Exhumation

“Hope lives even near the graves.”
I.V. Goethe

In the plane, when sleeping is already unable, and flying for a long time, there are always some slow-flowing disputes and not necessarily about the meaning of being.
That time my filming team remembered the best alcoholic drink I ever had to try.
Since I am not even a theorist on this issue, I only had to turn my head, listen and believe the word.
Producer Lena, a great authority in matters of beautiful life, said:

- I will not immediately call the mark and year, but I can say that it is, first of all: red wine and definitely dry, Burgundy or from Bordeaux, in the mood. Ultimately Italian. From Tuscany, for example. The price of a bottle should not be less than 1,000 euros. It is cheaper to try nothing.

The camera engineer Tolik objected:

Oh yeah, the acid. The coolest thing I drank was when we were shooting the horse factory of one oligarch, so he poured twenty grams of collector martel into the whole group. Seven cents per bottle, by the way. Yes, it was cognac so cognac, I still have the taste in my head.

Here, the plane crashed and the operator Vasya woke up, he "cut off" from the half-turn to the subject of the dispute, sweetly pulled and said:

Burgundy, Normandy, Champagne or Provence are all flies. In the taste qualities of buchla, the main thing is not the fortress and not the price, but the atmosphere. For me, the best drink I have drunk in my life is the Zhygulevsky Beer with precipitation.

Lena shrugged the sponges in a twisted smile, and Tolik said:

- Well, if you haven't tried anything sweeter than carrots, then yes, "Zhygulevskoye" is of course, but we are talking about itself.

Vasya, not too upset, continued:

Then imagine a picture – a warm, May evening, an army fleet. At the gate, on the shuffle, there is a clock, we are five and we are dressed in everything new, like movie stars: white shoes, jeans, shirts, T-shirts. We all have one lap and a hole we roam in turn. One is digging, and the others are lighting with lights. The Romantic. At first, everything went well, but an hour and a half later, when the pit had already gotten to the hole, I had to throw off the spade and carefully dig with a wooden plate and even with bare hands. That’s where we packed up like hell. But no one paid attention to it, we all grabbed and grabbed, moving deep into the earth. And here we finally stumbled. It was she. Carefully pulled out, washed under the column, sat on the edge of the pit, opened and started slowly, tasting the throat, passing the bottle around the circle. and Kaif.
We drank and remembered, like almost two years ago, we were the fifth, quite green salad, only had time to get off the train and change our military uniform. As they scratched the little things in their pockets, they fell down and wanted to finally say goodbye to civil life in a human way. The volunteer was thrown through a high grid, he was thrown into a barrel, the money was enough for one bottle of Zhygulevsky. But on the way out of the barrel, our rider, of course, stumbled on the commander of the company. Then there were gentle pedals from grandparents, then ten dresses out of line, and most importantly, on the same day, the whole company (plus the orchestra) pushed us into the fleet to solemnly dig up the grave and bury a bottle of beer at a depth of three meters.
At night, after the funeral, we, half-dead of fatigue, washed the boilers in the kitchen and swore to each other - nothing, these two years will pass, because the dembel is inevitable, someday we will come out of the gates of the part free people, dig our bottle and still drink it. They dreamed and did not believe themselves.
Well, and what do you think, can there be anything in the world more delicious than rugged Zhygulevsky beer?