Kishore Singh: From the best to the worst

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Because some months ago my son had gone into a sulk at being denied entry at Aura for being underage, I had been keen to visit the vodka bar at Claridges to see why it is such a favourite among the young. The perfect window of opportunity presented itself one evening when in between a diplomat's farewell (an early affair, as all such occasions are) and a couple's wedding anniversary celebrations (where you could hardly be late enough), the hotel presented itself en route. The temptation to drop in was strong and before you could say "potato", we found ourselves with spike-haired, non-drinking-but-versed-in-vodka-lore Amit taking our orders.

He was to prove a persuasive lad and passionate about spirits in that strange way only teetotalers can be. We did not see him clap his hands but, genie-like, there were soon shots of vodkas of mixed parentage chilling before us over beds of crushed ice. But weren't all vodkas Russian? "Right," said Amit, rubbing his hands gleefully at the thought of preaching to the uninitiated, "and wrong." "So, okay, Poland too," I conceded, but the lad wasn't willing to relent much that evening, and so we learned that they brewed the innocuous-looking but lethal spirit in Europe and parts of America, and "" wouldn't you know it "" Asia too.

"Made," I smirked, "from potatoes, of course." Er, wrong again. It seemed you could do it just as well with almost any other vegetable, or fruit, or grain. Clearly, it was time to shut up and drink. But Amit would have us make a ceremony of it, not unlike wine. Our first choice coursed down fierily, making its journey feel like happiness slowly settling down in the pit of the stomach. But he nixed second servings because we were to savour a French version (unbelievably smooth), then another into which some fruits have been infused to give it a tart but smooth texture ("the ladies like it," he beamed, when my wife drained down her glass) not unlike a cocktail, another with a liqueur-like consistency, and still another that might have been a post-dinner coffee high on spirits.

By the time we'd done with the vodka degustation menu, Amit was rubbing his hands again "" surely we couldn't go without at least one cocktail made especially by him using his favourite vodka? No, of course not, which is how I found myself nursing an enormous martini and beyond caring if it was shaken or stirred. All I was aware of was that a quiet switch was taking place as people of an elder generation made way for those clearly of more recent vintage, and so we left soon after for our rendezvous with our friends at a neighbouring hotel.

It would have been rude not to join our friends over a drink, and what with one thing or another (including the presence of an extremely capable belly dancer), it was inevitable that one martini led to another and, possibly, another.

It is a clever lie that vodka does not give you a hangover "" and the last thing I thought I wanted ever again in my life was any more martinis. But commitments had to be met when, the following evening, a group of Sanawarians got together at the Gymkhana bar for a class reunion. The Gymkhana's great ability is managing prices to serve you your poison at rates only the Press Club can beat, but its skills do not extend to mixing cocktails. Which is why when a visiting classmate from Singapore requested a vodka martini, we couldn't help but wince when the waiter fetched him a portion of Absolut served with a portion of Martini Rossi over ice...a journey from the perfect martini to the worst in the space of a few hours.