila is 100% agave, if for no other reason than I cannot tell you what inferior brands make up the difference with. There's a reason wine bottles don't say, "100% grapes."

Third, your tequila should in no way be affiliated with Sammy Haggar. This has more to do with principal than anything else. Why buy your tequila from an aging B-list rocker if you don't have to? And you don't have to. Buying his tequila may also unwittingly lend support to more Van Halen reunions. So be part of the solution, not the problem.

I happen to like Patron Silver, but anything that meets the above criteria should do the trick.

Next, let's talk triple sec. This is just an orange liqueur and you would be wise to upgrade to Cointreau or, if feeling frisky, Grand Mariner for a little quality control.

Lime juice will hopefully be fresh if not squeezed from actual limes. These are green in color and available wherever produce is sold.

The rest is just mechanics people. Play with the ratios depending on how "refreshing" you would like your margarita to be. Try a 2:1:1 ratio and tinker from there.

Salt to taste.

You may have it on the rocks or chilled in a fancy glass.

Notice how I did not reference Jimmy Buffet once. Take meaning in this.

Worst Vodka Ever

2009-11-26T11:01:00.000-05:00

Vodka is criminally easy to make. All you need is ethanol, water, and something to filter out the nasty stuff, usually charcoal.

This explains why vodka producers spend the majority of their efforts on making fancy bottles.

Typically it's nearly unthinkable for me to find a vodka that isn't at least drinkable. Well, the end of the world may be nigh because there is a vodka that I would choose ipecac over. It's UVIX.

Ever hear of an Italian vodka? Yeah, there's apparently a real good reason for that. Now that Ciroc has shown you can make vodka from grapes, the Italians must have thought they could do it better. Got to be easier than making Sangiovese, right?

Well, no. UVIX is almost indescribably bad. Think rubbing alcohol. I'm not overstating this in the least. It's bad. Real bad.

I have a new found respect for Ciroc as a result.

UVIX is godawful. Stay away. I suggest not even looking at it.

Worstest Vodka Ever

2009-11-25T11:32:00.000-05:00

This is a real good time to take a break from vodka. I never imagined vodka could be so horribly, horribly bad.

For the latest example I give you Zubrowka Bison Grass vodka. Two things you'll notice straight away: Its yellow hue and the blade of grass in the bottle, the latter being responsible for the former. Thus this is technically a flavored vodka.

My one tasting note: it tastes like it's been distilled from a cinnamon-stuffed pierogi. It is revolting.

Here's the rub: the stuff sold in the U.S. isn't the real thing. Bison grass contains coumarin, which is banned in the States. So, the U.S. version uses artificial flavoring to approximate the taste of the grass. The result: ghastly.

Now, I did finish the bottle. Because, growing up, my parents taught me to always clean my plate. As I told Mrs. McDrinkerson, I had to finish the bottle; there are sober people in Africa. You're welcome people of Africa.

First We Take Manhattan

2009-10-26T06:46:00.001-04:00

In case you haven't noticed, I have an affinity for classic cocktails (some may substitute "affinity" for a more, ahem ... clinical word), the martini first and foremost.

Next on the list is the Manhattan. Like its namesake, this cocktail combines elegance and mayhem, the latter resulting from over-indulgence in this heavy hitter. But it's so good it's tough to drink just one.

Recipe. The two main ingredients are bourbon and sweet vermouth. As with the martini, the ratio of these two is all. The classic recipe is two parts bourbon, one part sweet (red) vermouth. I prefer four to one. You'll also want to add a dash or two of Angostura bitters to take an edge off the sweetness.

Bourbon. I have been using 100-proof Knob Creek and it's been doing a bang up job. It's tasty and smooth. I tried making one with Eagle Rare and it didn't have the same bite.

Garnish. A cherry or orange zest. Two possible problems ordering at a bar: the cherry is likely to be maraschino, which some people have an aversion to (not me), and only fancy pants NYC bars make orange zests.

I like to sip a Manhattan sip while watching Mad Men -- and rule of the house is that you must have a drink when the boys and girls of Sterling Cooper are on. But learn from my mistake: watch one episode at a time. I watched three on DVD and by the third I found myself in the middle of a drinking game. I think I lost.

Welcome to the Discriminating Drunkard

2009-05-09T11:44:00.000-04:00

I am not a booze snob. Mrs. McDrinkerson is wont to roll her eyes at this, but snob implies a sort of condescending superiority. People who call themselves booze snobs usually drink Grey Goose. I am discriminating. I drink Smirnoff willingly and regard Budweiser as drinkable. But I would never order a cocktail without specifying the brand. There is nothing more disheartening to see the bartender reach below the bar for the paint thinner.

It’s not about price either. It’s about taste and, yes, value.

And that is the mission of this blog. To find out what is worth paying for, what is a rip-off, what is damn fine at $12 a bottle, and how the to tell the difference.

Cheers!

This tequila was not a shot of love

2009-01-01T09:44:00.013-05:00

Much of one's first experiences with tequila are regrettable if not criminal. It was that insufferable midpoint of a frat-boy ritual that involved licking salt off your person (or someone else's; see regrettable) and sucking on a lemon.

The tequila itself was to be endured heroically, like the Greek brand left on your arse from an engraved wooden fraternity paddle. Thank you sir -- may i have another?

Later tequila became a tolerable ingredient in a margarita, but the thought of sipping it was akin to caning oneself.

But with all liquors of heritage, there is the good stuff, or at least the exorbitantly priced stuff.

In my case, I was introduced to Patron when Mrs. McDrinkerson gifted me a bottle. Specifically, she gave me Patron Anejo, which is aged three years in oak barrels.

While light years ahead of Cuervo, it's still tequila. And I'm just not that crazy about sipping tequila. Patron doesn't have that sawdust taste of Cuervo, but it is woodsy. And having previously tried Patron Silver, I can think I can say that I prefer my tequila without the wood.

Ultimately, I liked it. But I didn't love it. And at more than 50 clams a bottle, I need to feel the love if I'm going to pick up another bottle.

Tang 10

2008-12-27T17:27:00.011-05:00

Those who have sat at an adjacent bar stool have heard me rhapsodize about the sublime gin that is Tanqueray. It is for me the quintessential gin, never apologizing for its juniper bite.

But those that don't share my admiration think it tastes like Pinesol. (My standard reply: Let's talk about why you're drinking Pinesol.)

So a decade or so ago, along came Tanqueray No. 10. It's light on the juniper berries (the Pinesol, if you will) and heavy on the fruit. I once read it described as "fruit forward" and that's just about right.

I don't like Tang 10. See, it tastes like bubble gum. And once I made that connection I could never take it seriously. Honestly, taste it and tell me if you don't agree (Mrs. McDrinkerson concurs).

The biggest crime is that Tang 10 costs more than the regular version. It's so not worth it.

Stick with the original or try Plymouth if you prefer something smoother.

"I don't drink gin" is not an acceptable answer.

The Thing About Vermouth

2008-11-29T12:21:00.001-05:00

It's time someone stuck up for vermouth. It has been unfairly shunted to the back of liquor cabinets at the behest of wannabes with coarse cocktail pallets.

I blame vodka. It overtook gin as a cocktail staple for its ability to be emasculated in the shaker. The highest compliment most would pay a vodka is sipping a cocktail and proclaiming, "You can't taste the alcohol!" Well, that just breaks my heart.

People. You are supposed to taste alcohol. Rejoicing in the tastelessness of your cocktail is like announcing a choice cut of meat "tastes like chicken!" If all you want to do is get loaded, then have some self-respect and start an addiction to prescription pain medication. You'll feel better about yourself than you would ordering apple-tinis, trust me.

What does this have to do with vermouth? Well, it is one of two ingredients in a little cocktail called a martini.

Let's get this out of the way: subbing gin for vodka is a perfectly good cocktail. I do it myself on occasion. But it's not a martini. It's a vodkatini (vodka martini also begrudgingly accepted).

Therefore, gin martini is redundant in my book. A martini must has gin and vermouth to be worthy of the name.

Vodka and vermouth also make a decent combination, but here's the rub: vermouth has a taste. And the vodka constituency does not appreciate anything of the sort. So with vodka, vermouth is often left out altogether. (With no vermouth, your cocktail is neither a martini or a vodkatini: it's chilled vodka, but never mind.)

As a result, vermouth often languishes on the shelf.

Which is of great concern for martini drinkers like myself. First, consider that the ratio of gin (or vodka) to vermouth is typically about six to one. At times, much less than that. Which means one might have to drink 100 martinis to finish a one-liter vermouth bottle. It might take a mere mortal a year to bottom that bottle.

This is a problem because vermouth is essentially wine to which is added herbs and spices. You wouldn't keep an opened bottle of wine on a shelf for a year, so why do the same for vermouth?

As a result, I venture to guess that there's a lot of stale vermouth out there, especially in homes. Consequently, when most people taste vermouth, they are tasting bad vermouth. And, predictably, they don't like it, and it's banished to the back of the cabinet.

Bringing vermouth back:

* Buy smaller, 375ml bottles of vermouth.

* Keep it in the fridge after opening. Estimates vary, but an open bottle of vermouth should stay fresh for at least two months refrigerated.

* Try vermouth. There's a reason a martini has lasted a century or so. It makes a difference.

Vote for Tito

2008-11-04T19:34:00.003-05:00

Don't let the name scare you. Tito's may be dollar-for-dollar the best vodka today. Not the best period. But we're talking about a vodka that sets you back $13 to $14.

Its secret is that it's distilled in a copper pot, like a brandy. Usually the intention of vodka makers is to strive for purity, filtering out anything that create that nasty burn or skank the taste. Think of what's done in the name of bottled water.

Pot distilling leaves the flavors in, so the natural taste of the grains are captured in the vodka.

To describe Tito's, I feel compelled to use the word mouthfeel. It's like that added element in ketchup that gives it its volume. Tito's is delicious and tasty, without getting fussy.

Tito may be the least popular Jackson brother, but he sure makes a great vodka -- at an unbelievable price.

Finally, a Vodka I Don’t Love: Svedka

2008-09-18T13:06:00.006-04:00

I couldn’t be more pleased to report that I do not love Svedka vodka. First, this is the vodka that offered to sponsor Lindsay Lohan’s 21st birthday party (but pulled out after LiLo was nabbed for D.U.I).

Second, I was getting a little concerned that, far from discriminating, I was becoming a vodka slut.

That said, I don’t hate Svedka. It’s cheap. I picked it up on sale for $11.99 – making Svedka the cheapest bottle of vodka I had ever purchased. So in the interests of saving coin and not feeling like a pretentious arse, it would not have been a horrible thing to like Svedka.

But I don’t. Vodka makes its bones on the back end. Charming though it may be at first impression, if it skanks on the way down it’s not worth your time. Svedka skanks. (Insert LiLo joke here.) It has the deadly duo of a nasty aftertaste and a long finish.

Bottom line, stay away from Svedka. Ignore the stupid spokesbot and instead pick up my beloved Smirnoff, which is still the best value going.

Fighting Scurvy Since 1793: Plymouth Gin

2008-09-14T11:11:00.004-04:00

Those not enthralled with gin inevitably wrinkle their noses at the Christmas tree taste. Well, bah humbug. That taste comes courtesy of juniper berries and you can't call it gin without them. But how much juniper is used in the distillation varies with the gin.

Usually it’s the London dry variety, like Tanqueray, that turn people off gin as a drinkable spirit. And by drinkable I mean straight or close to it. To my taste, the London drys beg for tonic. But they don’t work so well in a martini.

Enter Plymouth, the juniper-lite gin.

Hardly a new kid on the block, Plymouth was supplied to every ship in the Royal Navy beginning in the early 1800s so sailors could mix it with citrus juice to prevent scurvy. Those who know me are familiar with my staunch anti-scurvy stance. I simply won't stand for it.

Plymouth tempers the Pine-Sol taste of the junpers with other botanicals that make it quite smooth. It has a light, citrus character that comes from its lemon and orange peels, the latter of which is the sweet variety as opposed to bitter orange peels used by most other gins.

Plymouth makes a great martini. I liked Tanqueray No. 10 when I first tasted it because it was smoother and more martini-friendly that the original. But I now suspect that Tang 10 is merely a Plymouth homage. I’ll stick with Plymouth. Consider that it is priced the same as regular Tanqueray ($23.99), and five bucks cheaper than Tang 10.

One controversial note: Plymouth claims that it was the gin used in the original dry martini recipe published in 1894. But Old Tom gin (which gave the Tom Collins its name) is often cited as well. Once we rid the world of scurvy, I would advocate some research dollars being allocated to solving this mystery once and for all. Let's do it for the kids.

My First Brush with Johnnie Walker Blue

2008-08-30T16:45:00.001-04:00

There are a lot of things I don't miss about trade shows. Namely the shows themselves. But they have provided some notable drinking experiences. One is to be excused for imagining me raiding the wine cellars of tourist traps, swinging magnums of Cristal around hotel bars or imbibing Louis XIII three fingers at a time. First, not my style. Second, I don’t possess the creative accounting skills to slip those entries through on my expense report.

I have consumed vast amounts of alcohol over the years on the company dime and a large majority of it has ranged from pedestrian to execrable; this includes much light beer and red wine that would inflict less of a headache if I smashed the bottle square across my forehead. Let’s just say trade shows are invariably about quantity more than quality, gluttonous more than discriminating.

My last trip to Chicago was noteworthy however in that, emboldened by the beer, wine and vodka I had already consumed one evening, I went ahead and ordered myself a Johnnie Walker Blue Label at dinner. Though I am a single malt enthusiast, I thought I would give Johnnie Walker Blue a try since I was in the mood for something a little different and it was the most venerable (and most expensive; it’ll run you $200 a bottle) blended scotch I could think of.

It’s a scotch that takes itself very seriously: every bottle is serial numbered and comes with a certificate of authenticity. There are about 15 or so scotches in the blend, some old (up to 60 years), some young, some from distilleries that no longer exist, and some from micro-distilleries that produce limited quantities.

All of which sounds good to me. Here’s the rub though: my palate had been thoroughly abused by lesser spirits that I missed the hints of “rich homemade Dundee cake.” So I don’t have much to offer in the way of tasting notes. It was definitely peaty and smoky, reminding me of the Islay malts, but who knows what else was going on there. Dundee cake tastes like peaty, smoky scotch as far as I know.

I don’t think I will be picking up a bottle anytime soon at its price point, but it did offer a nice reprieve from the usual expense account fare. It’s time to be discriminating again.

42 Below: Vodka from New Zealand

2008-08-24T10:04:00.001-04:00

My recent foray in single malts has taught me to appreciate hooch in its naked form, free from the cocktail alchemy that rounds its edges. I have come to approach cocktails like women, mindful of their inclination to mask their body angst with slimming black dresses cut to draw attention to their best features. But spirits are like the Rolling Stones: they are at their best raw, unbridled, and a little bit menacing, their coarseness revealing subtlety. When the Stones have been overcooked with gilt-edged production techniques (I'm looking at you, Steve Lillywhite) they have been reduced to music that is sterile and binary (see Dirty Work, any Mick Jagger solo album).

And so it is in that spirit that I tried 42 Below, the only vodka I know of produced in New Zealand (not that it matters; you can produce vodka anywhere). I poured a bit in a glass at room temperature and gave it a sip. It surprised me on several fronts. First, how palatable it was. I could drink it straight, chilled. Second, the most immediate sensation was that of sweetness. It was smooth and creamy. It was still clearly vodka in all its poignancy, but I was picking up surprisingly palate-friendly notes. I then mixed it up in a martini and it was quite good (though the creaminess was somewhat lost in the shaker). I liked it best with a dash of dry vermouth and a dash of bitters.

Best part: it was only about $20 at my local state-run booze shop.

One drawback. As I have come to realize, vodka is produced by marketers more than craftsmen. And so the name 42 Below is a double entendre: It's produced in New Zealand, near the 42nd parallel. The vodka is also needlessly 42 percent alcohol (get it?!). Too cute for my taste, but the stuff in the bottle redeems itself.

Yes, Smirnoff

2008-08-23T12:37:00.001-04:00

I used to think that Smirnoff was a vodka brownbaggers drink. But recently I have taken to Smirnoff. And at $12.99 for a 750-ml. bottle it's less than half the price of the super premiums. But it's not that I have suddenly become fiscally responsible in my drink choices (careful audit of my Amex bill confirms this). Thing is, I like Smirnoff. I like, God help me, the taste. I'm certain it's something my eventual sponsor and I will agree on.

I was brought to Smirnoff as many others were in the past couple of years when The Times conducted the now famous taste test in which Smirnoff bested 20 other vodkas, Grey Goose and Ketel One among them. My mention of this to our soviet bartender at Red Square vodka bar in Vegas was met with the dismissive silly-capitalist-American glower sported by Regan-era movie villains. Curious, I picked up a bottle and it's been a staple ever since.

What I really like about Smirnoff is that it tastes like alcohol. To the undiscerning this is a bad thing. Think of all the cloying -tini atrocities that resemble sundaes more than a cocktails. Smirnoff tastes as if the inside of your mouth has been swabbed with alcohol but without the burn, sucking the air out of your mouth and leaving you with a classic vodka-wheat taste. I originally intended Smirnoff to be my mixer of choice, but I have found myself using it to make a nice dry, frosty martini and being wholly satisfied. I even drink it neat on occasion.

There are smoother vodkas and ones with more character, but for nailing the basics, you can't go wrong with Smirnoff. We're talking thirteen bucks, people.

Incidentally, I speak of the red label Smirnoff, or No. 21, which is the standard 80 proof. There are also gray and blue labels, which are 90 proof and 100 proof respectively (I have no use for the extra firepower). Though presumably the brownbaggers appreciate the value.

Now This Is French Vodka: Jean-Marc XO

2008-08-21T14:22:00.005-04:00

Mrs. McDrinkerson is a masterful gift-giver. For example, this Christmas Ifound a much-coveted Stewart Copeland signature snare drum under the tree, which just may be the best gift ever. Then for my birthday (two days later), she gave me a lovely bottle of hooch, as one might imagine Amy Winehouse bringing to her jailbird husband during a conjugal visit. But, love her though I do, Amy might be a bit too chip shop to be sneaking a bottle of Jean-Marc XO vodka past correctional officers. And yet that is exactly what Mrs. McDrinkerson gave to me. How does she know?

I had never had Jean-Marc XO, chiefly because of its $50 price tag. And while I find it objectionable to drink a $50 vodka on principle, Jean-Marc XO may be damn near worth it. It is unlike any vodka I have ever tasted. The XO gives a hint of its uniqueness, in that the vodka is distilled in copper cognac stills and features a blend of wheat from, you guessed it, the Cognac region. That said, the XO makes no sense since it denotes how long a cognac is aged (XO = extra old). This vodka is not aged. Nor is it made from cognac.

Its handcrafted distillation process gives Jean-Marc XO a unique taste. It’s still vodka, but its makers boldly set out to eliminate the burn. Not that the burn is always bad; I happen to like it. The distillers borrowed a technique used in Bordeaux called micro-oxygenation, a process through which oxygen is introduced to the liquid to bubble out undesirable characteristics, which I suppose includes the burn.

The resulting taste is undeniable. I had to check the bottle and web site for some foreign substance that was slipped in there. It has a slightly plumy taste with a hint of cinnamon and cracker. It’s very subtle, yet a head-turner. It would be a crime to mix it. Just chill it and drink it.

It kills me to recommend a $50 bottle of vodka, but there really is nothing like it. Put it on your birthday list.

Here's Proof: We're All Wine Snobs

2008-08-16T13:20:00.004-04:00

Along comes this study that shows people think that the same wine tastes better when it’s priced higher. Little surprise here really. Same principal as for a grossly overpriced scotch like Johnnie Walker Blue. The ego can be powerfully suggestive.

Here’s the kicker though: they didn’t just ask people which wine they like better. The researchers hooked the participants up to a functional MRI (fMRI) scanner, which showed that people had a greater pleasure response in the brain when told they were drinking expensive wine.

Chew on that one. If you charge more for liquor people will actually enjoy it more. So don’t hold your breath for the three-dollar martini.

The New Yorker recently had an interesting article on wine fraud. That is the astronomically expensive wines bought at auction, like, say the six magnums of 1945 Château Mouton-Rothschild for which some Rich Uncle Pennybags recently paid $345,000. Although wine fraud seems to be rampant, no one cares. The buyers go apeshit over the wine and no one can really tell the difference anyway.

All of which brings me to the sorry state of the Wine & Spirit stores here in Pennsylvania. I nearly cried when Jonathan Newman resigned as chairman of the PLCB. You used to be able to get fantastic wines handpicked by Newman that were $12-$15. Now it’s hit or miss, mostly the latter.

Mrs. McDrinkerson recently picked up a couple “Chairman’s Selections” and one was so bad we poured it out. That's right, poured it out. To which the Catholic voice inside my head responds, There are sober people in Africa!

Zyr Russian Vodka and Industrial Distillation

2008-08-06T15:07:00.004-04:00

Despite all the romantic verbiage in the glossy ads and on the chiseled bottles, making vodka is an industrial process, not unlike making high fructose corn syrup or ethanol. Of course vodka sellers will have you believe that it’s an artisanal process based on a 500-year-old family recipe that includes rare Siberian wheat, crystaline water from artic icecaps, and the eye of newt. Truth is, most U.S.-made vodkas don’t even do their own distillation. They farm it out to big industrial companies like Archer-Daniels-Midland and Grain Processing Corp. that produce ethanol for everything from fuel to antiseptics. (Read this from the WSJ.)

There is a good reason U.S. vodkas favor the industrial process. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms stipulates that vodka is to be defined as a “neutral spirit so distilled, or so treated after distillation with charcoal or other materials, as to be without distinctive character, aroma, taste, or color.” In other words, pure ethanol with water added to bring the proof down. So one is right to be suspect of ambitious claims regarding a spirit that is by definition “without distinctive taste.”

This does not mean however that vodkas are indistinguishable from one another. Mercy no. But among U.S.-made vodkas, you would do well not to spend any more money than the $12.99 you’ll pay for Smirnoff. After all, it’s an industrial process. And when was the last time you heard someone say, That’s some high fructose corn syrup!

Which brings us to Zyr Russian vodka (pronounced “zeer”). I like Russian vodkas because they aren’t overly fussy or sweet. They’re pure and true. And this can certainly be said of Zyr. I would put it ahead of Imperia. It has a similar taste profile, but Zyr is more savoury and silkier. I was so enamoured I drank way too much of it the night I tried it. It was about $26-$27 and worth the occasional splurge.

Now for Zyr’s puffery. It uses what its makes claim is a unique 9:5:3 process – that is nine filtrations, five distillations and three tastings. This is no doubt an ancient secret Russian recipe devised by ancient Pythagoreans. And the marketers of Zyr make a point of telling us that the water used is drawn from 460 feet below Russian soil. As if we would be disappointed if it were only 300 feet, say.

One final thing I really liked about Zyr: it’s name. I like the idea of vodkas with monosyllabic names, allowing one to still clearly order them when impaired. It’s probably why vodkas don’t generally have names such as Perspicacious or Ornithological. Better: Zyr, Err, Uh, ... Me want Ur....

A Little Diddy About a Vodka Named Ciroc

2008-07-24T01:35:00.004-04:00

Here’s my dilemma: I like Ciroc. A couple years ago, I went to a vodka bar in Manayunk where I discovered Ciroc (along with another very special vodka to be discussed in a future post) after a consultation with the bartender. Ciroc is a bit of an oddity in that it is distilled from grapes. Bollocks you say? Well, the European Union, after heated debated, recently ruled that vodka could in fact be distilled from grapes. What does this mean? Well, first, that vodka can be made from practically anything. It is a neutral spirit – it can be made from grain, potatoes, beets, citrus fruit, or, yes, grapes.

Circoc is not a grape-flavored vodka. That would be truly horrible. Rather it is distilled from grapes, so that it retains the essence if not the flavor. An infused spirit by contrast has the flavor added, like pouring hazelnut syrup in your coffee. And yes, there is such a thing as grape-flavored vodka. Three Olives for one offers such an atrocity.

And so for the last couple years Ciroc has been a good left-field choice, one that I could recommend when in search of a little something different. Then Diddy signs on … And not just to shoot a commercial, but to "take a day-to-day interest in the brand management." In other words, the official brand vodka of rap videos and L.A. rehabists. Mariah Carey will devour this. K-Fed will be ordering this by the bottle. As long as Diddy does not muck with taste, I will continue to drink Ciroc on occasion. But I will not order it out. I might as well order Cristal. Now really.

My advice: keep your bottle of Ciroc in the back of your liquor cabinet and explain away its unique taste by crediting your own mixology genius. Do not buy Diddy albums. This may only encourage him.

A Marriage Made in Heaven: Vodka and Vegas

2008-07-23T20:35:00.002-04:00

Mrs. McDrinkerson and I were recently married in Las Vegas before God, Elvis and the Nevada Gaming Commission. We were both notably sober. (The same could not be said of our delightful Elvis stand-in, which pleased me to no end; best wedding photos ever.) It’s after the wedding that concerns us here though – and no, I speak not of the Mexican divorce.

It should surprise you not dear reader that the happy couple spent the wedding night at a vodka bar. More specifically, Red Square at Mandalay Bay. Yes, it’s prefab Vegas and would not be conspicuous next to Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville, but who can complain when your bartender has a working knowledge of more than 200 vodkas – all frostily perched behind him – and you’re a short cab ride from your hotel room. I was not to be denied.

After our proxy Elvis brought the day’s first act to a close with a stirring karaoke version of Viva Las Vegas, my newly anointed wife and I decided to celebrate as Napoleon may have imagined he would after annexing the seven million square miles east of Poland. Mother Russia would provide.

Stepping into Red Square I was impressed with the décor, from the constructivist art to the Cyrillic lettering, to the painting of an ill-tempered Lenin that greeted us at the door. It was enough to make one wistful for Marxism and bread lines. It’s the cruelest punishment we Americans have in our arsenal: after we defeat you we package and franchise you so tourists with fanny packs can have their pictures taken next to statues of your fallen leaders. In 25 years slot monkeys in track suits will no doubt be drinking Iraqitinis at the Bagdad Café.

Features that distinguish Red Square (besides the vodka, I’m getting to that) are the ice bar and the cold room. The bar is as it sounds: made of ice. Which presumably keeps your drink colder, but also inconveniently makes it difficult at times to lift the glass off the bar (without spilling). The cold room is also as it sounds: cold, very cold, below freezing in fact. Trick is you have to buy a bottle of vodka (at least $200) before you’ll have the privilege of experiencing Siberian peasant life. It’s like a ride for rich assholes.

In terms of vodka, it was at Red Square that I discovered Imperia, which is a sublime Russian vodka. It has that wheaty balance of smooth and astringent that keeps your knickers warm on the tundra. My favorite way of drinking Imperia is with a dash of olive juice, just clouding the drink a bit (I call it Chance of Rain). Imperia is my reigning favorite Russian vodka and worth the $26 or so it will set you back. If you like vodka for vodka’s sake, Imperia is for you.

The other thing I learned at Red Square is that pear vodka is godawful. I asked the bartender to recommend something a little different and he served me Grey Goose La Poire. I took a sip and sent it right back. I believe I stuck to Imperia the rest of the night, evidenced by the need for Steph to carry me across the threshold when we got back to our room.

We're a, ahem, nontraditional couple.

What's the Deal with the Worm?

2008-07-12T17:20:00.004-04:00

A reader wanted to know about the mythical qualities of the worm in mezcal, which of course are said to cause you to see leprechauns melting on purple clouds and such. Such queries underscore the need for this blog and give me the warm fuzzies knowing that by dispelling such myths I am offering an invaluable public service, helping lead mankind out of the darkness with the light of truth. Just like da Vinici in the Renaissance really.

Now, to clarify, worms are only found in some mezcal – not tequila. The Mexican standards authority prohibits it. Second, they are not really worms. They are in fact the larvae of a moth that infests the maguey plants from which mezcal is made. Hmmm, moth larvae. It’s a caterpillar basically. So these “worms” often found themselves in the mash, and one enterprising Mexican distiller in the 1940s happened upon the idea to leave them in rather than filter them out. In fact, he added a worm to every bottle – and not for its purported hallucinogenic qualities. It was all marketing.

The maguey worm found in mezcal is a delicacy in Mexico and is actually highly nutritious. Not only does it not make you stark raving mad, the worm is the most healthful part of mezcal and apparently makes a delicious salsa. The worms you find in mescal are pickled and pesticide free, so enjoy.

As for the worm's impact on the taste of the mezcal, I suppose you will detect a hint of pickled moth larvae. I’m having a hard time thinking that is a good thing.

For more information on mezcal, be sure to visit your local library.