There is a nearly forgotten Russian term kvasnoy patriotizm. It was coined some time in the mid-19th century amid the heated debate between Westerners and Slavophiles over the route for Russia's historic development.


Highbrow and condescending Westerners came up with the term in ridicule of Slavophiles for their fanatic adherence to everything Russian, for making a cause for patriotism out of such insignificant trifles as kvas. Kvas, of course, is the slightly sour Russian soft drink, a mixture of rye and barley malt. In the "good old" pre-reform -- or rather pre-Coca-Cola -- days, throughout the summer, tanks or kiosks with kvas were on every corner of every Russian city. Refreshing and cool, not too sweet, and cheap at 3 kopeks a glass, kvas was extremely popular. People lined up to down a glass or two and to fill bottles and jars to take home for more refreshment and to make okroshka -- a cold soup of kvas and assorted vegetables and meats.


As much as anybody, I always liked kvas but never imagined that I, a convinced cosmopolitan, would indulge in kvasnoy patriotizm. That, however, is where this column seems to be headed.


Granted, I understand why kvas had to go the way of bread lines, the hammer and sickle, and May Day parades: It was too cheap. No retailer could survive selling a commodity at 3 kopeks per unit. But I refuse to understand why it has not resurfaced at some price next to colas, punches and other imported miracles.


In the early days of glasnost, economist Larisa Piyasheva came up with a memorable article in which she assured her readers that with the advent of the free market would come streets lined with little cafes serving pirozhki and filled dumplings called vareniki. Sure enough, it is much easier to find a snack these days. But it's McDonald's, Pizza Hut, Grillmaster or hot-dog vendors doing the serving on Tverskaya Ulitsa and Nevsky Prospekt, and the fare does not include pirozhki and vareniki.


So the days of a 3-kopek glass of kvas are gone. But I would rather buy a bottle of kvas for as much as I pay for an imported soda.


And take beer. By now there are several decent new brands of Russian beer which are better than most imported stuff. But only once a month do I come across my favorite dark beer, Afanasy, made in Tver.


In a recent column I mentioned two more wonderful traditional Russian drinks I found in old Novgorod: a slightly alcoholic honey-drink called medovukha, and sbiten, a hot honey-herb drink. All these drinks, nicely bottled and packaged, could compete with standardized colas and burgers and would add a welcome national flavor to the market, as well as help revive some Russian industries. Will this happen before they are entirely forgotten?