The King of Vodka

by Linda Himelstein

  Smirnov did not manufacture his own pure-grain alcohol, known then as bread wine. That was the job of distillers, who took raw materials, such as wheat, rye, or potatoes, to make spirits. Smirnov would buy this base alcohol directly from select suppliers he knew, then concentrate instead on the more profitable end of the business, that of mixing the alcohol with water, fruits, and other additives to create the tastiest, most flavorful vodkas money could buy.

  Smirnov’s entry into the world of vodka making came naturally. He had no need to hire a master brewer. Pyotr, with the support of Nataliya, Arseniy, and a handful of other workers, assumed the role. He was already well-skilled in the art of distillation. Besides, it was not going to take much to produce the small amounts needed at first: approximately twenty pails-worth of vodka at a time, an amount just large enough to fill an average-sized bathtub.

  The process was straightforward. First, Smirnov put on a long white apron and gloves. He then tested the vodka he bought from his suppliers. The strength of the liquid was often variable depending on the temperatures used to produce it—and because distillers often fibbed about the quality of their liquor. He used a common but complex spirit-measurement instrument, known as a hydrometer, to calibrate the percent of alcohol by volume in the spirit. Smirnov relied on this information to determine how much water needed to be added or subtracted from the liquid to achieve whatever strength of alcohol he deemed suitable, usually 38 percent for pure vodka and far less, about 20 percent, for his signature flavored vodkas.[18] Once finished, Smirnov followed a simple recipe, producing a wide array of flavored vodka drinks.

  One of the most common flavors in the 1860s was anise vodka. For this variety, Smirnov would have needed one-half pound of fresh anise, which was ground into a powder. The powder was put into a vat and mixed with nine shtofs, or 10.8 liters, of spirit. The liquid would then be poured into a large glass container and allowed to sit idle for nine days. On the tenth day, Smirnov would transfer the liquid into a metal still and heat it under a slow fire until it was fully distilled. What was left was nearly five shtofs, or six liters, of a highly pungent alcohol. But the taste still needed refining. Sugar and more fresh water were added to the liquid, giving it a slightly milky hue. An egg white was folded into the mixture as well, after which the liquid would be run through a charcoal filter and then stored in a bottle for sale.7

  This kind of vodka was but one of many offerings from Russia’s nineteenth-century vodka makers. Smirnov’s must have been at least as good as anyone else’s out in the market, for his business took off. Demand outstripped supply—especially for the liquor Smirnov was making. Word had begun to seep out among locals that Pyotr Smirnov cared about the taste and the purity of his drinks. Stories surfaced that he selected the purest water, finest spirits, and freshest ingredients for his mixtures. Smirnov exploited these stories, suggesting to his mostly lower-class customers that he alone was devoted to making high-quality, affordable liquor.

  Whether these were mere rumors hatched by Smirnov himself, nobody knows. But the result was the same: Smirnov’s business—and financial well-being—swelled far beyond expectations. More wine cellars opened, and by 1867, within three years of opening his vodka factory, Smirnov had enough money to purchase a two-story stone house on the corner of Pyatnitskaya Street near the embankment of the Moscow River. The house was a mansion with a spacious backyard. It was somewhat worn at the time and displayed few of the trappings of wealth that would later stop pedestrians in mid-stride.

  The house was large enough for the controlling Smirnov to maintain a constant eye on every aspect of his expanding business empire, which now employed roughly twenty-five people. The first floor of the home worked as a cellar and retail outlet. The second floor, spacious as it was, proved ideal for Smirnov’s private office and the living quarters for his brood, which now included four young daughters. The backyard, which featured an uninhabited structure, could be used for everything from storage to housing workers. There was also a deep basement, ideal for preserving wine and liquor.

  The location of the house, too, was superb. It was across from the Kremlin and stood at a well-traveled intersection that exposed any passersby to the vodka maker’s name, which he proudly displayed above the corner entrance to his shop.

  Smirnov’s expansion and growing business platform mirrored what was happening all over Moscow. The city had become the heart of Russia’s industrial revolution. Factories were sprouting up everywhere. Food producers—from makers of sausage to chocolate to spaghetti—set up shop throughout the city, establishing Moscow as the food-industry capital of Russia. Textile and paper manufacturers flourished, too, attracting capital and laborers in unprecedented waves. Railroad construction was almost constant. Even private banks opened for business, marking the first time the state encouraged independent financial investment in Russian industry. The Merchant Bank, for example, was launched in Moscow in 1866 with a stated mission to create “an establishment promoting industry and trade.”8 The vodka industry was growing more intense, too. Within four years of Smirnov launching his factory, the number of producers in Moscow had tripled.

  According to one writer, “Capitalism changed Moscow in those years much more strongly than it changed any other Russian city, including St. Petersburg. In St. Petersburg, the court, officials, and military men still defined the main atmosphere of the city. Moscow, on the contrary, was regenerating from a noble city into a capitalist one.”9 This new money also fed the beginnings of a cultural renaissance. St. Petersburg dominated Russia’s artistic scene; nobles and state officials patronized a litany of unparalleled cultural offerings there. But the capital city was tied to traditional values and more conventional thinking about what constituted art. Moscow, with its influx of the newly wealthy and transient multiclass workers, was developing a more liberal attitude about literature, theater, and other artistic endeavors. A genre known as agricultural poetry, for instance, written by peasants and migrants, surfaced in Moscow in the 1860s. New theaters opened, welcoming avant-garde productions. The Moscow Conservatory, which attracted such giants as Pyotr Tchaikovskiy, was founded in 1866 by pianist and composer Nikolay Rubinstein. Its sole mission was to promote greater musical education to the populace. New publications emerged as outlets for some of Russia’s most prominent writers, including Tolstoy, Dostoevskiy, and Turgenev.

  Moscow’s nascent artistic scene was notable, though invisible to many Muscovites, including Smirnov. He had no use for these perceived frivolities, these impractical distractions promoted by the gentry, at the time. Besides, art had nothing to do with religion or with business—the two things that preoccupied the myopic vodka maker and many of his merchant neighbors. “There are entire areas for which the theater just doesn’t exist, where inhabitants treat theater performances as devil’s mummery. The area of Zamoskvorechye [where Smirnov lived] is one such area,” wrote one historian.10

  One thing that did capture Smirnov’s attention, apart from his incessant work, was the birth of his first son. On January 26, 1868, Pyotr Petrovich Smirnov was born. His birth, like Smirnov’s death, was recorded at the church of St. John the Baptist farther down Pyatnitskaya Street. The naming of the boy’s godfather was a symbolic, telling gesture. He was Nikolay Smirnov, Smirnov’s cousin and the son of Smirnov’s mentor, Uncle Grigoriy. Few other details about the baby were provided in the church record.

  The event was probably momentous to the young Smirnov family. In Russia, family dynasties, most descending from nobility, dominated business. Some, however, were self made. These families harbored an inherent mistrust of the state and a foreboding sense that individual wealth was a rare, often fleeting privilege that had to be safeguarded. The sentiment forced these merchants to rely on heirs to protect their hard-won positions and financial stature. Smirnov, the former serf and peasant, understood the fragility of his newfound affluence.

  With the birth and subsequent survival of this infant son, Smirnov could glimpse how his growing
empire might have a long-term future. The appearance of the boy put him on track to emulate the successes of other family dynasties—from the Morozov to the Gubonins to the Tretyakovs. Like them, Smirnov now had the chance to craft a legacy, one that might endure far beyond his own lifetime. Neither he nor his descendants would ever have to fear poverty or hardship again—or so it seemed.

  Perhaps inspired by such grandeur, Smirnov thought of little else but how to outproduce, outsell, and outmaneuver his growing list of competitors. Smirnov was already one kind of a success. His neighbors knew him. Peasants from Yaroslavl supported him. Family members and their contacts promoted him. Local restaurants and watering spots served his drinks. But outside this well-defined group, Smirnov was a respectable no-name, no more recognizable than the local blacksmith or butcher.

  To the ambitious Smirnov, this lack of far-flung notoriety would not do. He wanted to be acknowledged for his up-from-the-bootstraps achievements. He wanted his vodka to sit on the tables of all Russians. He especially wanted the tsar to know his name and drink his concoctions. In 1869 then, Smirnov, likely with the help of a secretary or personal assistant, took the bold step of petitioning the Imperial Court.

  This move was extraordinarily gutsy. Providing anything for the High Court was the highest of honors. Over the years, according to imperial archives, many world famous manufacturers and artists enjoyed the title of Purveyor to the Court. Tiffany and Co. and Peter Carl Fabergé were among the tsar’s jewelers. Steinway and Sons provided the court with grand pianos. Singer was the imperial sewing machine supplier. The Daimler Motor Company manufactured the court’s automobiles. Lesser-known purveyors provided everything from soap to furs to wood to saddles. There was even a royal leech man in the 1850s by the name of Stepan Gorbachevskiy.11

  That Smirnov would place himself among these and other purveyors, after less than five years as a vodka maker, demonstrates his rising impatience and his inflamed ambitions. Had he bothered to investigate the criteria required to be a purveyor to the court, he would have realized he had no chance. Among other things, no one could be granted the title without having provided services or products to the court for at least eight years. A special note issued in 1866 by the Chancellery of the Office of the Ministry of the Imperial Court explained it all.

  The title of Court Purveyor or Commissioner, and the attending right to depict the imperial coat of arms, is to be bestowed only to those individuals who either supplied certain goods for a significant sum of money to the Imperial Court, or in general have fulfilled some kind of work for the Imperial Court over the course of eight to ten consecutive years. This privilege may not be transferred by inheritance or by any other means from one individual to another. This title is granted to a person who has proven conscientiousness, industriousness, and ability over at least an eight-year period. The title is given only for the time of supply.12

  Smirnov, unfortunately, had no relationship with the Imperial Court. What’s more, he had no prestigious honors, awards, or positions to buttress his case. The one thing Smirnov might have had in his favor was his nationality. At the time, amazingly, just one of the tsar’s vodka purveyors, Popov, was Russian born. Two of them hailed from France—Kamill Deprés and Emile Rouget—while a third, Aleksander Shtriter, came from Germany. Although they had factories in Moscow or St. Petersburg, their origins were foreign.

  To the tsar and his aristocratic friends, the foreign roots of his vodka purveyors might have been their greatest appeal. Russian vodka had always been associated with homemade simplicity, a drink more suitable for the lowly masses than a royal, sophisticated consumer. Products coming from France, by contrast, were considered particularly refined, stylish, and high class. Indeed, Russians adored and celebrated everything French—be it fashion, food, or literature. Even the language was a status symbol, a sign of good breeding. Russian nobles routinely spoke French when servants were around in order to preserve their privacy.

  Undeterred, Smirnov made his case in an application to the minister of the Imperial Court, dated February 20, 1869. According to his application, he emphasized the scope of his business—producing foreign and Russian grape wines, liqueurs, fruit liqueurs, and vodkas. He then tried to sell the court. “Specialists recall finding in my wines workmanship of such a degree that they do not in the least pale in comparison to well-known factories in St. Petersburg and Moscow. I am taking the courage to request before Your Highness about permission for the highest honor to me—to be named purveyor.”13

  The reply, perfunctory and unequivocal, came one month later. Written by an official from the Moscow court office to the minister of the Imperial Court, it stated that Smirnov’s request “cannot be complied with since, by existing rules in this ministry, similar advantages are granted only to persons who, for a period of not less than eight years without a break, supply their products to the Royal Court. The applicant, as it has turned out, according to my personal records, has never been a supplier of wine to the Court.”

  It is uncertain what else Smirnov could have expected. Likely, he hoped for a shortcut to greatness. If he could promote himself as the royal vodka maker, the tsar’s chosen supplier, then all other Russians and Europeans would know Smirnov’s vodka was the finest. Smirnov’s ascent until that point had been as miraculous as it had been efficient. He had experienced one uninterrupted triumph after another and had emerged as a flourishing business upstart. Smirnov now had two choices. He could lick his wounds and go on peddling vodka in the same manner he always had. Or he could craft an inspired plan, one that would assure him of the royal title he so desperately desired. It was a turning point for the vodka maker. The tsar’s refusal, rather than deflating Smirnov’s outsized ambition, emboldened it. It aroused something deep inside the man, a creative spark that transformed Smirnov from a competent businessman into one of the most ingenious marketers of his time.

  Chapter 5

  “Demand Smirnov Vodka”

  Smirnov had come to a critical realization in the wake of the tsar’s refusal. While he had succeeded in his business ventures, he lacked the panache of a royal purveyor. Russia was a country governed by arcane rules, established traditions, and an entrenched hierarchy. Perception mattered as much as reality.

  Viewing the situation from this perspective, Smirnov recognized that he had little to recommend himself. He had indeed achieved some measure of refinement in the last few years and had also shed some of the more visible accoutrements from his village days. He no longer wore a long caftan or frock coat with wide dark trousers tucked into high boots, the uniform of lower-class men. He wore instead finely tailored dark or black suits, always cut to the prevailing European fashion. A polished gold pocket watch clung to his waistcoat by a thick chain. His dark beard was closely cropped, according to photos, and he used a pomade to slick back his black hair.

  He knew, though, that Russia’s ruling elite cared little about these superficial adjustments. It cared more about position, stature, and demonstrated virtue. In this regard, Smirnov was unformed. He held no leadership role in the merchant guild’s administration nor had he pursed any alliances with civic or charitable organizations. His cultural intelligence or aptitude was limited. His reading and writing skills were childlike, lacking the sophistication of an educated, well-bred person. And his minimal social life revolved around family and church. He had done almost nothing to expand beyond his immediate circles.

  As for his liquors, they were also provincial. Other than regular customers, few outside Smirnov’s controlled, insular world recognized his concoctions as anything more than standard fare. He had garnered no awards or honors attesting to the high quality of his drinks, and the packaging and labeling of his bottles were no different than others on store shelves. These oversights contrasted with the tsar’s reining vodka purveyors. Aleksander Shtriter, for example, held an array of titles and honors. His drinks had been recognized in international competition. Moreover, Shtriter was a philanthropist and civic leader
.

  UP IN HIS second-floor office, seated in his favorite leather chair, Smirnov contemplated his predicament. He possibly consulted his father, who now lived with him, as well as his Uncle Ivan. Perhaps he even spoke to Nataliya, who maintained a presence in her husband’s commercial affairs. But their voices were drowned out by Smirnov’s own internal counsel. The vodka maker trusted his own judgment most. As one of Smirnov’s admiring managers noted at the time, “Pyotr Arsenievich is the brain of our business.”1

  Smirnov devised an ambitious campaign, as calculating, comprehensive, and tactical as any plan ever conjured. The plan was visionary, too. Smirnov was on a mission to make his the most well-known—and prestigious—name in vodka. By Russian standards, this goal of branding was a novel, almost ground-breaking quest because brand-making was, at this time, a primitive concept. Only a sliver of Russians—the little more than 1 percent considered aristocrats—noted the image or origin of goods. They had the means to pay for products differentiated by prestige or quality—and the education to read and understand promotional materials distributed by vendors.

  For the rest of the population, these things meant nothing. Products were commodities purchased directly from local networks of sellers, who maintained a stable set of repeat customers. These relationships were far more important than impersonal brand names.

  Notwithstanding the widespread illiteracy of customers, few businesses had reason to spend their limited resources on brand-building anyway. The legal system offered no formal protection for trademarks or copyrights until 1896—more than three decades after Smirnov opened his first vodka factory. A law, which required manufacturers to stamp their names on their goods, did exist to authenticate one product from another and help deter counterfeiters. Smirnov, for instance, had “Pyotr Smirnov in Moscow” etched into the glass on his bottles in the 1880s. But the stamps were used more to track sales and revenue for tax purposes than for promoting one brand over another.