Vodka, that clear, no-nonsense spirit, is known the world over as Russia’s national drink. I grasp the delicate glass—this won’t be my first shot of the evening or, it turns out, my last—and toast my companion, Denis, before bringing the liquid to my lips. But this time I don’t try to savor it. I do what Denis has been coaching me to do all evening: I just drink it. It rolls down my throat.
“Balsa wood,” I say. “It tastes like the forest.” Bite of blini, sip of fresh beer. He nods. “Yes!” he says. “That’s true!”
This vodka tastes like birch groves. All of this registers because I have stopped trying to hold it in. You can’t analyze vodka. You can only experience it, and let it work on you.