The Vodka Project - in search of the spirit

We went to see ‘Rezerwat’ (Reservoir) at the Kinoteca. This cinema is in the basement of the Palace of Culture and Science, much loved and much hated building. Gifted by Stalin to the people or Warsaw (or imposed, whichever your preference), it is a landmark indeed. The film is set in Praga, where I am living, and it was enjoyable to spot the locations. It tells the story of a photographer, down on his luck, who is forced to move to a flat in an old tenement block on the east side of the river (purportedly the rougher part, this ‘dark Praga’ – described to me by Jacek, himself a Praga resident, as a cross between Gotham City and Montmartre). The film follows his encounters with residents there. It plays on working class stereotypes, the ruffians, the drinkers, the blonde hairdresser with a heart of gold.

As is the tradition, we drink beer in the cinema, two cans in her handbag. She was amused to see her former drama teacher from Krakow on screen. The film felt like two different films in one, and reminded me of the gentle French comedies of Eric Rohmer and of Ealing comedies.

From there we went to her favourite café, which now has a smoking ban – which is not the norm in Warsaw. Do you have a secret corner for smokers? she asked the waitress. No, said the waitress sternly, we have a duty to care for our customers. Then I won’t be able to recommend this place any more, she said, quite exasperated. She is from Lublin and has high expectations of the capital city. She went outside looking for a light. There was a man visiting from Białystok there, a smoker also. He said, It’s strange, no-one in Warsaw looks you direct in the eye.

We wandered from bar to bar, intending to go home after eleven. But it was not to be. Wódka Zołądkowa  Gorzka and orange juice carry us through the hours long after midnight. (But not mixed in the same glass.) We ended up in a street with bars and cafés which never seem to close, by Three Crosses Square (I have had breakfast here before 7 am another time). I was not planning to get drunk with you, she said, but it has happened. It was a fine and beautiful evening of invigorating conversations. With someone half my age or maybe ancient and twice as wise – it’s hard to know which. We covered all possibilities, I think. Life expectancies, the nature of relationships – including the parental variety – chance encounters, personal and professional boundaries, and accidents that are meant to happen; all were felled by our alcohol sharpened words. It was after 5 am before we knew it. The night buses had finished and the morning buses began. The city streets were already busy, with many people walking purposefully.

I walked over the bridge Księcia Józefa Poniatowskiego across the river towards Stadion Dziesięciolecia, the old national sports stadium built with the rubble from the ruins of the Warsaw Uprising. Literally ‘the 10th Anniversary Stadium’, it opened in 1955, the anniversary being commemorated was the first manifesto of the Communist Government of Poland. (On July 22, 1944, in Chełm, the Soviet-sponsored Polish Committee of National Liberation issued the July Manifesto, which established a communist system, with the government then seated in Lublin.) I watched the young Vietnamese making their way to work at the famously popular black markets that traded around the tunnels and long abandoned football terraces. I wondered how long I could survive without sleep.

Two Russian soldiers were in need of liquid refreshment, as is apparently often the case. These soldiers took an armoured personnel carried from their military base, near Yekaterinburg in Siberia, and drove it to the nearest town, 25 miles away, to buy supplies of alcohol. After stocking up on the much needed vodka they headed back to the base, but their driving declined as they sampled their shopping en route. They were caught after crashing through a fence into a used car showroom and demolishing several vehicles. Local prosecutors said the pair will face “severe punishment”. Life was always tough in Siberia. 

Michel drove us confidently through the rain and sleet, into the empty countryside, down muddy lanes, trees branches scratching the roof of the minibus, towards the promise of the banya (in Russian, bania in Polish) and a dip into the frozen lake.  This is the kind of thing that could give us a heart attack, said Alex from Crete. I was also thinking this, but I breathed deeply an slowly and felt at peace. We arrived at a an old farmhouse building in an almost deserted village called Czarna Buchta. The electricity is out. There are only storm lanterns, the glow of the wood fire, and the light of a dozen candles. Our host Czesław greets us with his homemade honey and nut vodka, which is indeed a delicious treat, with that thick quality that honey has, leaving a coating of the taste on the tongue.

The men drink a toast and then are led out into the darkness towards the woods and the banya by the lake. This is a traditional Russian steam bath, housed in a small wooden building that reminds me of a beach hut sitting on the pebbles at Lyme Regis, looking forlornly out at the sea. We leave our clothes in the outer room and enter the steam bath. There is a huge wood burning stove in the corner, with  heated stones on top, and a big oil can full of water. We sit on the wooden benches, which are almost searingly hot to the touch. There are two levels of benches, the cooler air (if you can describe it as that, at least comparatively so) on the lower level. After a while, sweating in the heat, we go outside and run around in a circle in the chill rain. We go back inside and are each given buckets of cold water to douse ourselves with. Czesław throws cupfuls of water onto the hot stones. We sweat. We go out again to the lake, where there is a large rectangle cut through the ice. Our host thinks the water is too warm and so we retire to the steam room again. There is particular ritual to this, leaving the heat and plunging into the cold water. The ice underneath my feet feels so cold it is a relief to go into the lake. My testicles are gratifyingly tight. We go in and out two or three times. We bring back buckets of ice water to splash over ourselves. After the second or third sweat, we are given branches of  dried leaves (of white birch, I think) to soak in the bucket of water. We then use these to beat upon our skin, to improve circulation and help open the pores.

One of my companions asks, Would you like me to beat you? Yes, why not. (Alex is still a little unconvinced). The fragrance of leaves seems particularly strong. And the whole experience, the extreme of temperatures, induces a kind of natural high. Finally, we wash our hair and pour buckets of ice cold water over each other. I have no sense of how long we are in here, but eventually our host decides it is time to leave. He tells us that we would normally, at this point, dress and sit in the outer room and drink a few beers, but it is the women’s turn for the banya so we go back to the house.

As we return, the women sing a beautiful song that the Bulgarian visitors have taught them while we were in the banya. We drink more vodka and the toast is ‘To a New Life’. And indeed, I feel invigorated and renewed. Later we feast on the home cured meats of venison and wild boar that our host has hunted in the forest, followed by bigos. More vodka is drunk. Russian, Lithuanian, Jewish, Polish and Bulgarian songs are sung. Czesław knows many of them. Bev sings Marley. I attempt a poor rendition of ‘Carrickfergus’.  I can only remember half of the song, but I explain the Irish context to the table.

You were not in tune, says Bev, but at least you tried. For this project I am going to have to learn to sing well as well as drink.

All my life it seems I have been pursued by visions of vodka drinkers. I am speaking of Polish vodka in particular. There have been vodka drinkers in my family, lined up alongside the legendary whisky drinkers. The Polacks and the Paddies side by side, drowning their sorrows in some down at heel bar in the back alley of the West Midlands. Of course, we now drink wine, as all good Europeans must. From Belarus to Bilston. Even in Poland…

I admit that I recently went to a wine bar here in Warsaw. Somewhere near Rondo Babka, considered by many inhabitants to be one of the worst traffic islands in the city, we searched for this particular wine bar. It was not so easy to find in the twilight, set back a little way from a deserted road in an area where the old and new jostle for position. Behind us, on the far side of the traffic circle, you cannot fail to see a modern shopping mall, a huge neon monolith which would not disgrace the centre of Birmingham or Manchester. (Inside, they are piping ‘Eleanor Rigby’ through the speakers, shoppers ironically mouthing the words ‘All the lonely people/Where do they all come from?’) On another side, beyond the towering 24 Hour McDrive sign, a vast cemetery, whose consumers are quieter by far. Spreading to the north and west, there is expanse of mostly abandoned manufacturing complexes cut through with a railway track and sidings. This is also near to the former site of an anarchist squat, Skład Artystyczny, found amidst the ruined buildings of forgotten five year plans; where we once waited in vain for a punk band from Germany to play some very loud music. Well, they did eventually turn up, several hours later than anticipated and missing a drum kit – it reminded me of the good old days on the road with The Prefects – but by then we had moved on to another party in Praga, on the other side of the river.

Tonight we convene in a large warehouse, full of wine crates alongside a small area for serving food and drink, with just a few tables, a bar counter and several stools. Pretty good food too, if the goulash was anything to go by. You walk around, choose a bottle or two of wine from the hundreds on display and it’s brought to your table and uncorked or decanted. It’s not cheap, but the wine is indeed good. Many people wander in, buy some bottles and go home. Our host, our wine concierge, is a Canadian by birth, married to a Pole. He appears to be always on hand to advise a customer, with genuine bonhomie, uncorked and oxygenated. I wonder if he is a secret vodka drinker, or if this might irrevocably corrupt his palate.

Telephone numbers and the name of wines escape my memory, so I cannot tell you what we drank this night.  I shall not go into the circumstances that brought me here, to this Aladdin’s Cave of Winery. Suffice to say it revolved around the search for alcohol and good company – or perhaps bad company, as we drinkers so often prefer to choose. Sitting amongst the wine cognoscenti in Warsaw might seem, to some, in poor taste – but dear reader, do not despair! We intend to search high and low in the Great Polish Nation to deconstruct the joys and sorrows of the dedicated vodka drinker.

I have just discovered that I am probably allergic to alcohol. Deeply ambivalent conclusion taking into account the fact that I like it. Taste? Genes? Custom? Re-vision? Many reasons, I guess.

I have some photos of my father at an airplane during his army service (regular one, not “country in need” so called). Nevertheless I am not sure if he really flied it as most of his army photos are in navy uniform. It gave a pretext to him and his friends/family to sing a song: “Let’s drink some wine, we sailors” and to drink vodka with it. (Not surprisingly it was not wine being drunk).

As one of our famous directors said: there is only the gloom in Poland as Poles drink liquid made of bulbs grown underground (potatoes) when other, more lucky nations (mostly Italians, in the perspective of the famous man) have their drink prepared in full sun.

In full sun tragedy may happen, a real crime – Oedipus and Medea were acting in full sun. Our landscape is rather swampy – someone may be lost, a knife may be used, but it is rather Pagliacci than Makbeth. It is not THE fate – just fatal swamp.

This makes a real problem for our touristic agencies: how to sell the country, not selling only vodka. In ad-folders the reality of vodka-sellers and vodka-reality is hyper-real. You never know if it is Douglas Sirk’s melodrama (they don’t mention any tears made out of alcohol) or the look you get after drinking (one drinks “red” cherry vodka – one gets reddish). A new version of “Red Rooster” is born – out of white-red glass (see above).

We’re sitting in a vodka bar in Walsall, one of many that have sprung up in every town and city centre. That’s Walsall, England, not Warsaw, Poland, though the way I pronounce it a lot of people may easily confuse the two. It’s my Black Country accent. A sensitive ear from the south of England might mistake it for somewhere north of the border, those syllables forged in West Bromwich confused with those of West Kilbride.

In my old Hammond’s World Atlas of 1961, Walsall is a town 27 entries distance from Warsaw – conceptually and alphabetically separated by places such as Wangaratta, Australia, and Warri, Nigeria. It’s Tuesday in Walsall, it’s raining and miserable outside – snow is a forgotten phenomena in these parts and if it does snow then the country will come to an entire standstill for a minimum of 48 hours. But don’t worry about the weather, there’s live music in the vodka bar to cheer us all up. The promoter rang me up, encouraging me to come along, so three of us did. There’s maybe thirteen other people in the bar, including the staff and the band, which turns out to be one person with his guitar, microphone and small crackly PA. The band of one resolutely play on regardless, doing covers. An over-enthusiastic bartender (an Asian lad who reminds me of my dear friend Peter Singh in his youthful exuberance) does the rounds with a tray of shot glasses and demonstration tasters.

New flavours! Special promotion! Two shots for the price of one! he offers.

He means half-price, says Martin. Or the stuff they can’t get rid of. Or maybe just half-vodka?

Two shots for the price of one! he repeats hopefully. A bargain! Down them in one! he encourages. This is possibly because of the vile taste of these concoctions and not a cultural custom. His hair is gelled in impossible configurations which recall crystalline formations last seen under a microscope. He seems unable to speak without exclamation marks!

The vodka flavours on offer tonight might be described as variations on chewing gum, mixed with caramel or mint. They are sweet and sickly and – in the absence of any other taste – they certainly taste diluted.

So this is supposed to be a vodka bar? This is the question on the lips of the young Pole who has accompanied us. She isn’t much of a drinker and is clearly not impressed. She wears a perplexed look on her face for most of the evening. Taking a Pole to a vodka bar in Walsall never seemed a good idea. She said she would rather visit a Welsh castle or a bookshop in Hay-on-Wye. She looks out the window at the rain and the rubbish trickling along in the gutters.

I am told it helps if you get pissed in England a lot, she says to no-one in particular. She sighs and turns her attention to the music instead.

The one man band does songs by Oasis, The Beatles, Bob Marley. Then he gets a pint glass thrown at him, still full of lager. One of his friends and the promoter chase the glass thrower out into the street. The singer is disheartened and says he will only do one more song. I’m only getting paid in beer, he mutters, but I think he means lager.  He stares disconsolately at the array of flavoured vodkas behind the bar, carefully lit. He is performing in a dark corner to the side of the bar, where only five of the audience can actually see him. He offers to do requests but there are no requests.

This dark, dark night it seems to rain endlessly.

Short Vodka Stories No: 1
Walsall Council trading standards officers are warning people across the borough to watch out for counterfeit vodka. Following a Food Standards Agency raid on an illicit distillery in the north of England, council officers caution that bottles of the fake spirits may have found their way to Walsall.

Formal samples of the counterfeit vodka show methanol contamination is not an issue, but the percentage levels of alcohol found in each product were inaccurate and not that declared on the genuine products. Trading standards manager John Beavon said: “Walsall Council is committed to ensuring the safety of all our citizens and we would urge residents to watch out for these products. It may be tempting for people to purchase counterfeit vodka, especially if it is cheap, but it is likely to be of poor quality and may be much weaker – or stronger – than the real product.”

Anyone finding vodka they believe to be fake should contact Walsall Council trading standards officers immediately. Food Standards Agency officers have received reports indicating that these products are available on sale in pubs and off licences nationwide. Walsall trading standards officers will be on the lookout for such products during the course of their routine inspections and they will take appropriate enforcement action if they find them.

found on Walsall MBC website, Tuesday, October 25, 2005

dear iwona,
Went to Carrefour to buy wine for Saturday party and not the wine store on Wierzbowa. It was crazy Xmas busy. I was browsing shelves and thinking, What is that wine? Looking close, it was not very good Romanian. And two women were doing the same and we all sort of collided and then one bottle fell, then a whole line, then the shelf collapsed and I was surrounded by a sea of red wine, like the scene in The Shining (blood then, not wine). Miraculously I was untouched.

This is God’s way of telling me to drink vodka. So i took vodka to party and was the last one standing – or maybe sitting. The birthday girl has some drinking stamina. Great food, and good vodka project research. Came home to sleep at 9am. The light was beautiful. Ah… see you soon,
bj

b,
Lucky you. Did they photograph you to put the photo among people for whom entrance is not permitted?

Stay with vodka, then. I was drinking wine. A lot, as a matter of fact and came home around noon – when good light has already disappeared…
Best,
i.

No photos, they just said, corva! or something like that. I ran off, blushing. We are obviously getting in good training for new year…!
bj

Year that will be longer – at least one vodka more.
i.

But not tonight, my dear, I really had too much. Nearly drunk under the table by a woman half my age.
bj

So you asked her? I mean – about age?
i.

Of course. One needs to be sensitive to age.

I will make the vodka project blog live at beginning of January. In preparation i have written 3 short posts to start the ball rolling. Attached. I would like to post the piece you originally wrote to me. I don’t have it except as a hard copy. you know the piece I mean? Please tender my apologies to Dorota and Robert.

Writing furiously, which is great!!! better write something for short guide eh!
bj

dear bj
Holidays, holidays, and we are after holidays – as they say in my favourite country at last at home – but with my sister and her toddler (listening to singing snail she got from Santa Claus); there is a chance I’ll survive. Party of Robert and Dorota was great – they had a good time, so guests didn’t have any other choice; still it lasted from 1 pm till 1 am, even longer than my sister’s wedding (let me know if you would like to get a DVD from the wedding Files you asked – please find attached. my best
i.

iwona,
Glad to hear the festivities are in order. With regard to document number 1. it wouldn’t open – said it was corrupted… (that’s a nice way to end the year!) If it contains images, maybe just send doc with text only and send images seperately please.

Please find attached suggested headers for vodka blog. Do you like any of them? they’re ok and we’ll change them as we go along I think. choose one for a starter please.

Thank you.
bj

I guess I like vodkabanner and/or Poland5. The best picture is here. Txt pls find attached – it seems that our computers don’t cooperate eagerly (pls, improve my English!)
best
i.

Here’s another two options. Any preference?
bj

No, too metaphorical – and the edited one too blurred, I think.
i.

Ok, we’re ready. Let’s start.
bj