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.

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.

-tini: The Most Abused Suffix in Drinkdom

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.

Worst Vodka Ever

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

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.

Vote for Tito

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

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.

42 Below: Vodka from New Zealand

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

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

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.

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 Little Diddy About a Vodka Named Ciroc

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

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.