Yes, in the coronavirus-free heyday of the 2010s, Grey Goose had a good PR department pitch. Whoever decided that we should extend the gourmet trust the French have rightfully earned in other arenas to vodka should be tried by a jury of his peers and executed in the street. Grey Goose is the latter, priced like a fine bottle from Reims. There’s the good kind, which tastes like melted ice and allows you to conduct your business in the morning, and the bad kind, which comes in a plastic bottle and tastes like a draining fluid hangover, but has the advantage of being a cheap buzz until you wake up with a spike through your temple. Contra your neighborhood hipster bar, there is no such thing as “craft vodka.” Vodka is vodka, and there are only two kinds of it at the end of the day.
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