Hard to Swallow

About a week after I signed up, a Cunningham pre-screener called and asked my opinion of Mike's Hard Lemonade and what he kept calling "frozen malt beverages." I told him I enjoyed such drinks "occasionally."

"In the last two weeks?"

"Um, uh-huh."

"Is that a yes?"

"Sure," I said.

To be honest, I've never been much of a fruity-drink person, leaning more toward whiskey and domestic beer. But I'll drink pretty much anything if it's free, and especially if I'm getting paid.

"It's like a night out on the town except the servers tip you for getting shlizzy!" I explained to my friends. "Well, not technically shlizzy, maybe just a bit shwizzled." They were skeptical. "It's also for science," I added. "Well, research, actually. Market research."

Now we file into the testing facility, which is really just a large conference room with seating for 27 people, three each at nine tables covered by white cloths. The ten Cunningham employees -- a sober-faced group, I note -- wear variations on dark business attire and sit behind a long table covered with stacks of paper printouts. They are twenty minutes behind schedule. After checking my ID to make sure I was born between the years 1975 and 1984, they have me sign a waiver that basically says 1) I have not consumed booze in the last twelve hours; 2) I am not allergic to the booze I have not consumed in the last twelve hours; and 3) I am not an alcoholic. The form also includes a paragraph that pretty much releases them from all liability resulting from anything that might occur during or after this study. I am given a name tag that identifies me as Respondent #0328, and after bidding farewell to my designated driver, who heads off to the lobby, I find a seat near the wall.

On each table are little folded signs titled "Tasks" with the instructions "Look, Smell, Taste, Rate" and a diagram of the process. A bottle of water and a napkin with two Saltine crackers have been neatly placed in front of each chair. I stare at a laminated info sheet for Smirnoff Ice Storm, one of the drinks I assume we'll be sampling. The sheet shows it coming in a plastic silver container that's much wider and sleeker than a normal beer bottle. It looks like something that ultra-cool club-goers of the future might drink from, should they want to travel back in time and party like it's 2005. "Freeze 3 hours, shake and ready to drink," the sheet instructs, alongside a little pictogram of a man buying the drink for $8.49 a six-pack, putting it in his fridge, then pulling out a bottle, shaking it and guzzling something called "Citrus Snow."

Although Smirnoff Ice Storm is still a work in progress, it's clearly an outgrowth of the non-frozen and very successful Smirnoff Ice, a dry, lemony drink introduced to the U.S. market in 2001 that quickly sold its way to the top of the category known as Flavored Malt Beverages, or "Malternatives." These are not to be confused with low-budget, brown-bag malt liquors like Mickey's, Olde English 800 or the fearless King Cobra -- mainstays for a pleasant afternoon behind the dumpster or slurring gangsta rap throw-downs. By comparison, Malternatives hover at around 5.0 percent alcohol by volume (about the same as most beers) and are marketed to young sophisticates who want to imbibe energetically but don't necessarily enjoy the taste of hops and barley.

For a beverage industry desperate to fill the vacant condo left by the ill-fated wine-cooler fad of the '80s, Malternatives offer several ways to pump up stagnant sales. As the name suggests, they're brewed using a malt base, just like a beer, and thus contain no hard liquor. Malt beverages can therefore be classified as a beer rather than a spirit, which means they are not only taxed at a lower rate, but can be sold in most convenience stores and supermarkets. And the real kicker: They can be advertised on TV.

The pioneer in the Malternative world was Zima, which Coors rolled out in 1993 with a series of massive TV campaigns that riffed on the "alcohol refresher" as "Zomething Different" (see story). The onslaught of "hard" drinks came in the late '90s. Suddenly, iced teas could be "hard." Lemonades could be "hard." Same with cider and root beer. The description was no coincidence: The beverage industry recognized that early Malternative attempts were quickly stigmatized as effeminate because they masked the alcohol taste with sweetness. Who drank Zima? Zissies. (Never mind that Tupac could rap about Alize and have every wannabe thug this side of suburbia slugging on the passion-fruit dreck like it was liquid testosterone.)

So when global booze conglomerate Diageo -- which owns Johnnie Walker, J&B, Guinness, Baileys and Tanqueray, among others -- wanted to develop a Malternative based on one of its brands, it knew it would have to do something to break out of the Malternative stereotype. In 1999, Diageo approached Boulder-based Sterling-Rice Group, which specializes in brand development. They knew that young consumers were interested in experimenting with new drinks, explains Sterling-Rice managing partner Ed Rzasa, and they saw the most promise in vodka, with brands like Ketel One and Grey Goose moving into the market for high-end mixed drinks.