Liquid

THE RUSSIAN word "vodka" translates as "little water." Why it shouldn't be designated "big, burly, ham-fisted water" instead is beyond me. But then, until recently, so was a lot of the lore surrounding vodka. Take its very definition. How could it be so loose as to encompass a range of key ingredients from grains to grapes, soybeans to spuds, molasses to (believe it or not) refinery byproducts? You might as well make prison wine (learn how by visiting www.thesneeze.com - see Vol. 8 of "Steve, Don't Eat It!") and call it Château Lafite-Rothschild - or vice-versa. Or take the received wisdom, as worded in my otherwise beloved Mr. Boston Official Bartender's & Party Guide, that "by law, vodkas produced in the United States must be colorless, tasteless and odorless." Why stop there - why not require immateriality altogether? If water itself can't meet such standards of purity, doesn't it stand to reason no other liquid could - or should?

So I feel vindicated the day I sit down with Peter Fiumara - co-owner, with his sister Marisa, of the Good Life (28 Kingston Street, Boston, 617.451.2622) - to learn the truth about this ubiquitous yet elusive liquor. Right away, he assures me, "People say you can't smell or taste vodka. You can. They have this conception that it's an invisible spirit. It's not. If someone's been drinking vodka, you can tell." He laughs, only to turn around and lament the extent to which its admitted efficacy as a mixer overshadows its virtues as a sipping spirit. As he sees it, the common disregard for vodka's inherent qualities may simply reflect their expression of method more than material: nurture more than nature. The very essence of vodka, it seems, paradoxically lies in its context rather than its content. In that sense, I suggest, it's a lot like terroir-dependent wine (an interesting analogy considering that another, now-outdated Russian term for vodka translates as "burning wine").

Fiumara again agrees. "There's a reason you can have great wine from Italy, and great wine from California, yet they're totally different products. The same goes for vodka." The character of any given brand, batch, or bottle is "partly [a question of] the people who are doing the distilling. It's partly the natural elements from the area [in which it's made]. And it's partly the history" of the beverage in that area, he notes, implying that tradition dictates technique. Yet technique in turn, he concludes, plays the largest part in vodka's full realization: "Unlike scotch, which has very earthy elements - [such] that people who drink it can talk about why they prefer Macallan to Glenfiddich; they can talk about the peaty qualities - vodka's more about the distillation process. How many times has it been distilled? What was it filtered through? That's what gives vodka its different characteristics, its finish."

To demonstrate, Fiumara lines up a few of his favorite bottles to walk me through a tasting (even sweeter). In his view, there are only two steps to the process. The first is to ensure that it's "really cold. That's the first thing I would say. Coldness takes the sting out," he explains, thereby allowing you to discern the flavor beyond the burn. "As it warms, it starts to open up, like a wine. If you taste it five minutes from now" - he gestures toward the glass he's pouring - "it's going to taste a little bit different than it does now. Still, besides maybe Charles Bukowski, I don't know of many people who'd drink it at room temperature." And the second step? "Just sip it. We're always telling people, just because it's served in these [shot] glasses, you don't have to shoot it."

First up: Bak's Zubrówka ($10). "This is actually the vodka that made us decide to open this place," notes Fiumara, recalling the life-changing night he spent at a London bar called Wódka, downing shots of the thrice-distilled Polish import. "There's a blade of bison grass in each bottle, which gives the vodka a little bite. As it goes down it gives you this nice, equally chilled and warm feeling. But it's an acquired taste," he warns, just as I'm knocking it back. Luckily, my aptitude for acquiring alcohol's tastes must be pretty high; I'm delighted to detect immediately its sweetness - equivalent to the scent of a dewy, new-mown lawn - quickly tapering to a sharp edge. It's as though each sip is itself a liquid blade of bison grass, tickling the tongue and throat.

Its tingle is still detectable when I take my second shot, this one of Reyka ($8) - an Icelandic brand which has, according to Fiumara, "taken the place of Ketel One among serious vodka drinkers. They filter this through lava rock; the charcoal softens the alcohol, makes it less harsh." Again, I'm pleased by the presence of flavor in and of itself; this one is sweet the way water is sweet - somewhat ineffably, that is. Unlike the Zubrówka, however, it goes down without a hitch, almost creamily.

Which brings us to Zyr ($10), a Russian vodka distilled five times from wheat and rye. "Most of the bartenders here will tell you Zyr is their favorite vodka." (Taking his claim as her cue, a pretty blonde behind the bar with Fiumara suddenly caresses the bottle, cooing "Hello, lover.") "It sounds corny, but it's perfection. I think it's the best-crafted vodka on the market." We toast, and he continues. "There's an initial snap on your tongue, a little prickliness that tells you ‘Okay, I'm drinking a spirit,' but instantly it smoothes out and becomes - I don't want to say ‘silky,' but it covers your palate. As it goes down it teases you with ‘Well, this could have a harsh aftertaste,' but then it doesn't. It's just well-rounded and clean-tasting. It's been filtered" - he checks the label - "nine times. If you like bone-dry martinis, you go with Zyr. If people want to mix it with cranberry juice, we say no, don't do it; it's just not worth it. You might as well be using anything." Granted, he admits, there's such a thing as over-purification. "You can distill a vodka too much - some companies do it up to 12 times - and actually lose something [in the process]. It's about finding that sweet spot, taking some stuff out but leaving some stuff in."

As an example, Fiumara breaks out one of the Good Life's most precious possessions: a beautifully labeled bottle of Jewel of Russia Ultra, a wheat-and-rye blend that goes for $25 a glass. "It's so expensive because they only release it here a couple of times a year." Pouring it, he points out that Russian vodka is, as a rule, "very rough. It's like in the movies, you see the guy go" - he imitates someone taking a swig, grimacing, and bending over as though punched in the gut - "which is kind of its charm. This [brand] is smooth for a Russian vodka, but it's still rough compared to the way the global market is going." All I can think is that it tastes the way a diamond looks: hard and mesmerizingly bright from all directions.

Speaking of all directions, the Good Life stocks vodkas from as near as Maine and as far as Greenland, Estonia, and Israel. Which means I've got a lot more unique terroir to explore. If you want to join the expedition, you know where to find me. @