Barrett's Mixology

By Nicholas Desai | Thursday, June 2, 2005

Vodka

1 part vodka

Serve in a shot glass

Alcohol has long been a useful fixture in international business, precisely because it dissolves boundaries of language and custom. Liquor is like Esperanto, except it's far easier to learn. I had spent a good six months carving out a foothold in Moscow's real estate markets; I was now ready to step in it. So, I accepted the offer of Akaky Bashmachkin—the most notorious land shark of that decade, a real butcher—to spend a weekend at his tacky fortress, a few hundred kilometers east of the Urals. For no apparent reason, Randy Matthews, an associate of mine back in the States, had been sent by his superiors to accompany me. Randy, dressed in a "Virginia is for Lovers" sweatshirt, and I were transported by private jet to a large dining room in Siberia, barely air-tight, and run by Sofa, a woman whose tremendous goiter, to this day, cannot leave my mind. Randy, whose idea of a good time more closely resembled your average putt-putt golf tournament than a reckless carousal in an antique land, was unprepared for what came next. Sofa slammed down a plate of herring, several shot glasses and a tall, clear bottle. Akaky and his associates—including Yevgraf, the 350-pound bodyguard—started to toast everyone from George Washington to some Kievan pop star. Randy's amusement had evaporated by number five, and in his face I saw something like fear or maybe just nausea.

Continuation was, of course, obligatory—to back down would appear rude, or, more importantly, pathetic. My worldly self knew a few tricks that might save Randy's lunch and also the embryonic business deal. First, I slipped Sofa, who had been pouring, a hefty wad of rubles, instructing her to bring Randy and me water for every other shot. The portly Mafiosi, however, kept up the pace. After several amusing, boisterously declaimed toasts, I took my shots over the shoulder— in their haze, they did not notice this second strategy, and the cat loved it. Poor Randy, though, began to sway. "Ah—ah don't feel vurry..." he desperately owned up into my ear. I referred him to the herring, but I suspect that fish's rustic, unabashed, take-no-prisoners flavor was the last straw. Sofa shrilly cursed him for the mess, but Akaky and friends had already descended to that place where visual stimuli are of no concern. I gave one last, largely unappreciated toast to "the Russian people" before darkness overcame me. The deal? It eventually fizzled; I don't quite remember why. It was a formative experience for Randy, however: the guy tried to ban "herring in our schools"—which passed, but ultimately kids just turned to harder hors d'�uvres like black caviar.

Barrett's Mixology

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