Yes, it's true. This column devotes a lot of its time to the consideration of alcoholic beverages. At least it's better than the columnist devoting a lot of her time to the consumption of alcoholic beverages, although unfortunately one task doesn't necessarily preclude the other. But this is noble work, I'm convinced. To ignore the cultural importance of alcohol in Russia would be like ignoring the significance of water in the ocean. It simply can't be done.


One paragraph in and already I digress. Because this week's spotlight falls on another special drink -- the only one to be poured with as much reverence, if not more, than those high-proof contenders. The beverage choice of civilized nations that has sparked heated feelings and warfare since the beginning of time. The liquid refreshment that, if you're truly living the Russian life, you've drunk more of than any other during your time here -- tea.


Forget those soothing images of steaming mugs and happy samovars. Tea is not as benign as it looks. People are always complaining about how difficult it is to gracefully decline when the vodka bottle gets plopped down on the table, but that's nothing compared to the challenge of turning down the teapot hovering over your cup for the fifth time in the past hour. This odd strain of water torture is a surprisingly effective manipulative device, and it seems a little dramatic to wage a protest over something so seemingly unthreatening. They pour, you drink, and before you know it, life has passed you by.


The real heartbreak of the situation is that although you've seen the trick and you know how it works, you'll never be able to use it yourself. As long as you live, you will never, ever brew a pot of tea that will satisfy Russians to the extent that they will want to linger over their cups. Maybe expatriates from tea-drinking countries don't have this kind of problem. But for Americans, who can grind coffee beans with tremendous flair but brew tea via tea bags if they brew it at all, it's a constant reminder that you're never really going to measure up.


The collapse of your self-esteem usually begins the instant you unwittingly throw away what looks to you like a teapot full of old wet leaves but is actually the all-important zavarka, the strong brew that hails back to samovar-era tradition. The next time you let the brew run its appropriate course but throw out the leaves in the wastebasket instead of flushing them down the toilet. Then your zavarka is too weak or bitter, or you're out of sugar, or you oafishly offer both lemon and milk. You finally get it all down pat, just in time to meet the Russian who will say oy, the zavarka method is the most disgusting thing he's ever heard of, and you've got to brew a fresh pot every time. It's enough to make the vodka bottle look attractive. Just open and pour.