New York Press
April 8, 2003

GABRIELLA GERSHENSON

 

Meyer Olshin doesn’t like Czech beer. The 27-year-old Orthodox Jewish entrepreneur complains that the beer, widely regarded as being among the best in the world, is too "skunky."

"Local Czech beers, Pilsner Urquell, all these beers are irritating to the palate," he says, wrinkling his nose.

So, last February, Olshin, whose office is based out of the family shmatte business in the Garment District, introduced Kisz Bier, a kosher beer and new contender in the New York City import market. Curiously, it’s brewed in the Czech Republic.

Why would Olshin choose to brew his beer there–at Pravske Pivovary, Prague’s oldest brewery and maker of Staropramen, the Czech Republic’s number-three beer–if he doesn’t even like the stuff? Marketing. Olshin took on this business venture in an effort to fill a niche that he identified in the beer-drinking market, i.e., the niche of those who brandish bottles of Stella but would rather be drinking Bud.

"My father said, ‘You’re crazy Meyer–I’m in the shmatte business! I know you graduated in marketing, but what the hell do you know about beer?’"

Good question. In a move best described as reverse alchemy, Olshin chose to brew an "American-tasting import" in the Czech Republic to appeal to drinkers who are concerned with their images but can’t hold down their pilsners.

"We visited 30 different breweries in the Czech Republic," says Olshin, "and we went with this one because it had the capacity and work control that we needed."

But isn’t there a brewery, say, in Milwaukee, with that kind of "capacity"? It all comes back to the status of the import. Olshin’s business objective is grounded in the conviction that there are scores of people who can’t stomach an import but still want to be seen drinking one. Even the name of the beer is pseudo-Eastern European. What started off as Kiss beer evolved into Kisz, when a "z" was added for what Olshin calls "Czech cachet" (despite the fact that kisz isn’t a Czech word and the "sz" letter-combination is more suggestive of Polish or Hungarian.)

For people who buy into this kind of thing, Kisz should do the trick. In contrast to the hoppy, astringent Czech imports readily available in New York City (Pilsner Urquell, Czech Rebel, Czechvar/Budvar), Kisz goes down like Coca-Cola. Its two varieties, Kisz Dark and Kisz Lager, give off the distinct smell of molasses, and a gulp reveals a liquid that is at once watery and syrupy sweet.

If that’s not American enough, Kisz will soon dispatch its very own marketing girls dolled up in baby tees and short skirts who will give out kisses to anyone who buys a Kisz beer at the company’s promotional events. And stay tuned for the debut of the Kisz bikini team this summer.

Olshin’s marketing campaign, which also urges drinkers to "Give me a Kisz" and promising "You’ll never forget your first Kisz," places Kisz in the ranks of such subtle sloganeerers as Remy Red ("Stir your senses, from the inside") and Pringles ("Once you pop, you can’t stop"). "It’s a classy drink," says Olshin. "You go to dinner together, after you’re in a bar, then you’re in an alley and you have a kiss."

In spite of these stunts, Olshin keeps a high brow. "It’s not about lips," says Meyer. "It’s not about naked women. It’s about an upscale, sophisticated approach to drinking."