It could be argued that 1998 is the 600th anniversary of the arrival of vodka in Russia. One 19th century source on Russian culture, food and folkways notes that "it can probably be supposed that vodka appeared here no earlier than 1398, when the Genoese began shipping vodka to Lithuania and acquainted us with the pernicious drink."

If this is the case, then it took several decades for this "pernicious drink" to take root in Russia. For most contemporary experts cite the mid- to late-1400s as the time when vodka began to be distilled in Russia. Within another 100 years, the state was starting to move in and set up a monopoly over the production and sale of vodka that would last -- but for a thirty year hiatus -- for the next four centuries. Over that period, vodka has come to play a vital role in Russian culture.

Perhaps no other spirit would have been so compatible with the Russian soul. The subtle lithesomeness of wine, best taken in the open air with fine cheese and warm bread, is a bad fit with Russia's long winters and short growing seasons. While beer has enjoyed popularity in Russia through the ages , it is simply not a "serious enough" drink. It does not pack enough punch to unleash true feelings and passions.But vodka, so pure and purposeful, so ideal for warming the despondent soul in February or for cooling passions in August, is a feast or famine sort of drink. One would expect something like vodka to arise from a Northern culture with a communal peasantry, where long winters and tortuously short growing seasons meant back-breaking labor intermitted only by community-building social feasts and drinking bouts. What is more, the unique ability of vodka to act as an accompaniment to any manner of feast or food (whatever is on hand), plus the fact that it can be distilled from any type of grain or organic matter pretty much whatever is on hand, makes it all the more welcome. And, when it was discovered that the best vodka resulted from filtering with birch charcoal not oak or pine, but birch, the tree of the Russian taiga

During WWI, Tsarist Russia imposed a "dry law," which sought to keep army recruits sober enough to fight. And when the Bolsheviks stole power in 1917, they extended prohibition on ideological grounds, arguing that the tsarist state sought to keep its subjects docile through liberal distribution of vodka, which may not have been that far from the truth. Stephen White notes in his book, Russia Goes Dry, once supposedly commented that a drunken people is easier to rule. Vladimir Lenin, a teetotaler, saw alcoholism as a disease that would keep Russia from moving forward to communism. As White writes, Lenin said the proletariat, "had no need of intoxication, it derived its  strongest stimulant to struggle from its class position and from the communist ideal; and what was needed was clarity, clarity and once again clarity..." In 1922, at the 11th Communist Party Congress, Lenin would declare that there would be "no trade in rotgut."

By December 1919, new laws were enacted to severely punish private production of strong spirits. Not that this was highly significant: according to White, at least a third of rural households were likely engaged in illicit distilling of alcohol in the 1920s. The government stepped up its anti-alcohol campaign for a time but eventually admitted defeat. In 1925, private homebrewing was allowed, as long as it was not intended for sale, while the state monopoly over production and sales continued. Henceforth, the battle against increasing alcohol consumption was mainly fought through education and propaganda. By the end of 1930, Stalin, now firmly in control, ordered expansion of vodka production. By the late 1930s, the strength of vodka (which had previously been kept at 20%) was allowed to rise to its "natural" level of 40%. As White writes, by 1940, "there were more shops selling drink than meat, fruit and vegetables put together." During the war, vodka was issued to troops as part of their rations.

But, long before the arrival of totalitarian communism, vodka had a dark influence on Russian culture. The state. s dependence on revenues from alcohol sales have encouraged alcoholism and abuse for hundreds of years. As Adam Olearius, a member of the Holstein Embassy to Russia in the 17th century wrote, "the vice of drunkenness is prevalent among this people in all classes, both secular and ecclesiastical, high and low, men and women, young and old ... None of them anywhere, anytime, or under any circumstances lets pass an opportunity to have a draught or drinking bout. They drink mainly vodka, and at get-togethers, or when one person visits another, respect is rendered by serving one or two cups of wine, that is, vodka."

The above research is the writings of Paul Richardson and Mikhail Ivanov. 

Cold River, The latest entry into the premium vodka market, was launched last week at an elegant "first pour" event. It was a thoroughly Maine launch for a thoroughly Maine product. Most vodkas, including fancy ones, result from an unholy alliance of massive Midwest grain conglomerates and toney coastal distilleries. Trucks full of undistinguished alcohol made from barley or rice crisscross the country before submitting to the particular distillation that makes it Belvedere, Grey Goose, or Hangar 1. Cold River rejects that model in two ways. First, Cold River Vodka is made from potatoes, not grain. Second, every aspect of the production of Cold River, from the potatoes to the water from the Cold River to the copper pot still, is based here in Maine. If this vodka is to succeed in the fickle high-end vodka market, it is these two points of distinction that will make it happen.

It is actually rather difficult to get drunk on potatoes in America. Cold River now joins Chopin as the only two potato-based vodkas on the market. Essentially, vodka has two ingredients — alcohol and water. Many vodka makers maintain that what is most important is how a vodka is distilled, and how many times, not the source of the alcohol that goes into the still. Alcohol can be produced from grain less expensively than it can be produced from potatoes, and so it is grain alcohol that ends up in most vodkas. The makers of Cold River believe that potatoes produce a vodka that, compared to the grain-based products, is smoother and less jarring to the palate — the quality to which premium vodkas most aspire. They also believe potato alcohol harbors an extra bit of unfermented sugar, which survives the distillation and lends the vodka a subtle sweetness that strikes the palate as integral to the vodka, not an add-on to mask the harshness of the alcohol.