хорошая ночь, удача

I made a new friend at a bar in Munich last week. It was a big night for Sasha, was his wife's birthday, and he was high on happiness and a barrel of vodka. Sasha insisted we have a drink to celebrate with him. He was prepared to buy us the bar though he had met us only about 30 seconds ago when he was picking himself off the ground having toppled over.
We didn't want to rain on his parade, so we agreed to let him buy a round. Turned out to be a mistake since his idea of a round was a bottle of vodka each to be diluted with nothing but love. I managed to pour most of my vodka back into his glass during one of his many trips to the floor.
Sasha came from kazhakstan and sold mountain bikes in Germany. He couldn't quite place where India was but he seemed happy enough to be friends with me. We were one big happy family at the bar till my colleague called him Borat. Sasha didn't speak much English but he didn't like the Borat thing. No sir, he didn't. After a few menacing words in Russian, he sulked in the corner. His wife finally managed to drag him out of the bar but Sasha was upset, I could tell. The friendliness had been replaced by a cold menace.
Before he stumbled out, he dropped his business card on the table. Jorge Sternberg, it said. Dodgy. Never say no when a Russian offers you vodka, they say, and never ever ever mess with Russians or vodka. Walking back to my hotel, hunched in the cold Munich rain, I figured Borat wasn't a good idea. It was a chilly night.