Massif only wanted to dance. Ruth wanted to be back in Akron.

Sensing defeat, Massif sat down heavily at our table and poured a glass of vodka for himself and one for me. A translator came by, introduced us, told me Massif was very drunk but intensely concerned about world peace, and left.

No matter. We were communicating now. Massif raised his glass, solemnly intoned the words "Za mir."

"Za mir." We drank.

He taught me to drink Soviet-style. Sons of the Steppes do not toss back the fiery glassful in a single gulp. That's for Americans and other capitalist running weasels. Soviets place glass to lip and drain it with excruciating slowness, lengthening the time the warming liquid has to slither languidly, lovingly over your tongue, across your palate, down your throat and into your stomach and increasing the opportunity for its fumes to insinuate into your very capillaries, thus maximizing the effect on your system.

Down banged the glasses. Up came the bottle. Two more shots.

"Za mir!"

"Za mir!"

Long, slow draw. Gasp. Again.

Massif caught me in a bear hug, kissed me on the cheek.

The ballroom quieted. The American table watched. In their eyes, Massif became Nikita Khrushchev, his shoe pounding that United Nations table, his peasant voice bellowing: "We will bury you!"

I was Sylvester Stallone. Or maybe Chuck Norris. Things weren't all that clear at the moment.

Again. Again. "Za mir!" "Za mir!" Another gulp, another gasp, another bear hug and, this time, Massif aimed for my lips. I turned the other cheek.

Massif was not offended. Massif was barely conscious. He arose wordlessly, wobbled, shuffled back to his table. He slumped at his plate, face down in his creamy salad. A friend pounded him on the back, trying to arouse him. In vain.

My God! I had drunk a Soviet under the table with vodka. With nothing like his decades of experience. What a thrill. And what a shock. No wonder communism collapsed. That'll teach 'em to mess with Americans.

But that was years ago. Today the Cold War is over.

And Massif, my comrade, in the unlikely event that you ever read this, I have a small confession. My wife, alarmed at my suicidal course, had sidled over and, ever since the second shot, had been filling my glass with mineral water, while you kept pouring yourself vodka.

I'd been firing blanks. Call it stealth vodka.

Sorry, Massif. Za mir!