Chapter 24
The End Is a Beginning
In 1933 Vladimir was in an almost constant state of agony. His physical condition was deteriorating. Two complicated surgeries had done little to slow the progress of his illness or alleviate his pain. Medications aimed at easing his discomfort were largely ineffective and, worse, accompanied by debilitating side effects. “He would spend long periods of time in hospitals,” recalled Smirnova-Maksheyeva.1 “When the doctors allowed it, I would take him home, but he was always on a strict regimen.” Confronted by what he believed to be the inevitable, Vladimir made the tough call. He ceased taking his medicines and stopped visiting his doctors. He would stay out of hospital beds and rely only on herbal remedies to find relief. After all he had been through, Vladimir did not want to spend whatever remaining days he might have in a drug-induced blur. Mostly, though, he did not want to leave his wife and friends in abject poverty. He still felt responsible for their livelihoods and was determined to somehow come up with more funds. In a letter to a Russian émigré, Vladimir explained his calculation: “I was ill the way I wish nobody to be ill. I faced two serious surgeries. So now, after four years of hovering between life and death, I’ve finally recovered. Now I only drink herbs and have left all doctors and medicines. And I feel fine.”2
The decision may well have shortened Vladimir’s prognosis, but it also left him more clearheaded and with enough fight in his battered fifty-eight-year-old body to take a last stab at a Smirnoff renaissance. The family’s spirits had been one of the few pre-Bolshevik liquor products exported into international markets: surely there was untapped demand for it somewhere.
Vladimir cast his net. He placed numerous advertisements in Posledniye Novosti (The Last News), a Russian language newspaper widely read by the émigré community throughout France. One small, unadorned ad, which sought out businessmen to open up Smirnoff outlets in Switzerland, the Netherlands, Italy, Persia, Belgium, and England, gave no hint of the flourish or fanfare that once accompanied the flashy announcements from the tsar’s favored purveyor. It was as bland and unpretentious as the gray blocks of cement Stalin erected during the Soviet era—with two exceptions. First, the ad made reference to the old company’s honors, including its four coats of arms and special relationship with the Imperial Court. Second, Vladimir, the self-proclaimed head of the revamped company, demanded that anyone wishing to manufacture Smirnoff vodka mimic the precise distillation practices and marketing strategies that had transformed his father’s little operation into a powerhouse. He may have been desperate, but he was not willing to sacrifice the hard-earned reputation and secrets behind the Smirnoff name. “Contractors have to pay particular attention to the products’ high quality, to distill the products through our charcoal machines; and to keep the established bottle shapes and label designs,” the ad stated.3
A second advertisement was more typical of Smirnoff during its heyday in the late nineteenth century, highlighting the company’s accolades and dominant position with the use of a large typeset and darkened capital lettering.
DEMAND EVERYWHERE—in good RESTAURANTS and in good SHOPS our RUSSIAN MOSCOW world-known, granted with FOUR RUSSIAN STATE EMBLEMS and HIGHER AWARDS, VODKAS AND NALIVKAS,
the QUALITY is BEYOND any COMPETITION—the TSAR’S VODKA #40—TABLE WINE #21, ZUBROVKA #19…
The Administration of the Trade House Pyotr Smirnov’s Sons offers the company to be licensed or bought in Germany, England, Sweden and Persia. For further information you should address solely to the Head of the Administration V. P. Smirnov, 52 rue Lamartine, Nice, France. The company has no representatives.
The bait was set, but unfortunately, no one bit. For Vladimir, hope of a revival was quickly fading. It is likely he knew that the remaining Smirnovs in Russia were living ghosts. Like so many of the formerly wealthy and influential who stayed behind, they tried to remain invisible, fearful that their identities would ignite renewed hatred and punishment. Vladimir’s own son Vladimir had no affiliation with his father’s former profession and had seemingly blended into the new landscape. He served in the Red Army for two years and then attended the now prestigious Plekhanov Institute of the National Economy, specializing in metallurgy. The house by the Cast Iron Bridge, the home in which Vladimir père had grown up, was now the headquarters of the Erisman Research Institute of Hygiene, a scientific research facility focused on advancing studies of worker productivity. Ironically, the institute was named for the same chemist who spearheaded the toxicity tests of vodkas, including Pyotr Smirnov’s, in the 1890s.
The Smirnovs and their vodka heritage were on their way to obscurity. Then, in a bizarre twist of fate, an enterprising Russian-born American, living thousands of miles across the Atlantic Ocean, intervened.
RUDOLPH P. KUNETT was just twenty-seven years old when he arrived in New York City. He was penniless—and a world away from his agricultural roots and the comfortable life he had once known. He was born Rudolph Kunettchenskiy in Trostyanetz, Russia, now part of Ukraine. His father owned a large plantation and distillery that was believed (in 1912) to be the largest rectifier and blender of liquor in the world. Much of the grain harvested by the Kunettchenskiy family supplied the Smirnovs.
Kunett was an academic sort, believing his best opportunities would grow from a solid education. He studied philosophy at Odessa University and received his doctorate from the University of Berlin. At the outbreak of the revolution, he was in Denmark, working on behalf of the Red Cross. This assignment saved him from having to confront a wrenching choice for many anti-Red Russians—ride out the storm unleashed by the Bolsheviks or to embark on the hazardous journey over the border. Kunett just chose not to return.
He entered the United States like thousands of other Russians in search of a fruitful, new beginning. For Kunett, his arrival in 1920 coincided with the inauguration of America’s own experiment with prohibition. The dry laws were in full force, giving rise to a subculture of bootleggers, speakeasies, and bad alcohol—a scenario similar to what Russia had experienced during its anti-alcohol era—and this precluded Kunett from contemplating a career in the liquor industry, but he readily found other opportunities. He worked as a salesman for the Standard Oil Company and later landed a job in New York with Helena Rubinstein Inc., where in due course he rose to be the general manager of the company’s cosmetic enterprises.5
Kunett may not have known the Smirnovs well, but he was certainly familiar enough with members of the family and his own father’s strong connection to them. Moreover, he was well acquainted with their vodka, having been a frequent consumer of it. “In Russia, Poland, Bulgaria, and Serbia, everyone drinks vodka,” explained Kunett in a published interview decades later. “Until I was twenty-one and left Odessa for a German university, I didn’t know there was any other liquor.”6
Somehow Kunett heard about Vladimir’s offer or his ads placed in France in 1933, the same year prohibition in the United States officially ended. The combination of the two seemingly disconnected events piqued Kunett’s interest and gave him what he thought was an ingenious idea. If he could bring Smirnoff’s beverages to the United States, he might be able to introduce the spirits to consumers, create demand for it, and make a fortune. Kunett was possibly one of the few people in America who knew something about producing vodka. At the time, of course, most Americans preferred bourbon or beer. Few had ever tasted vodka, straight or mixed.
Kunett made arrangements to go to France, where Vladimir was delighted to meet his former compatriot. The familiarity elicited a rare and deep-seated level of comfort and trust. With few other options, Vladimir was more than pleased to make a quick deal. After some negotiation, they struck a bargain: For 54,000 francs, Kunett was sold “the exclusive right and license to manufacture and sell within the territory of the United States of America, within the territory of its possessions…all the alcoholic beverages and all other products of the firm, together with the exclusive right to use the firm’s name, the trademark
s and labels as used and owned by the firm, and the exclusive right to reproduce and use the various models of bottles hitherto in use by the firm or its licensees in France.”7 Kunett also agreed to manufacture all his Smirnoff products using the exact formulas and processes introduced to him by Vladimir. The labels would mention Pierre Smirnoff Sons and use the subtitle “Firm of Pierre Smirnoff formerly by appointment to the Imperial Court of Russia.” The deal was finalized on August 21, 1933.
Vladimir, who continued to try to sell in other countries, signed the documents on behalf of himself and Nikolay, while the three other owners, including Valentina, signed for themselves.
Just after the repeal of prohibition, in March 1934 Kunett opened the first vodka factory in the United States. Located in a long, two-story building near the center of Bethel, Connecticut, a sleepy southern New England town just sixty miles from New York City, the factory’s location was perfect for the fledgling operation. It was adjacent to the railroad tracks where boxes of vodka could be easily loaded onto trains for delivery. Kunett touted his new product immediately, exercising the same marketing zeal that had made him a force in the cosmetics industry. The company prepared a history of the business for the American media, highlighting its grand tradition. “The name Smirnoff was known from end to end of the Russian empire, and its product, which was referred to as Smirnovka, became a household standby alike in peasant cottage and Imperial castle,” wrote the Danbury News-Times in 1934, citing the company’s numerous awards, state emblems, and relationship with the last three tsars.8
Kunett was unabashed in his own advertisements as well. They prominently featured all four coats of arms, the purveyor to the Imperial Court distinction, and an enticing slogan: “Creating a new vogue in cocktails…VODKA by Smirnoff.” Each bottle, it was advertised, cost $1.75 and came with a booklet of recipes for mixed drinks. Kunett also emphasized what a good deal his made-in-America vodka was compared to the imported stuff, which cost as much as $4 a bottle due to tariffs.9
Smirnoff’s newest evangelist kept Vladimir apprised of every development, writing to him about the business and about his associates in New York and Bethel. He made sure that Vladimir would have an active role in the factory’s future, inviting him to be the chairman of the board and to visit the United States to meet everyone involved in the venture. Kunett, as president of the Smirnoff firm in the United States, wrote to Vladimir in 1934: “I’d love to connect you with my colleagues. That way, you will have relationships not only with me personally but with the company as well, and hence with my colleagues…. I’d love if you could establish relations with them so in case of my death, the connection won’t be lost.”10
Clearly, Kunett valued Vladimir’s flesh-and-blood footprint on his fledgling enterprise, surmising that it legitimized promoting the product as a Russian original instead of an imitation. He showcased the Smirnoff family connection at every chance, putting out statements from Vladimir testifying to the authenticity of the vodka as well as its superior taste. Vladimir, in a statement, said he was confident that their venture would win over skeptical American consumers. “With [your] flair for cocktails and other mixed drinks, you will find vodka the ideal base. Because of its clarity and freedom from artificial flavor, it blends harmoniously with the Vermouths, Grenadines, bitters, fruit juices, and other ingredients. And it is worth knowing that Vodka by Smirnoff leaves you feeling fit after a convivial evening. It is so matchlessly pure.”11
For Vladimir, it had been some time since he had been treated with such respect and deference. His other licensing partners had been dismissive of him, forgetting to report sales, sending insufficient money, or mismanaging operations without explanation. Vladimir complained that his surrogate in Paris, for instance, had been particularly unprofessional, cheating him out of money and botching the running of the vodka franchise. Kunett, though, was different. His ties to the Smirnoffs during their most powerful years stayed with him. He had come of age when all the trappings of old Russia mattered, from social titles to financial stature. The Smirnoffs had been important citizens; their products universally popular. It was natural for Kunett to exude reverence.
Vladimir must have felt like his old self again. He wrote to Kunett expressing his appreciation. In the letter, Vladimir’s emotions overflowed as he thanked Kunett for his kindness and accepted the invitation to serve as chairman of Kunett’s board.12 Vladimir now pledged to come to America. He wanted to inspect the factory and further instruct Kunett regarding his father’s vodka-making innovations. He also wanted to sample for himself the spirits Kunett was making, believing that “the drinks’ taste is the most important thing in our business.”13 The trip, though, seems not to have materialized. Vladimir’s health took a sharp turn for the worse and he never recovered. In the early morning hours on August 25, 1934, the fifty-nine-year-old, third son of the vodka king died in his apartment above the antique shop. It was almost exactly one year after he had made his pact with Kunett, transporting the Smirnoff name and drinks to America.
His passing, unlike those of his father and brothers, went almost unnoticed. It is unlikely that members of his family in Russia even heard about it. There was no mention of it in the news there, which was then dominated by Stalin’s propaganda. Only Russians in France received word through a brief announcement that ran in the newspaper for émigrés. The end for Vladimir came like a whisper—without ceremony, without fanfare, without prestige. His simple grave in a Russian Orthodox cemetery in Nice was a communal one, its gravestone generic in its remembrances. It was a testament to how far Vladimir’s life had veered away from the once-mighty Smirnoff dynasty. He would not be buried with them and nothing would specifically identify his final resting place for nearly sixty years.
It was a sad, odd conclusion for a man who had lived such a loud and flamboyant life, but Vladimir, though he may not have known it, had come full circle. Just before his death, the son of an uneducated serf-turned-wealthy-capitalist had planted the seeds that would win his identity back. Because of Vladimir’s perseverance, Pyotr Arsenievich Smirnov would get his legacy back, too. In one of Vladimir’s last letters to Kunett, he unveiled his heartfelt emotion and genuine excitement at the prospect of keeping his father’s handiwork alive. “Your business is dear to me,” he wrote, “because I see reconstruction of our old Smirnov company…I look at you with great hope. I am certain of your success.”
Vladimir could not have imagined how right he was.
Epilogue
Success did not come swiftly. Kunett, a persistent salesman, promoted Smirnoff vodka every way he knew how. He oversaw the factory and its output, often wearing a smock to keep his suit from becoming soiled. The problem was, however, convincing Americans to forsake their favored beers, gins, and whiskeys for an unknown Russian alternative was a tougher sell than Kunett had imagined. In his first year in business, he sold just 1,200 cases, each case holding twelve bottles. By the fifth year, he increased sales to roughly 5,000 cases, which accounted for the total amount of vodka produced in America, but it was not nearly enough.1 By 1939 Kunett was on the brink of bankruptcy.
With little choice, he shopped the vodka brand around, hoping to find not only a buyer but also a partner. Kunett still believed that Smirnoff could win over Americans. He had few takers, though, until he approached John Martin, an affable, bespectacled Englishman running G. F. Heublein & Bros., a family-owned business in nearby Hartford, Connecticut, that had started up as a producer of pre-mixed drinks. Due to the lingering effects of prohibition, Heublein was also struggling, relying on its one notable food product, A-1 steak sauce, for most of its revenue. Kunett proposed to sell his Smirnoff enterprise to Martin for $50,000, Martin recalled in a videotaped interview. Martin declined, though he was intrigued. He saw something promising and potentially profitable in a neutral-tasting spirit. Martin hammered away at Kunett’s offer, agreeing to buy Kunett’s equipment and the Smirnoff name for $14,000. He also made Kunett president of a newly formed Smir
noff subsidiary and gave him a 5 percent royalty on each case of vodka sold over the next decade.2 Financial analysts and company insiders pronounced the purchase foolish, dubbing the agreement Martin’s Folly.
Within two years, though, sales of Smirnoff vodka grew to more than 22,660 cases. South Carolina was an especially fruitful market, mainly because a distributor in Columbia came up with an ingenious, highly effective slogan: “Smirnoff White Whiskey—No Smell, No Taste.” The distributor was apparently inspired by the cap Heublein used on the first batches of Smirnoff vodka shipped to the state. It read “whiskey” because the company had none that read “vodka.”3 When World War II arrived, the spirit’s slow but steady climb stalled, as production of all alcohol was sharply curtailed and Martin went into the U.S. Army. It was not until about 1946 that Smirnoff vodka truly emerged from obscurity in America.
To hear Martin tell it, he and his old friend Jack Morgan can take much of the credit. Morgan was the owner of the Cock ’n Bull restaurant on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles, a favorite watering hole for Hollywood starlets. The two friends met one another in New York when Morgan was trying to unload cases of ginger beer and Martin was trying to jumpstart demand for vodka. According to Martin, they came up with a new cocktail that combined Smirnoff vodka with ginger beer and lime. Served in an engraved copper mug, the drink was called the Moscow Mule. “I imagine [the name] had to do with the kick,” said Martin.4
The King of Vodka Page 32