It began, like so many things, with stories about my grandfather.

It goes that as his children (my father and aunt) were starving to break the fast on Yom Kippur, they'd peer out the apartment window, waiting to spot him walking back from synagogue. He'd take his sweet time, pull off his coat and hat, open a rarely used cabinet, blow the dust off an old bottle, take a sip of something, make a face, then announce that everyone could eat.

That old bottle contained a liquid known as Slivovitz, which is pronounced differently all over Central and Eastern Europe, but in my family we call it "Shleeve-O-Wits." I'm not saying we pronounced it correctly, and frankly, when we refer to it at all, we usually call it "that rocket fuel."

Slivovitz is a type of high-proof plum brandy that was popular with Jewish grandfathers because it's not only kosher, but since it contains no grain, it's also kosher-for-Passover (which is, like, extra kosher.) The only mention of it in any American movie I can think of is in Barry Levinson's Avalon, where they are reminiscing about the long-deceased family patriarch. Now, Slivovitz is, at first taste, absolutely repulsive, but it is a window into a galaxy of exciting, robust liquors that don't get much play in the United States. Luckily I'm here to help you sort it out, because it can get confusing.

We can broadly categorize Slivovitz and the other strange spirits I'm about to offer up as fruit brandies, but don't let that connote anything sweet or syrupy. In Germany, the catch-all term is Schnapps, which, again, may suggest an ultra-sugary dessert you sip over a game of bridge. The French call it Eau-de-Vie, which means "water of life," but don't confuse it with Scandinavian Aquavit or Irish tub whiskey. In Balkan countries they call it Rakia, which is easily confused with the anise-based Turkish drink Raki, and the Hungarians call it Pálinka. It's really just a distilled, fermented fruit beverage with an alcoholic punch that could knock a Cossack off his horse. They're almost always 80 proof or more, but the fruit flavoring isn't there to mask the alcohol. It adds a taste sensation that's all about being bright and present and opening your eyes real wide and making you say "whooooaaaaaaaaaa!" before you pass the bottle to your friend to dare him to take as big of a sip.

Have we got all that? Okay! Now, friends of mine know I've been tasting and collecting Central European fruit brandies for years—to the point that few can escape my home without me shoving a shot of something exotically, gloriously putrid in their face. It's not like you have to take a test of strength to darken my doorstep – it's that there's an easily conjured conviviality, not to mention earned respect, in quaffing something so potent and unique. There's a little bit of pleasure in pain, especially if you can share it with pals. Here's what you are likely to taste if you ever come by:

The most common Slivovitz hails from Serbia, but I brought back a bottle from Budapest for my home. The opaque ceramic container makes it look like something friendly, but inside there lurks the liquid of a demon. The clear potion inside has a whiff of plum and instantly transports you to impoverished villages from days of yore. My ancestors suffered, and now you must, too. Trust me, you'll get used to it and even kinda like it.

Hungarian Pálinka comes in all sorts of flavors, but I prefer the apricot flavor, Barack, and not just because I'm loyal to our President. (It's actually pronounced BAH-rahstk in Magyar... Magyar is the Hungarian word for Hungarian.) The hint of sour apricot adds a spiky, tangy spin compared to the resting heat of the sweet plum of Slivovitz. If you are lucky you can find a bottle decorated with some shriveled up apricot slivers floating around, like a jam-ready Mezcal worm.

Let me introduce what might be my all-time favorite fruit brandy. In the southern regions of France, like Provence and the place where that girl wandered around and froze in Agnes Varda's movie Vagabond, you can get a high-proof pear-based liquor known as Poire William. (The William pear is the same as what we call a Bartlett pear.) Now, they serve this in some of the Western regions of Germany, too, but the French take the design level to near Rococo-levels. They wrap the bottles around budding pear trees, so the fruit can grow into the vessel. Then they pour the fermented spirit into these bottles. It makes for an outstanding bit of furniture art—that is if you can find any. You can get Poire William without the whole fruit all over France, but I once spent the better part of an afternoon wandering around Cannes (a fancy town!) and every liquor store showed me the door. I did, however, end up spending a lot of Euros on a Framboise (raspberry) eau-de-vie that was so strong it almost made my eyes bleed. I also got a "fruits de la Forêt" which had a lovely label, but I confess that my palate was not quite refined enough to distinguish the blueberry and blackberry from the pure scorching alcohol.

But here's a funny story. After ringing every fancy pants shop in Manhattan I still couldn't find one of these nifty fruit-in-bottle Poire Williams. I was this close to dropping a serious amount of cash to order one online before reason kicked in. Then one day I was in the Italian section of the Bronx (Arthur Avenue) and was marveling at just how many Limoncellos they had. (We're not going to talk about Limoncello today–that stuff, while tasty, is for old ladies.) I was yapping with the owner about Poire William and, voila, for fifty bucks I had a bottle.

That bobbing pear looked real cute, but whenever friends dared take a sip they ended up having to take a cab home.

The Czechs have a pear liquor, too, called Kruskovac, but it's got a lot of sweetness added, and a lower alcohol percentage. Despite being only 56 proof, none of these fruit brandies have ever made me sicker than Kruskovac.

I've got some other neat stuff on my shelf right now–Serbian Quince Brandy (Dunja) that's bold, sour and not that gross, and an Albanian Grape Brandy that should probably be used as an industrial strength floor wax. (Grape Brandy is not to be confused with Italian Grappa, which is based from the pomace and not the fruit.) But before I close I want to offer you your gateway to this wild world of European fruit brandies.

Let's raft over to Croatia's Dalmatian Coast. The town of Zadar on the Adriatic (not far from where they film Game of Thrones!) is where you are most likely to find cultivation of the Marasca Cherry—a rich, sour cherry that is used to make Maraschino. No, not those candied maraschino cherries you get atop a sundae—but that is where the name comes from.

Maraschino is a delicious but deadly clear, sweet, sticky liquor that is really fun to bring out at parties. At 64 proof it can still do some damage, but is so tasty that revelers can sometimes get too cocky around it.

Also from Zadar, and bringing us back to kosher drinks, is Wishniak. My grandparents called it "Vish-Nick," but if you want to pronounce it another way I'm not going to stop you. If you grew up in or around Philly you may call all black cherry sodas Wishniak. (You also probably call subs "hoagies," so you've got a lot of problems.) Anyway, black cherry is what it is—a dark, Robitussin-like libation that, at 62 proof, doesn't burn at all going down, and can therefore cause untold destruction. I've brought out bottles of this stuff and offered warnings, yet folks still start carelessly tossing this back. Then they end up sleeping on my kitchen floor.

So be careful around the Croatian cherries, friends. The other stuff is upfront with its fortitude (most Serbian Slivovitz is 90 proof minimum) but be adventurous in your travels. If you find something fruity that also has a distinct aftertaste of paint thinner, please invite me over.

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