Zyr Russian Vodka and Industrial Distillation

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 Marriage Made in Heaven: Vodka and Vegas

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.