The King of Vodka (8 page)

Moscow's nascent artistic scene was notable, though invisible to many Muscovites, including Smirnov. He had no use for these perceived frivolities, these impractical distractions promoted by the gentry, at the time. Besides, art had nothing to do with religion or with business—the two things that preoccupied the myopic vodka maker and many of his merchant neighbors. “There are entire areas for which the theater just doesn't exist, where inhabitants treat theater performances as devil's mummery. The area of Zamoskvorechye [where Smirnov lived] is one such area,” wrote one historian.
¹⁰

One thing that did capture Smirnov's attention, apart from his incessant work, was the birth of his first son. On January 26, 1868, Pyotr Petrovich Smirnov was born. His birth, like Smirnov's death, was recorded at the church of St. John the Baptist farther down Pyatnitskaya Street. The naming of the boy's godfather was a symbolic, telling gesture. He was Nikolay Smirnov, Smirnov's cousin and the son of Smirnov's mentor, Uncle Grigoriy. Few other details about the baby were provided in the church record.

The event was probably momentous to the young Smirnov family. In Russia, family dynasties, most descending from nobility, dominated business. Some, however, were self made.
These families harbored an inherent mistrust of the state and a foreboding sense that individual wealth was a rare, often fleeting privilege that had to be safeguarded. The sentiment forced these merchants to rely on heirs to protect their hard-won positions and financial stature. Smirnov, the former serf and peasant, understood the fragility of his newfound affluence.

With the birth and subsequent survival of this infant son, Smirnov could glimpse how his growing empire might have a long-term future. The appearance of the boy put him on track to emulate the successes of other family dynasties—from the Morozov to the Gubonins to the Tretyakovs. Like them, Smirnov now had the chance to craft a legacy, one that might endure far beyond his own lifetime. Neither he nor his descendants would ever have to fear poverty or hardship again—or so it seemed.

Perhaps inspired by such grandeur, Smirnov thought of little else but how to outproduce, outsell, and outmaneuver his growing list of competitors. Smirnov was already one kind of a success. His neighbors knew him. Peasants from Yaroslavl supported him. Family members and their contacts promoted him. Local restaurants and watering spots served his drinks. But outside this well-defined group, Smirnov was a respectable no-name, no more recognizable than the local blacksmith or butcher.

To the ambitious Smirnov, this lack of far-flung notoriety would not do. He wanted to be acknowledged for his up-from-the-bootstraps achievements. He wanted his vodka to sit on the tables of all Russians. He especially wanted the tsar to know his name and drink his concoctions. In 1869 then, Smirnov, likely with the help of a secretary or personal assistant, took the bold step of petitioning the Imperial Court.

This move was extraordinarily gutsy. Providing
anything
for the High Court was the highest of honors. Over the years, according to imperial archives, many world famous manufacturers and artists enjoyed the title of Purveyor to the Court. Tiffany
and Co. and Peter Carl Fabergé were among the tsar's jewelers. Steinway and Sons provided the court with grand pianos. Singer was the imperial sewing machine supplier. The Daimler Motor Company manufactured the court's automobiles. Lesser-known purveyors provided everything from soap to furs to wood to saddles. There was even a royal leech man in the 1850s by the name of Stepan Gorbachevskiy.
¹¹

That Smirnov would place himself among these and other purveyors, after less than five years as a vodka maker, demonstrates his rising impatience and his inflamed ambitions. Had he bothered to investigate the criteria required to be a purveyor to the court, he would have realized he had no chance. Among other things, no one could be granted the title without having provided services or products to the court for at least eight years. A special note issued in 1866 by the Chancellery of the Office of the Ministry of the Imperial Court explained it all.

Smirnov, unfortunately, had no relationship with the Imperial Court. What's more, he had no prestigious honors, awards, or positions to buttress his case. The one thing Smirnov might have had in his favor was his nationality. At the time, amazingly,
just one of the tsar's vodka purveyors, Popov, was Russian born. Two of them hailed from France—Kamill Deprés and Emile Rouget—while a third, Aleksander Shtriter, came from Germany. Although they had factories in Moscow or St. Petersburg, their origins were foreign.

To the tsar and his aristocratic friends, the foreign roots of his vodka purveyors might have been their greatest appeal. Russian vodka had always been associated with homemade simplicity, a drink more suitable for the lowly masses than a royal, sophisticated consumer. Products coming from France, by contrast, were considered particularly refined, stylish, and high class. Indeed, Russians adored and celebrated everything French—be it fashion, food, or literature. Even the language was a status symbol, a sign of good breeding. Russian nobles routinely spoke French when servants were around in order to preserve their privacy.

Undeterred, Smirnov made his case in an application to the minister of the Imperial Court, dated February 20, 1869. According to his application, he emphasized the scope of his business—producing foreign and Russian grape wines, liqueurs, fruit liqueurs, and vodkas. He then tried to sell the court. “Specialists recall finding in my wines workmanship of such a degree that they do not in the least pale in comparison to well-known factories in St. Petersburg and Moscow. I am taking the courage to request before Your Highness about permission for the highest honor to me—to be named purveyor.”
¹³

The reply, perfunctory and unequivocal, came one month later. Written by an official from the Moscow court office to the minister of the Imperial Court, it stated that Smirnov's request “cannot be complied with since, by existing rules in this ministry, similar advantages are granted only to persons who, for a period of not less than eight years without a break, supply their products to the Royal Court. The applicant, as it has turned out,
according to my personal records, has never been a supplier of wine to the Court.”

It is uncertain what else Smirnov could have expected. Likely, he hoped for a shortcut to greatness. If he could promote himself as the royal vodka maker, the tsar's chosen supplier, then all other Russians and Europeans would know Smirnov's vodka was the finest. Smirnov's ascent until that point had been as miraculous as it had been efficient. He had experienced one uninterrupted triumph after another and had emerged as a flourishing business upstart. Smirnov now had two choices. He could lick his wounds and go on peddling vodka in the same manner he always had. Or he could craft an inspired plan, one that would assure him of the royal title he so desperately desired. It was a turning point for the vodka maker. The tsar's refusal, rather than deflating Smirnov's outsized ambition, emboldened it. It aroused something deep inside the man, a creative spark that transformed Smirnov from a competent businessman into one of the most ingenious marketers of his time.

S
mirnov had come to a critical realization in the wake of the tsar's refusal. While he had succeeded in his business ventures, he lacked the panache of a royal purveyor. Russia was a country governed by arcane rules, established traditions, and an entrenched hierarchy. Perception mattered as much as reality.

Viewing the situation from this perspective, Smirnov recognized that he had little to recommend himself. He had indeed achieved some measure of refinement in the last few years and had also shed some of the more visible accoutrements from his village days. He no longer wore a long caftan or frock coat with wide dark trousers tucked into high boots, the uniform of lower-class men. He wore instead finely tailored dark or black suits, always cut to the prevailing European fashion. A polished gold pocket watch clung to his waistcoat by a thick chain. His dark beard was closely cropped, according to photos, and he used a pomade to slick back his black hair.

He knew, though, that Russia's ruling elite cared little
about these superficial adjustments. It cared more about position, stature, and demonstrated virtue. In this regard, Smirnov was unformed. He held no leadership role in the merchant guild's administration nor had he pursed any alliances with civic or charitable organizations. His cultural intelligence or aptitude was limited. His reading and writing skills were childlike, lacking the sophistication of an educated, well-bred person. And his minimal social life revolved around family and church. He had done almost nothing to expand beyond his immediate circles.

As for his liquors, they were also provincial. Other than regular customers, few outside Smirnov's controlled, insular world recognized his concoctions as anything more than standard fare. He had garnered no awards or honors attesting to the high quality of his drinks, and the packaging and labeling of his bottles were no different than others on store shelves. These oversights contrasted with the tsar's reining vodka purveyors. Aleksander Shtriter, for example, held an array of titles and honors. His drinks had been recognized in international competition. Moreover, Shtriter was a philanthropist and civic leader.

 

U
P IN HIS
second-floor office, seated in his favorite leather chair, Smirnov contemplated his predicament. He possibly consulted his father, who now lived with him, as well as his Uncle Ivan. Perhaps he even spoke to Nataliya, who maintained a presence in her husband's commercial affairs. But their voices were drowned out by Smirnov's own internal counsel. The vodka maker trusted his own judgment most. As one of Smirnov's admiring managers noted at the time, “Pyotr Arsenievich is
the
brain of our business.”
¹

Smirnov devised an ambitious campaign, as calculating, comprehensive, and tactical as any plan ever conjured. The plan was visionary, too. Smirnov was on a mission to make his the most well-known—and prestigious—name in vodka. By Rus
sian standards, this goal of branding was a novel, almost ground-breaking quest because brand-making was, at this time, a primitive concept. Only a sliver of Russians—the little more than 1 percent considered aristocrats—noted the image or origin of goods. They had the means to pay for products differentiated by prestige or quality—and the education to read and understand promotional materials distributed by vendors.

For the rest of the population, these things meant nothing. Products were commodities purchased directly from local networks of sellers, who maintained a stable set of repeat customers. These relationships were far more important than impersonal brand names.

Notwithstanding the widespread illiteracy of customers, few businesses had reason to spend their limited resources on brand-building anyway. The legal system offered no formal protection for trademarks or copyrights until 1896—more than three decades after Smirnov opened his first vodka factory. A law, which required manufacturers to stamp their names on their goods, did exist to authenticate one product from another and help deter counterfeiters. Smirnov, for instance, had “Pyotr Smirnov in Moscow” etched into the glass on his bottles in the 1880s. But the stamps were used more to track sales and revenue for tax purposes than for promoting one brand over another.

Beyond the lack of legal protections, advertising was a largely foreign phenomenon. Years of censorship meant that newspapers and periodicals were almost entirely official entities, reporting government announcements and other state-related business. After emancipation, more ads began appearing in publications, particularly the newer, more liberal ones, promoting soaps, perfumes, and other products. Liquor makers, however, did not join this marketing wave, preferring instead to rely on their old, tried-and-true grassroots methods to reach consumers.

Smirnov's genius, then, stemmed from his ability to look beyond what
had been
to see what
could
be. His vision was gran
diose, culminating with no less than complete dominance of his industry. His blueprint to getting there, which wrapped his company's future inside his personal brand, was a veritable labyrinth of opportunistic initiatives aimed at building up Smirnov's public reputation and increasing the profile of his products. He would be famous—not just for vodka. He would be known for his leadership, his charitable giving, and a bevy of upper-crust awards. He intended to cater to the entire social spectrum, servicing both the poor and the rich with an array of targeted, differentiated offerings.

Smirnov's ambitious proposal required a personal quantum leap. Shy and reserved by nature, appearing almost robotic at times, he would have to pry open his clamshell of a soul and thrust himself into the limelight as a leader and an activist. He would have to immerse himself in the philanthropic needs of the lowest classes as well as the high-brow demands of the nobles. He would have to travel to new places, too, hawking his wares to a discerning international clientele. Under this scheme, Smirnov's comfortable anonymity would evaporate, a casualty of the race for vodka supremacy.

And there was the vodka itself. Smirnov needed to create greater demand for it as well as convince people that his brand was superior to any other in the marketplace.

The first step in rebuilding his image, Smirnov concluded, was finding the right charity to support. Meticulous in his evaluation, he likely investigated the thirty-two organizations that fell under the supervision of the Moscow Merchants Society. These included orphanages, hospitals, schools, and shelters for the homeless. Since 1862, the society had decreed that one of the primary duties of its members should be the social welfare of the community. Merchants, especially the most successful ones, were still vilified for their self-serving attitudes and lavish lifestyles. Nineteenth-century Christian Russians took the Bible at its word: “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a
needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God.”
²
The most savvy industrialists, in turn, supported charities to atone for the sin of wealth. And most did so through one of the groups overseen by the Merchants Society.

Smirnov, however, was not convinced that this route was the best. His agenda for social advancement trumped the convenience and familiarity of the organizations sponsored by the society. Besides, Smirnov was reluctant to participate in the Merchants Society's programs. The group often hosted rowdy, all-night affairs, and the newspapers reported on these wild parties, causing members after-the-fact embarrassment and indignation. This behavior fell far outside of Smirnov's comfort zone. He rarely drank or gambled and was still an outsider when it came to organized, social encounters.
^*
He had never been one for mindless chitchat or gossip, nor did he want to participate in unstructured intellectual banter.

So Smirnov looked beyond the Society's sanctioned charities, focusing instead on institutions that operated outside the merchants' charter and the government. These tended to be older, more established, more prestigious charities whose patrons came largely from the nobility. And they were not always hospitable, particularly to newcomers. Smirnov had previously tried to donate money to a private, exclusive school that catered to the children of nobles. His gift, however, was rejected and deemed inappropriate by the school's officials because Smirnov was not an established member of the upper crust.
³

The rejection must have humiliated Smirnov, but he quickly moved on, taking particular interest in the Moscow Committee on Beggars. Founded in 1838 by a nobleman who was also Moscow's most influential official, the committee took in vagrants, housing them, finding them jobs, training them, sending them
to mental institutions, if necessary, or returning them to their families. The group provided a laudable and much-needed service. Since emancipation, the problem of unemployment and homelessness had soared, primarily in large cities like Moscow and St. Petersburg. An estimated 320,000 Russians a year had found themselves in need of social services following emancipation, a 32 percent increase from just before the reform.
⁴

Apart from its good deeds, the Committee on Beggars also offered unique benefits. Members of the committee automatically received the title of Titular Counsel. According to the all-important civil table of ranks in nineteenth-century Russia, this honor, also held by Pushkin at the time of his death, was rather low. It ranked ninth out of fourteen possible titles. Nonetheless, Russian society treasured these awards. They served to differentiate people from one another and placed them atop “artificial social stilts,” explained one baron critical of his country's hierarchical customs.
⁵

Within the same vein, committee members were also afforded the right to wear stately uniforms to special events. These full-dress, formal costumes publicly displayed the lofty status of whoever wore them. This prerogative was priceless. “Status meant both privileges and prestige, and the merchant scrambled after these by whatever means available.”
⁶
Smirnov could hardly resist.

In 1870, less than a year after his imperial rejection, Smirnov became an agent of the Moscow Committee on Beggars. Almost immediately, he began to enjoy the fruits of his choice. After donating a sizable, inaugural sum to the organization, Smirnov received his first medal. It was a round gold coin with a picture of the tsar on one side and the words “for zeal” engraved on the other side. Smirnov could wear this medal around his neck on a special ribbon, known as St. Vladimir's ribbon, offering up more evidence of his largesse.

His charity established, the vodka maker turned his atten
tion to his merchant status. Still one of 4,500 members of the second guild in Moscow, Smirnov realized there was far more to be gained by moving up a rung. Moscow's first-guild merchants held a lofty place in the Russian state. Indeed, the most powerful men of industry were veterans of the first guild, including the Bakhrushin and Ryabushinskiy textile dynasties, and the Perlovs, famous tea traders. Uncle Ivan was also part of this exclusive 630-member group.

From a financial standpoint, members of the first guild were entitled to operate an unlimited number of business entities, to import and exports goods at will, to structure their companies using the most economically beneficial methods, and to enter into contracts of any amount. On a more personal note, they could receive a variety of important titles, including that of “honorable citizen” and “counsel of commerce.” They also had the right to wear illustrious uniforms, complete with a rapier, special collar, and cuffs. Another privilege gave them the right to ride in a fine carriage pulled by two horses. Those in the second guild and below could only harness one horse to their carts. Members' children received benefits, too. After serving for twelve years in the guild, the children of members were granted access to elite, aristocratic educational institutions. Second-guild merchants were far more restricted in their school choices.

Of course, it cost significantly more to be in the first guild—565 rubles annually versus only 120 rubles (565 rubles was about $367 in 1871, or about $6,425 today; 120 rubles was about $78 then and roughly $1,365 today). By this time, though, the added expense was more than manageable for Smirnov—and worth it. He entered the first guild in 1871, according to his license, “as a wine trader in his own house in the Pyatnitskaya district.”
⁷
Smirnov's profile was elevated instantly. He attended regular meetings with business leaders and high society. They were getting to know him and soon, Smirnov hoped, they would know his liquor, too.

 

S
MIRNOV UNDERSTOOD THAT
there was still much to do to turn his bit of a brand into a household name. In a sea of distillers, how could he stand out? How could he convince peasants and royalty alike that bottles bearing his name were synonymous with smooth taste and eminent quality? It did not really matter whether his vodka truly was better than the rest of the competition, even though Smirnov believed it was. What mattered most was that drinkers, when hearing the name, instantly associated his bottles with the best Russia had to offer.

Smirnov's plan was to go directly to his would-be customers. The streets were already flooded with alcohol. Taverns already had their favored brewers; consumers already knew what they liked—changing their minds would not be easy. Although Smirnov knew the mind-set of the peasants and lower classes, he was no longer accepted as a brother. He would have to find surrogates to make his case.

Artist Nikolay Nikolayevich Zhukov recalled Smirnov's dilemma—and solution to it—in a short story he published titled “
Smirnovskaya
Vodka,” or “Smirnov Vodka.” Zhukov was an early twentieth-century graphic designer, book illustrator, writer, and painter for the Soviet military. He made his name mainly through portraits of Vladimir Lenin, which are now part of some of Russia's most prominent art collections and galleries. He also produced pictures of everyday military life during World War II and covered the Nuremberg trials, creating more than two hundred drawings during a one-month visit to the proceedings. Zhukov's colleagues recalled that he changed his seat daily at the trials to avoid the scrutiny of the defiant defendants.