“I’ve discovered something. Try this.” He handed me a frosted glass containing a clear syrupy liquid. I sipped it. It was terrific, clear and clean, and it thumped you in the chest. “What is it?” “Stolichnaya. Genuine Russian vodka. The Soviets just started exporting it.” “Hey, Comrade!” I yelled to the nervous male model/bartender who had been trying to figure out if my overalls were a fashion statement or not. He walked over and smiled thinly. “Yes?” he said. I pointed to the Stoli bottle behind him. “Time to redistribute the fucking wealth!”
