THE RUSSIAN BANYA , or bath, is basically what we in the States know (thanks to the Finns) as a sauna: a cedar-paneled room with a pile of heated rocks in one corner onto which one pours cool water to create superheated steam. According to Russian tradition, one relaxes in the banya while being intermittently flayed with switches of birch or juniper to assist in the "cleansing" (Russians are hardcore) and periodically ducks out of the sauna into a small antechamber to cool off and enjoy ... that's right ... cold beer. Essentially the Russians re-created the climate of the equatorial regions and crafted purpose-made beers to help quench their thirst, much as the cool water briefly tames the heat of the banya's baking stones.

To test my hypothesis I needed to drink beer in a banya. A quick stop at European Food Wholesale (3038 Clement, S.F. 415-750-0504) allowed me to assemble a formidable sampler of Russian and Eastern European beers; these are available by the bottle (usually 16.9 oz.) for about two bucks each. To enhance the experience, I picked up some Siberian hot mustard, a hunk of Hungarian karaj (smoked, cured, and dried pork loin), and an unsliced loaf of Nicholas II dark bread for snacking. Serendipitously enough, European Food happens to be a few short blocks away from the apparently unnamed Bath House and Healthy Sauna (2308 Clement, S.F. 415-386-6011), a recently opened banya. Two business cards tout their services, one in English advertising the healing properties of traditional sauna and massage and the other in Russian, complete with a graphic of an overflowing beer mug. An hour in a clean, private sauna complete with an adjoining chill-out/changing room with a table and chairs costs $12 per person.

Once in our chill-out room, I and the stalwarts I'd assembled opened the ice-packed cooler to prime ourselves. Dr. Diesel (6.9 percent alcohol by volume) was the first choice. Made in Kaliningrad, a grim industrial town (the Russian equivalent of Gary, Ind.), the beer carries a Cyrillic label, but the black-and-copper gear motif should help you pick it out if you don't have a translator handy. Dry with a hint of alcohol bitterness in the aftertaste, the good Dr. Diesel fueled our fire as we stepped into the heat.

We sprinkled a little water on the rocks, and the room was soon blazing. Within minutes we all began to sweat like circus freaks performing Jazzercise in a sweat lodge. So: back to the chill-out room for the next round (there's usually at least three rotations in a traditional banya session). I selected the Stepan Razin porter (7 percent abv) to fortify us for the next two rounds. Razin was a 16th-century folk hero; he led a band of Cossacks who held up wealthy travelers and raided the stocks of unscrupulous landlords until he was beheaded at the command of Czar Alexis in 1671. The brewery celebrated its 200th anniversary in 1995, and its robust porter, with hints of dark chocolate and black licorice, was a perfect complement to a thin slice of karaj on dark bread slathered in hot mustard. Arrrr. Back to the banja.

Luckily we'd soaked some washcloths in the frigid ice water from the cooler, and we'd taken to wringing them out over our heads to ward off the seeming inevitability of spontaneous combustion. But damn it was hot. I mean really freakin' hot. As I was waiting for my hair to burst into flame, I hazily recalled a cooler stocked with ice-cold beer nearby ...

Zhigulyovskoye ... Zhigulyovskoye ... . Although my compatriots assumed I'd been reduced to speaking gibberish, I was actually calling for Zhigulyovskoye lager (5 percent abv) from Yerevan, Armenia. Ahh ... maybe it was because my core temperature was so elevated I could smelt pig iron on my belly, but the refreshing taste of a frosty, light lager, with its fine bubbles, soothed my very soul. A large brewing consortium recently acquired the Soviet-era favorite, and quality has risen considerably.

I can't say with certainty how long we stayed in the banya that last round. Maybe I never left. However, I seem to recall bursting from the sauna into the chill-out room, a haze of steam erupting from the door like smoke pouring from a van door in a Cheech and Chong flick, and hurriedly pouring myself a couple of glasses of Okocim malt liquor (7.8 percent abv) from Poland. You'd think one would have to be totally brained to try anything described as a Polish malt liquor, but the Okocim brewery has been around since 1845 – they know what they're doing. The soft water they use comes from snowmelt from the Tartra range along the Slovakian border, and they use only locally sourced ingredients. The result is a nice, malt body with a somewhat hoppy aroma that leads to a refreshing finish.

Physicians the world over will warn you against consuming alcohol in saunas, as alcohol is a vasodilator: it lowers blood pressure. If you have any issues with low blood pressure or any heart ailment, enjoy the beer and the sauna separately, if at all. Even if you're in decent health, be wary. Time in the sauna dramatically increases the effects of alcohol. That said, a coupla bottles of Sov-block beer and a sauna make for a cheap (albeit sweaty) date.