See U.S. Olympic
ice sculptors and Vladimir Zhikhartsev of Russia build
two ice monuments in Pioneer ("Red") Square.
701 SW 6th Ave., 276-4238. 12:30 and 5:15 pm Wednesday-Friday,
Feb. 16-18.
Ice displays open Saturday and Sunday, weather permitting.
Free.
Na zdarovya, tovarish! = "To your health, comrade!"
Vodka = literally, "little water." Cute, eh?
Stolichnaya
= "capital."
Vodka. Russians may not make the best, but with a thirst
that matches the boggling scale of their land, they own
vodka's soul.
Or maybe vice versa.
Legend has it that Czar Vladimir chose Christianity over
Islam mostly because Greek Christians let liquor slide.
"Drinking," the emperor is supposed to have said, "is the
joy of the Rus."
In the post-Soviet Götterdämmerrung, vodkas
ranging from toxic rot to fine achievements of the distiller's
craft stock Moscow's street kiosks. While alcoholism is
endemic, quality vodka is one of the few finished products
Russia can sell westward. Fortunately for Russia's export
trade, cocktail-crazy Americans have turned their backs
on domestics in favor of the good stuff in the past 10 years.
"The vodka renaissance has been taking place entirely in
the premium category," says Peter Heyworth, the director
of marketing for UDV, the firm that imports Stoli to the
United States. "The generic vodkas have seen a bit of shrinkage,
allowing for terrific growth in upscale brands like Stoli
and Smirnoff."
Stolichnaya remains the godfather of premium vodkas. Though
Polish and French brands have allegedly surpassed its quality
in recent years, you can hardly go wrong with the mellow,
sweet fire of this time-tested stalwart. Downed as a neat,
chilled shot, an inch or two of Stoli feels for a moment
like divine possession. Quibbles about who's best aside,
Stoli carries itself with the innate nobility of all truly
great liquors.
Still, the Stoli stranglehold apparently doesn't scare
backers of a revolving cast of new players, each armed with
a grab bag of marketing ploys.
Smirnoff, established master of fake Russianness, inaugurated
its Moscow-distilled Black label with the smirking question
"Do You Want to Be a Czar?" Charodei, an estimable, crisp
product of Minsk, plays up medieval Belarussian history
and classy packaging.
A new boutique label called Red Army plans to, uh, launch
soon with bottles shaped like missiles and ads modeled on
post-Constructivist Commie propaganda. The new sauce, distilled
in Rostov in southern Russia, obviously has clever people
pushing it, but whether the reliance on knowing kitsch will
win it a spot in a crowded field remains to be seen.
Heyworth--whose vested interest is clear--dismisses such
post-mod claimants to the throne.
"They tend to disappear just as quickly as they pop up,"
he says.
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Willamette Week | originally
published February 16,
2000
|
