welsh
Junkmaster
So what is the popular drink were you are?
Right now it seems shooters are still popular, but I have been drinking bourbon and ice.
That and cacha, for caprinhia.
Here's what's at the bar in Eastern Europe, supposedly-
One of the most popular bars in my hometown is the one that looks the most Eastern European. Smokey, dingy, dark, sinister.
Worst service in town. But they play jazz, so it's not that bad.
Rupplemintz on ice- my preferred winter drink if you like snapps.
Anyone going to the Czech Republic? Maybe bring back a couple of bottles?
I have heard that people put a long vanilla bean in a bottle of vodka for a vanilla taste. Anyone ever try it?
It seems Eastern Europeans drink to remember the Cold War.
Or stay warm.
Remember, no vacation anywhere is complete until you've gotten drunk on the local booze.
Right now it seems shooters are still popular, but I have been drinking bourbon and ice.
That and cacha, for caprinhia.
Here's what's at the bar in Eastern Europe, supposedly-
Drink up
Eastern Europe has a mystifying array of strange drinks. Our correspondent, a 20-year veteran of the region, offers a guide to those with strong nerves, hard heads and sound livers
BARS in eastern Europe are different. It is not just that the men can look a little sinister, the women more scantily dressed, nor that the prices are lower and the air smokier. There are drinks on offer that you rarely see elsewhere. They are not unusual because of the ingenuity of their composition (though one barman in Tallinn used to offer a “Molotov cocktail”, a lethal combination of vodka and locally made whisky: it was better thrown at a Soviet tank than imbibed, he would explain). Instead, the tipples are unfamiliar because they are the traditional drinks of the region, largely unknown in the outside world because of the planned economy’s inability to export anything except raw materials and weapons.
One of the most popular bars in my hometown is the one that looks the most Eastern European. Smokey, dingy, dark, sinister.
Worst service in town. But they play jazz, so it's not that bad.
Some of the drinks are delicious to any palate. If you like Calvados (French apple brandy) and other kinds of eau de vie, you will instantly find Barac palinka to your taste. This is a Slovak-Hungarian apricot brandy, which at best sings down your throat, giving a whiff of an blooming orchard of apricot trees, even in the dankest central European winter. “Palinka” means “the little burnt one”; there’s a cherry version too, and pear. The latter is the national speciality of Slovenia, where it is called viljamovka. The priciest versions come with a pear grown inside the bottle. One of the best brands is made by monks from the Pleterska monastery—though the kind you get in supermarkets is almost as good.
Rupplemintz on ice- my preferred winter drink if you like snapps.
Hungary’s curious drinks rival that country’s impenetrable language in their complexity. Space forbids a full discussion of the two kinds of St Hubertus, a liqueur, let alone PéterPál and Old Man versions of “whisky”—cheeky echoes of the cold war, when communist countries produced their own versions of the capitalist camp’s favourite drinks. By far Hungary’s most distinctive tipple is Unicum, a love-it-or-hate-it dark, treacly potion, which Hungarians claim is the reason the Austro-Hungarian empire lasted as long as it did (Austrians say that it was a cause of its downfall). Unicum comes in a spherical bottle with a long neck—the sort of thing that a patriotic Hungarian might have filled with petrol and thrown at a Soviet tank during the 1956 uprising.
The Czech Republic has two offerings of hooch, both best reserved for the brave. One is Becherovka, a villainous green vermouth with a hint of ginger. It is only really palatable when drunk icy cold (your numb tastebuds will miss the soapy foretaste and sickly afterburn). Czechs, amazingly, drink it lukewarm, or with tonic water. More rewarding for the adventurous is absinthe (known as the “green goddess” in the 19th century because its active ingredient, thujone, can induce madness in large doses). Absinthe is made from wormwood and is banned in the United States. But the Czechs are experts in producing it safely—and a saner (if sometimes duller) bunch of people one couldn’t hope to meet. Drinking it is a complicated ritual involving burning an alcohol-soaked sugar lump (a feast for the eyes as well as the tastebuds), which releases notes of anise seed, fennel, licorice, hyssop, veronica, lemon balm, angelica root, dittany, coriander, juniper and nutmeg.
Anyone going to the Czech Republic? Maybe bring back a couple of bottles?
In Poland, the visitor is in vodka country. Poles like to think that they are the real vodka experts and the Russians mere amateurs (though that’s not a view that should be expressed with a Russian in the room). Certainly Poland’s variety of vodkas (literally “little water”) is impressive. Among the options are rye, potato and barley, though it takes a carefully calibrated sense of taste to be able to tell the difference.
Flavoured vodkas are more rewarding: hot pepper is good for making bloody marys. Lemon and cherry have their fans too. But best of all is Zubrowka, which is flavoured with bison (zubr) grass from the prairies of eastern Poland. Faintly green, with a tuft of the grass in the bottle, Zubrowka is like alcoholic hay.
I have heard that people put a long vanilla bean in a bottle of vodka for a vanilla taste. Anyone ever try it?
Lithuania, despite its small size, has more unusual drinks than anywhere else in the region. Visit www.stumbras.lt for an idea of the oddities, such as a new drink featuring honey, pepper and garlic, called Patentuota (“patented”)—presumably in the unlikely fear that some outsider might try to copy the recipe. Even the older drinks are not original. Benediktinas is a Soviet-era version of the French Benedictine; Bociu (“ancestors”) was concocted during the Soviet era in an attempt to make Lithuanians forget the way in which occupation had wiped their country from the map.
It seems Eastern Europeans drink to remember the Cold War.
Or stay warm.
Further north in Latvia is the only rival in oddness of taste and appearance to Hungary’s Unicum. Riga Balsam (or “Rigas Balsams” as it is known in Latvian) is equally treacly and dark, but tastes of burnt orange peel. It comes in a cylindrical clay bottle and is drunk neat, or tipped into coffee. It can also give a fruit salad an intriguing tang. The recipe is centuries old and a great secret. During the Soviet occupation, the drink was much prized elsewhere in the empire; other distilleries in Russia are now producing their own.
The smallest of the post-communist countries, Estonia, is a disproportionately big alcohol producer, mainly thanks to the hordes of Finnish and Swedish tourists who come to Tallinn in search of cheap booze. Some of them buy Vana Tallinn (“Old Tallinn”), a revolting liqueur which is anything but old, having been invented during the Soviet period. But Estonia is really famous for something else: the ingenious marketing people at the main distillery, Liviko, have produced the “vodka box”—which looks like a five-litre wine box, but is filled with vodka instead. Finnish tourists can be seen pushing these, piled on unsteady trolleys, as they head back to their high-priced but thirsty homeland.
Remember, no vacation anywhere is complete until you've gotten drunk on the local booze.