Subject: Borscht Blasphemy
To: REDACTED
From: REDACTED
Date: REDACTED


Few years ago, I remember watching morning show episode about oligarchs who surgically alter their hands to look more “trustworthy” in business meetings. It was... disturbing.

They had a former bodyguard from Baku explaining how his employer had his knuckles shaved and injected with collagen so they’d look “less violent” when pointing at investment portfolios.

The host asked him whether the hands still worked. He just stared into the camera and whispered, “Only for signing contracts and slapping caviar off unpaid interns.”

There was a segment where they brought out a table of Eastern European nouveau riche fragrance collectors—all smelled like crushed credit cards and diplomatic immunity. One man claimed his scent was based on “distilled ambition and oligarchs’ tears,” another sprayed something called “St. Petersburg After Midnight” on Host’s wrist and she nearly vomited.

Then they had a tasting—vodka poured over saffron and guilt. A Belarusian real estate mogul did shots of Glenfarclas 25 with raw garlic and pickled quail eggs. I had to change the channel. I was watching state capitalism overdose on itself in real time.

Big wrists, gold chains, cologne that smells like newly laminated rubles, and the kind of laugh that sounds like a blender full of ice and broken teeth? They drink like it’s still 1983 and someone just handed them a Rolex after pulling it off a corpse. No palate. No restraint. No soul.

They are gripping their tumblers with stubby, manicured fingers. Nails too clean for men who claim to have "business in Odessa." Talking about real estate in Dubai, and how they once ate beluga caviar off the back of an Estonian model. 

You smile, nod, sip your drink, but inside you're screaming. Because there’s no elegance here. No discretion. Just brute force, vodka shots, and a perfume of insecurity.

There’s something about those types—always ordering the oldest Scotch on the menu, not because they understand it, but because the number makes them feel important. Then they ruin it. Chug it. Chase it with pickles. Wipe their mouths with their wrists. 

Drinking Laphroaig neat, chased with borscht?

That’s like polishing your Berluti loafers with sandpaper and motor oil. It’s uncultured. Vulgar. Soviet. It's performance art for people without inner lives.

I was once in a lounge in Geneva—club chairs, walnut paneling, Patek advertisements on the walls—and watched a man in a Versace bomber pour 21-year-old Hibiki over ice from the hotel fridge. Hotel fridge. I felt physically ill. Had to excuse myself to the men's room, take a Xanax, and stare at my reflection until the shaking stopped.

Tasteless spirits are a utility. They’re for mixing with soda water or guava nectar in some rooftop bar in Tribeca while trying to ignore the sound of crypto talk and people pretending to be vegan. Vodka with sashimi—fine. Blanco tequila with ceviche—acceptable, barely.

More alcohol? More intense color? Then the glass must be shorter. More concentrated. More intimate. The vessel should mirror the intensity. A neat pour of cask-strength bourbon or navy-strength gin in a tall glass is absurd. Like wearing a dinner jacket to a tanning salon. Completely misaligned.

Shorter glass. Heavy base. Minimal volume. The drink becomes an event, not an accessory. It hits faster, sharper. There's no room for dilution, no pretense of refreshment. This is about intent, not hydration.

And yes—the thinner the glass, the better the taste. Crystal Riedel, hand-blown, nothing thick enough to look like it came from a hotel bar in the Midwest. The glass should whisper, not shout. It should barely exist. Like a good suit, it enhances without distracting.

For something like a Blanco Diplomático—or a vodka distilled seven times through Icelandic lava rocks or whatever marketing fairy tale they’re telling this year—the glass must be nearly nonexistent. Thin-walled, if you're civilized, unadorned. Clean. Cold. No nonsense. You're not tasting the spirit—you're tasting purity, and the vessel should reflect that. 

No shots. Never. That’s for club rats and cowards. Shot-style drinking is an act of desperation. Proletarian. It bypasses the ritual, the sensory pleasure, the discipline. It’s a surrender. The kind of thing people do when they want to black out and forget how much they hate their wives and their socialist government.

You hold it. Let it sting. Let it open. You feel the burn, the bloom, the glide. It coats the palate, seeps upward. Less to the liver. More to the brain. A cerebral high. Controlled. Clean. Luxurious. Like drifting in a cashmere-lined hallucination.
 
Vice versa? Direct transit to the liver. Less to the brain. No detours. No experience. Just combustion. Fast, harsh, stupid. It’s chemical warfare for people who want to skip the elevation and go straight to the collapse.

You slam it back, feel the burn, pretend that pain equals power—but it doesn’t. It’s just damage. There’s no taste. No control. No pleasure. Just impact. And eventually, ruin.

You swirl. You nurse. You taste—precisely, cleanly—and then it’s gone. Like a good threat. Or a midnight departure from a penthouse suite you shouldn’t have been in to begin with.

Harsher highs are for people who hate themselves. Softer, sharper highs—that’s for those of us who don’t feel a thing but expect everything.

Now—Scotch. Real Scotch. That’s different. It demands reverence. A thicker, weightier tumbler, yes. Short. But not chunky. Not clumsy. The glass should have presence, like a well-structured coat—Brioni, maybe, or a classic bespoke Huntsman cut. It should rest in your hand with authority. Enough weight to remind you this is something aged, deliberate, expensive. But never crude. Never vulgar.

But if we're talking purity, the real ritual—yes. You abandon the tumbler. Graduate to the Glencairn. No ice. No garnish. Just you and the Scotch. Alone. Private. Like a confession you’ll never tell anyone but God.

I once watched a man pour a Macallan Rare Cask into a red Solo cup. I didn’t speak to him again. He’s probably dead now. Not by my hand. Probably.

Glassware should disappear into the experience. Like good lighting or a woman in vintage Alaïa—felt, but never overpowering.