The word appeared in standard Russian dictionaries in the mid-nineteenth century, but the upper classes and the urban middle class still regarded the drink as uncultured, almost obscene. Vodka was consumed primarily by the lower classes (hence the Russian idiom “drunk as a cobbler”). This was a result both of the quality of the vodka available (most of it was made from wood alcohol and smelled strongly of fuel oil) and of the barbarous “tavern” fashion in which it was consumed (it was illegal in taverns to eat food with liquor). Until the late nineteenth century, vodka was not even bottled—there weren’t enough bottles—and it was measured by the vedro, or pail (equal to twenty-five pints).
The secret of the word “vodka” lies in its effect on the masses—in the mixture of lust and shame it inspires. The alcoholic views vodka as a woman; he is afraid to reveal his feelings for her, and is at the same time incapable of restraining them. The very mention of her name creates an atmosphere of conspiracy and mystical exaltation that provokes a kind of pagan stupor. In its essence, vodka is a brazen and shameless thing.
Vodka is unlike other forms of alcohol in that there is no justifiable excuse for drinking it. The Frenchman will praise the aroma of cognac, and the Scotsman will laud the flavor of whiskey. Vodka, however, is colorless, odorless, and tasteless. At the same time, it is an acrid and irritating drink. The Russian gulps his vodka down, grimacing and swearing, and immediately reaches for something else to “smooth it out.” The result, not the process, is what’s important. You might as well inject vodka into your bloodstream as drink it.
But then that’s not entirely true, as all Russians, with the exception of the estimated 5 percent of the adult population that doesn’t drink, can tell you. Vodka is like a song—it may have banal lyrics and a simple melody, but the combination, like that of alcohol and water, is more than the sum of its parts. In respectable society these days, vodka is served at a table set with a range of dishes perfected in minute detail by the old Russian landowners. The vodka ceremony has its own traditions (“No eating after the first glass”), its superstitions and catchphrases (“Vodka is the aunt of wine”), its schedule (ordinary Russian drunks are distinguished from alcoholics by the fact that they wait until five in the afternoon to start drinking), and its accoutrements (fish, salted gherkins, pickled mushrooms, jellied meat, and sauerkraut)—not to mention its toasts, which are the perfect excuse for consuming alcohol while simultaneously focusing on the general conversation. Every Russian knows that drinking vodka with pelmeni, a kind of meat dumpling, can induce a high not far short of nirvana.
Vodka has taken control of the will and conscience of a substantial sector of the Russian population. If you add up all the time that Russians have devoted to vodka and gather together all the vodka-fueled impulses of the soul—the fantasies, the dreams, the weeklong binges, the family catastrophes, the shamefaced hangovers, the murders, suicides, and fatalities (favorite Russian pastimes include choking on your own vomit and falling out of a window)—it becomes clear that behind the official history of the Russian state there exists another dimension. Despite all the misadventures and tragedies of Russian alcoholism, the spotlight here belongs to the inexplicable, almost universal delight that Russians take in the notion of drunken disorder. That delight has been recorded over the centuries in the accounts of astounded foreign travelers, such as the Dutch diplomat Balthazar Coet, who visited Moscow in 1676 and wrote, “We saw only the scandalous behavior of debauchees, glorified by the thronging crowd for their proficiency in drunkenness.” We encounter the same philosophy in the samizdat bestseller from the Brezhnev era, Venedikt Erofeyev’s Moscow to the End of the Line, a manifesto of indiscriminate social dissidence and a frank apologia for the metaphysics of drunkenness. “Everybody in Russia who was ever worth anything, everybody who was ever any use to the country,” the book asserts, “every one of them drank like swine.”
Drinking vodka is a social activity. When John Steinbeck was in Moscow, the story has it, it took him a while to understand that the three fingers two friendly guys waved at him were an invitation to split a bottle of vodka three ways; he ended up drinking à trois with them in a doorway anyway, apparently with no regrets. But the vodka-drinking ritual also involves a harsh questioning of human conventions. It demands freedom from history, from responsibility, from health, even from life itself. This condition of free fall, of moral weightlessness and philosophical incorporeality, represents both an attack on the “rational” West and a haughty assertion of Russian truth.
Gorbachev is of the opinion that “vodka has done more harm than good to the Russian people,” but Evgeny Popov, a contemporary Russian writer who comes from hard-drinking Siberia, holds the opposite view. In conversation in the bar of Moscow’s Central Writers’ House, Popov claimed that vodka has helped the Russian people counter the stress of living in a less than perfect nation. Vodka has provided access to a private life that is closed to the state, a place where it is possible to relax, to forget your troubles, to engage in sex with the illusion of free choice. Nowhere else has the relationship between literature and drink been as intense as it is in Russia. The revolutionary Nikolai Nekrasov, the émigré Aleksandr Kuprin, the leading Stalinist writer Aleksandr Fadeyev, the Nobel Prize winner Mikhail Sholokhov, and the man who is probably the best Russian writer of the twentieth century, Andrei Platonov, have all had love affairs with the bottle. As Popov told me, “Vodka makes it easier to think up literary plots.”
The philosophy of vodka has its dark corner of violence. Russian despots with a sadistic streak, like Peter the Great and Stalin, have taken pleasure in forcing their guests to drink more than they could handle. Other hosts force-feed their guests vodka in order to reduce the social distance between them, to humiliate and deride or take advantage. Vodka is capable not only of generating bravado but also of inducing the excruciating feeling of remorse and self-abasement that is one of the essential elements of the ambivalent Russian personality. Hence the question that the Russian alcoholic traditionally asks his drinking companion: “Do you respect me?” The drinking Russian suffers from a marked divergence between his sober impulses and his drunken ones. It is not easy to govern an entire people in this state.
A vodka museum will open in Moscow next year, and a large festival is being planned to mark the five hundredth anniversary of the drink, but no one was able to provide me with a satisfactory explanation for why that anniversary is being celebrated in 2003. I decided to try asking the distillers themselves. I started by attempting to infiltrate Moscow’s largest vodka factory, which produces the high-quality brand Crystall. But it proved to be an almost impregnable fortress—I had to get state backing just to enter the production premises. The gloomy brick factory building was erected beside the river Yauza during Witte’s state-vodka monopoly in 1901. Because the famous Molotov cocktails were produced there during the Second World War, it became a target for German bombing raids. The factory was damaged, but it survived, continuing to supply the front with both Molotov cocktails and vodka. It now produces up to five million bottles a month, and the sight of alcohol pouring into numberless bottles there immediately summoned up the vision of the million Russian throats that empty those bottles every day. Inside, the Crystall factory has the sublime atmosphere of a cathedral. It is absolutely sterile. There is almost no smell of alcohol, and the employees wear white coats. The vodka is produced on a specialized production line, developed in Italy and Germany, in which alcohol is mechanically mixed with water (taken from the main Moscow water supply but specially filtered), and then the vodka is bottled, sealed, and packed into boxes. Most of the machine operators are women, because, as my female guide told me, women are more suited to monotonous work. The factory’s melancholic director, Aleksandr Timofeyev, who has since been fired, was exceedingly courteous and evasive in conversation. The only thing I managed to get out of him was a confession that he himself didn’t drink, so he didn’t really know much about vodka. He sent me off as soon as he could wit
h a very fine bottle.
To get answers, you have to go to the top, a truism that was confirmed by my conversation with Sergei Viktorovich Zevenko, who was known, when I saw him earlier this year, as the “vodka king.” Zevenko was the director of Rosspirtprom, the government-run company that currently controls 40 percent of vodka production in Russia and oversees more than a hundred high-quality vodka factories. But he told me he had been drunk only once in his life, right after high school, when he was seeing off a friend who was joining the army. Now, at the age of thirty-four, he recalled the episode with disgusted laughter: “It took me an entire week to recover. It was a severe shock to my system.”
Zevenko had a complicated life. His competitors envied his sovereign status. His efforts to persuade Russians to eschew the cheaper forms of vodka, which are more likely to cause fatal liver disease, for the higher-quality, state-controlled varieties had earned him, among New Russians, the status of “a temporary man.” He himself said that there was a six-million-dollar price on his head: even in the corridors of the Rosspirtprom headquarters, he was accompanied by two bodyguards, and he drove through town with six submachine gunners in tow. He could relax only when he was abroad. The private companies that produce vodka (the vodka monopoly these days exists primarily on paper) had offered to pay him two million dollars a year to organize their operations, but he said that he’d work only for the state.
I met with Zevenko in his spacious office, in a high-rise on Kutuzovsky Prospect, overlooking the Moscow River. He was lean and fit, in a black sweater and slim black trousers. He looked nothing at all like an old-time Soviet bureaucrat or even a Putin-era politician. Like Gorbachev, he was from Stavropol, and he told me in his southern-Russian accent that he had never been a Soviet man—“I didn’t like marching in formation”—although he had once been a member of the Komsomol. Educated as a lawyer, he described himself as a manager.
Zevenko said that the lack of skilled personnel was the main problem facing Russia now. As he put it, 80 percent of Russians today are “rotten,” and he looked to the children of the new social order, who he hoped would be capable of bringing Russia fully into the civilized world. We spoke of Russia’s five-hundred-year failure to control its dependency. What could be done about it? The idea of subjugating vodka—of making it work for the state and contribute to the creation of a healthy nation—is a paradoxical one, and although Zevenko was prepared to fight for it, he was well aware that his efforts would never earn him much recognition. The vodka world was too turbulent and risky, not unlike the narcotics market, and Zevenko was a thorn in the side of those who didn’t wish to see order imposed. He didn’t believe that a real monopoly of vodka production was possible, he said, but he did hope to squeeze as much of the low-quality vodka out of the market as he could. I left his office feeling that new people really were being born in Russia, people who didn’t expect gratitude for their efforts, either from the state or from the public. But the vodka world turned out to be as turbulent as Zevenko predicted; not long after our meeting, he, too, was fired and he disappeared from sight. Still, he was not alone in his views, and, odd as it may seem, vodka’s official five hundredth anniversary—which was almost certainly proclaimed in order to give a boost to the vodka market—could actually mark the beginning of our long goodbye to the drink.
The narcotics specialist Vladimir Nuzhny criticized Gorbachev’s campaign against alcohol for its “antiscientific” approach, but he also told me that capitalism, if it succeeds, could put an end to the Russian addiction. “The new generation of entrepreneurs don’t drink vodka,” he said. “Young people are already switching to beer. They have to make decisions with a clear head. The privately owned factories fire people for drunkenness. The next fifteen or twenty years could bring a serious change for the better. It all depends on the economy.” Gorbachev had also said that the future lies “in an emphasis on beer and wine.”
Vodka culture is dividing. The Moscow elite choose between imported drinks and high-quality vodka. They drink, but they don’t get drunk. It is also slowly becoming fashionable not to drink at all. (In that sense, the teetotaler Putin sets an example for the whole country.) The provinces, though, lag behind, and in rural areas vodka is still a kind of second currency. The choice there is not between vodka and wine but between cheap vodka and home brew; expensive vodka is seen as an extravagance or a pretension. In short, the vodka god will not give up easily, but he may yet be tamed, perhaps even relegated to historical myth. Vodka has always teetered between heaven and hell. Gorky, in a memoir about his boyhood on the Volga, writes that the people drank for joy and they drank for sorrow; the Russian soul is versatile.
2002
Translated, from the Russian, by Andrew Bromfield
“Not my favorite again!”
THE KETCHUP CONUNDRUM
MALCOLM GLADWELL
Many years ago, one mustard dominated the supermarket shelves: French’s. It came in a plastic bottle. People used it on hot dogs and bologna. It was a yellow mustard, made from ground white mustard seed with turmeric and vinegar, which gave it a mild, slightly metallic taste. If you looked hard in the grocery store, you might find something in the specialty-foods section called Grey Poupon, which was Dijon mustard, made from the more pungent brown mustard seed. In the early 1970s, Grey Poupon was no more than a hundred-thousand-dollar-a-year business. Few people knew what it was or how it tasted, or had any particular desire for an alternative to French’s or the runner-up, Gulden’s. Then one day the Heublein Company, which owned Grey Poupon, discovered something remarkable: if you gave people a mustard taste test, a significant number had only to try Grey Poupon once to switch from yellow mustard. In the food world, that almost never happens; even among the most successful food brands, only about one in a hundred have that kind of conversion rate. Grey Poupon was magic.
So Heublein put Grey Poupon in a bigger glass jar, with an enameled label and enough of a whiff of Frenchness to make it seem as if it were still being made in Europe (it was made in Hartford, Connecticut, from Canadian mustard seed and white wine). The company ran tasteful print ads in upscale food magazines. They put the mustard in little foil packets and distributed them with airplane meals—which was a brand-new idea at the time. Then they hired the Manhattan ad agency Lowe Marschalk to do something, on a modest budget, for television. The agency came back with an idea: A Rolls-Royce is driving down a country road. There’s a man in the backseat in a suit with a plate of beef on a silver tray. He nods to the chauffeur, who opens the glove compartment. Then comes what is known in the business as the “reveal.” The chauffeur hands back a jar of Grey Poupon. Another Rolls-Royce pulls up alongside. A man leans his head out the window. “Pardon me. Would you have any Grey Poupon?”
In the cities where the ads ran, sales of Grey Poupon leaped 40 to 50 percent, and whenever Heublein bought airtime in new cities sales jumped by 40 to 50 percent again. Grocery stores put Grey Poupon next to French’s and Gulden’s. By the end of the 1980s, Grey Poupon was the most powerful brand in mustard. “The tagline in the commercial was that this was one of life’s finer pleasures,” Larry Elegant, who wrote the original Grey Poupon spot, says, “and that, along with the Rolls-Royce, seemed to impart to people’s minds that this was something truly different and superior.”
The rise of Grey Poupon proved that the American supermarket shopper was willing to pay more—in this case, $3.99 instead of $1.49 for eight ounces—as long as what they were buying carried with it an air of sophistication and complex aromatics. Its success showed, furthermore, that the boundaries of taste and custom were not fixed: that just because mustard had always been yellow didn’t mean that consumers would use only yellow mustard. It is because of Grey Poupon that the standard American supermarket today has an entire mustard section. And it is because of Grey Poupon that a man named Jim Wigon decided, four years ago, to enter the ketchup business. Isn’t the ketchup business today exactly where mustard was thirty years ago? There is Hei
nz and, far behind, Hunt’s and Del Monte and a handful of private-label brands. Jim Wigon wanted to create the Grey Poupon of ketchup.
Wigon is from Boston. He’s a thickset man in his early fifties, with a full salt-and-pepper beard. He runs his ketchup business—under the brand World’s Best Ketchup—out of the catering business of his partner, Nick Schiarizzi, in Norwood, Massachusetts, just off Route 1, in a low-slung building behind an industrial-equipment-rental shop. He starts with red peppers, Spanish onions, garlic, and a high-end tomato paste. Basil is chopped by hand, because the buffalo chopper bruises the leaves. He uses maple syrup, not corn syrup, which gives him a quarter of the sugar of Heinz. He pours his ketchup into a clear glass ten-ounce jar, and sells it for three times the price of Heinz, and for the past few years he has crisscrossed the country, peddling World’s Best in six flavors—regular, sweet, dill, garlic, caramelized onion, and basil—to specialty grocery stores and supermarkets. If you were in Zabar’s on Manhattan’s Upper West Side a few months ago, you would have seen him at the front of the store, in a spot between the sushi and the gefilte fish. He was wearing a World’s Best baseball cap, a white shirt, and a red-stained apron. In front of him, on a small table, was a silver tureen filled with miniature chicken and beef meatballs, a box of toothpicks, and a dozen or so open jars of his ketchup. “Try my ketchup!” Wigon said, over and over, to anyone who passed. “If you don’t try it, you’re doomed to eat Heinz the rest of your life.”
Secret Ingredients Page 44