After the Feast, the Digestif Laura Letinsky for The New York Times Some people look stricken when presented with the idea of an after-dinner drink, as if it evokes an Edwardian vision of men repairing to the study while ladies are left at the table to rue their sisters" marriage prospects. Though I suppose some might like this scenario. An after-dinner drink should be the least stiff of rituals, () even if the drinks are stiff indeed. My palate is open to many possibilities, but the feasts of winter demand particularly durable digestifs. Armagnac and grappa may ooze continental mystique, but they're just different ways of saying brandy, and they're robustly rustic brandies at that. Gascon folk-wisdom has long promoted the notion that Armagnac burns a hole in the gut where the beans, pork and duck of cassoulet settle, and I won't argue with the folk. If it's less loved than Cognac, it's mainly because it is less known, even if its production predates Cognac's by two centuries. Both are derived from wine, but Armagnac is distilled once (Cognac twice); its alcohol content is higher; and no sugar is added. This results in a more virile brandy, but not one without its own nuances and considerable variation. Seriously pleasing bottles (like Laubade VSOP, relatively light and bright, suggestive of vanilla and chocolate) can be a bargain in the $50 range. My current favorite, Chateau du Busca's Hors D'Age - peppery and buttery in surprising, delicious balance - runs around $80. Grappa's reputation for potency strikes terror, but there's grappa, and then there's grappa: I've had a devastatingly harsh make-you-want-to-slap-your-mama version made in an Italian grandfather's garage, and gentler, more refined expressions from venerable producers like Nardini. All do their duty, but Nardini's Mandorla Grappa, laced with almond and cherry, is a good choice for beginners. I also love slivovitz, the fiery plum brandy native to Eastern Europe, particularly R. Jelinek, from the Czech Republic, which generally costs less than $30 a bottle. I enjoyed a prelunch slivovitz once, in a Slovakian restaurant immediately after Slovakia beat Italy in the last World Cup. The jubilant owner sent shots all around. Under such circumstances, who could refuse? As logical as it is to match your after-dinner drink to the type of food you have eaten, there's no reason not to have a bit of Armagnac or grappa (or slivovitz) after any sort of dinner. So long as our stomachs settle and we're all in a good mood, pour me a little more of something sharp and strong, and let's play a round or two of Exquisite Corpse. () I'm not going anywhere just yet. The Top 5 Worst Dinner Parties Ever Recorded on Film (A Subjective List) ""Celebration"" (1998): A dreadful Danish patriarch's 60th birthday explodes when his son delivers the least flattering toast of all time. ""The Exterminating Angel"" (1962): Luis Buñuel's scathingly funny satire of Mexico's dinner-party class. ""Rope"" (1948): In Hitchcock's hands, no feast is complete without a corpse. ""High Hopes"" (1988): The discomfort-master Mike Leigh conducts an unhappy dinner for the mum of a Marxist and suburban striver. ""Guess Who's Coming to Dinner"" (1967): Still the granddaddy of the dinner-party genre. Exquisite Corpse Rules: There are many variations of this game; this is most like a progenitor of Mad Libs. The leader of the game asks the following questions, and guests write down the answers, then fold their papers to conceal their responses and pass them to the person to their right. Then repeat. Write down the name of a man with whom we are familiar (famous, fictional or otherwise). Write down the name of a woman (ditto). Write down a place. What was he wearing? What was she wearing? What did he say to her? What did she say to him? Write one sentence in conclusion. When all have been answered, pass the paper to the person next to you once more. Then everyone reads their ""stories"" aloud like so: _______ met _______ at _______. He was wearing _______. She was wearing _______. The end.