A funny thing happened to me this weekend: I was ridiculed for ordering vodka.
My usually passive strains of Polish blood erupted in indignation.
“What fresh, elitist hell has this city become?” they screamed.
Yes, there are solid arguments from craft bartenders and mixologists in Toronto, and beyond, that vodka is boring, stupid and bland. For some, it seems, vodka is a sorry excuse for a spirit; it’s the penultimate offence to booze-craft.
It’s true that vodka is mild — arguably flavourless — by nature. Its name stems from the Slavic word “voda,” interpreted as “little water.” It’s also true that certain brands of vodka have experienced inflated levels of success in the West, thanks to stellar marketing techniques that have hoisted otherwise mediocre products to “premium” status.
But this clear quaff has held a vital cultural importance for centuries (watch VBS.TV’s Wodka Wars if you need proof). Vodka is more than gin’s bland and unloveable stepsister, and it shouldn’t be banished to the corner of irrelevancy by the cult of flavour.
Vodka is approachable, with low caloric content. The rigorous filtration it undergoes makes for less devastating morning-after repercussions should you happen to go overboard the night before.
Its utterly unimposing taste makes it easy to mix with and easy to drink. It’s a blank canvas for liquid creation. Mixing with vodka may be less of a challenge than working with bold sophisticates like whiskey or gin, but its unobtrusiveness makes it a creative chameleon. It infuses like a dream and blends seamlessly with a scope of ingredients — fresh fruits, spices, herbs, liqueurs and other liquors — leaving plenty of room for experimentation and flavour layering.
Vodka’s crisp neutrality is even better enjoyed in its original context: traditionally, vodka was consumed with such distinctly-flavoured accompaniments as caviar, oysters, briny pickles, oily herring and salty cured meats.
And let’s not overlook the viscosity factor. The flavour nuances between vodkas may be slight, but there are very discernible differences in mouth feel. Sweet-edged Polish potato vodkas like Luksusowa drink with an undeniably buttery texture, while the dry and zesty rye-based Wyborowa is oily and smooth.
Despite the age-old polarization of gin and vodka, there’s really no reason why the two can’t get along. The Vesper, a classic immortalized by James Bond, is a blend of gin, vodka and Lillet with a twist of lemon (hit up the Harbord Room for an expertly mixed Vesper, $15). There’s even a jointly devoted Gin and Vodka Association. How’s that for solidarity?
As a bartender who takes an interest in blending booze in the hopes of making it extra delicious, I’m open to playing with and imbibing pretty much anything. Usually it’s bourbon, but I’m no stranger to beer, gin, scotch, tequila, wine, cognac and whatever else piques my interest at the time. And yes, sometimes, reverently lifted from its icy nest called the freezer, I also drink vodka.
My Polish progenitors wouldn’t rest easy if I didn’t.
Interested in vodka-grazing around town? Make a stop at Rasputin Vodka Bar or Pravda Vodka Bar to sample vodkas from Russia, Poland, Sweden, Ukraine, Finland, Iceland and North America.
Sample some autumnal vodka cocktails like Barchef’s They Know ($13), a blend of cacao-infused vodka, gin, sweet vermouth, egg white, fennel and caraway syrup, or Czehoski’s Hot Dickens Cider ($12), a steamed blend of żubrówka (Polish bison grass vodka distilled since the sixteenth century), honey and fresh-pressed apple juice.
