Medronho production

The following account is extracted from “Medronho: Elixir of the Algarve,” a feature published in Algarve Magazine (June 1988), text by Len Port with photographs by Nuno Campos. It’s reproduced here for its first-hand description of traditional medronho-making — and because the story is closer to home than it first appears: the stillhouse in the photographs is the Quinta’s own adega, and the man distilling is still known locally. In those days, the Quinta is said to have produced over 300 litres of medronho a year. Photos of the original magazine pages are in the gallery below.

Elixir of the Algarve

You know what they say about Turkish brandy and Bangkok whisky? Well, they say the same thing about Algarvean medronho. It’s a quick way to oblivion. Let’s face it, so is Veuve du Vernay or Bollinger if you go about it the right way. But the people who patronisingly dismiss medronho as if it were Polish bimber or Tunisian bouka or some other equally vile brain-boggling firewater don’t as a rule know what they’re on about…

Medronho, the most characteristic of Algarve alcoholic drinks, is an aguardente liquor distilled from fermented arbutus berries. It is roughly akin to French kirsch and German kirschwasser, and could be likened to — if not confused with — Scandinavian schnapps, Mexican tequila and Irish potheen. In other words, it is a drop of the hard stuff consumed neat, straight down the hatch, to fairly swift effect.

You will see neatly-labelled, commercially-produced bottles of medronho on sale at around 500 escudos in your nearest supermarket. All bars in the tourist areas stock one or more brands. But quite frankly this is not real medronho at all. It is no more real than processed tin peas, plastic flowers or cellophane-wrapped sliced bread. So where does one find the real stuff?

The trail in search of genuine, home-made moonshine in the Algarve inevitably leads up the long and winding road towards Monchique. The undulating Serra de Monchique range is where it is quietly made from January to May. Thin columns of smoke from dilapidated cottages tucked away in the folds of the hills are a telltale sign that distilling activity is underway.

A stroke of good luck in the form of a chance meeting, as well as fortuitous timing, enticed your intrepid photographer and reporter away from the straight and narrow — indeed, eventually away from the long and winding Portimão-Monchique road, to a point where the tarmac ran out above a deep and verdant valley. Our guide led us down a steep goat-track through pine groves and thickets of rock roses interspersed with arbutus bushes, otherwise known as strawberry trees. There was no immediate sign of habitation or human activity, just the extravagant fragrance of wild flowers and the rich song of nightingales permeating the whole hillside. It was a scene of perfect spring harmony and tranquillity bathed in warm sunshine. The rock roses were beginning to bloom. Soon the countryside would be awash with their pale hue; it would be October before the evergreen arbutus bushes burst into colour and appeared resplendent with their vivid red fruit.

In October and November the berries are collected for the following year’s medronho. Since the fruit is picked only when perfectly ripe, each bush may have to be visited several times. As the bushes grow uncultivated, often on steep and stony ground, the initial step in the medronho-making process is a physical slog. Speaking of slogs, walking down the long and winding goat-track was not too difficult, but it did not go unnoticed that it might be more difficult getting back up it.

At the foot of the hill next to a stream was what appeared to be a very old, rundown cottage. We approached, much photo-laden like Sherpas, with much photographic paraphernalia. Our guide stopped us short while he went ahead to assure the headman that our visit was entirely harmless. As we waited, lurking behind a particularly fine specimen of an arbutus bush, there was perhaps just a twinge of trepidation that butting in uninvited on mountain men making hard hooch might not be without hazard. As it was, the only hazard was the warm hospitality and pressing generosity of our hosts. From our early afternoon arrival to long after the sun dipped below the hilltops, they continually plied us with information about the finer points of home distillation. They also continually plied us with the product itself.

The cottage, now a stillhouse, had ancient walls of clay and stone, and a steeply sloping roof with gigantic cobwebs spanning roughly-hewn rafters supporting ill-fitting tiles through which slits of sky could be seen. Not much other light penetrated the interior gloom. One corner of the single room contained the vats where the berries are allowed to ferment. One of the vats, the old-fashioned kind, was a huge wooden cask. The other two, well over two metres tall with rickety ladders leaning against them, were made of concrete. Diagonally opposite was the most important item of all, a big copper still. Logs were burning slowly beneath it. A steady trickle was flowing from a pipe at the other end of the apparatus into an earthenware jug.

The three men conducting operations were happy to explain the process in detail from start to finish, but first the offer of a sample drink was, of course, impossible to refuse. When a large swig of full-strength medronho first hits the back of the palate, it does not invite a Mmmmmnnnnnnn response. Instead, the muscles of the throat involuntarily contract and there is no way of suppressing a desperate gasp followed, when you’ve caught your breath, by a couple of profane words of wonderment. This enormously amused the three men who had been slowly sipping while keeping their eye on the slow-burning logs and the slow trickle all morning. They were already on their fourth bottle.

If the arbutus berries are ripe and juicy when they are first dumped into the vats, fermentation starts spontaneously, explained the senior man, absolutely insisting we all had another round. If the fruit is too dry, water is added. For the first fortnight or so thereafter, the berries bubble and froth themselves into a mushy mess. The must, as it is called, is then covered and kept airtight with a sheet of plastic. A careful eye and nose is kept on the must to ensure it remains moist and sweet over the next two to four months or so. If, heaven forbid, the must starts ponging of vinegar at any stage, the men must immediately leap into action and get the still fired up before all is lost. Otherwise, after two to four months the must is transferred without panic to the pre-heated still at the rate of 12 to 14 bucketfuls at a time.

As anyone who has had several medronhos and is still capable of climbing down a rickety ladder after peering into a vat containing the last of the season’s must will undoubtedly know, the boiling point of alcohol is 78.3 degrees centigrade, while the boiling point of water is 100 degrees centigrade. Therein lies the secret of a process pioneered by the Chinese at least 3,000 years ago, and more or less perfected since then by every tribe on earth. The heated alcohol in the must vaporises and thus separates from the water. It rises and is condensed in a pipe running through a tub of coolant water. So at one end you have a weak alcoholic liquid; at the other you have a strong one. Success depends largely on temperature control achieved, in the case of medronho-makers, by the judicious nudging of a log this way or that.

When you know what you are doing, the liquid trickling into the jug at the end is of a desired, specific strength. Experts can fairly accurately gauge the strength merely by shaking a glassful of medronho and observing the bubbles that form on the surface. Large, long-lasting bubbles are the hallmark of quality. Needless to say, this fascinating piece of information was immediately followed by a topping up all round, and much experimental shaking which in some cases resulted in a good deal of spillage, which prompted further topping up.

At a rough estimate, about 90 per cent of medronho-makers take a week or so off their normal work each year to produce enough for themselves and their friends, with some left over for unobtrusive sale. Medronho-makers, of course, usually have quite a lot of friends. Many kept dropping in all afternoon where we were.

If you are not a friend, all you will need is an inquisitive nature, six or seven hundred escudos and an empty, family-size Coke bottle to obtain a litre of good quality medronho in or around Monchique. A litre of much rarer medronho which has been matured for a year in an oak cask will cost four or five hundred escudos extra.

Gin can bring on depression, and whisky sometimes stimulates aggression; but according to those who regularly imbibe medronho, it is a happy drink. Furthermore, they say, there is no morning-after hangover. That, as far as I can remember, was the final piece of information imparted by our hosts before we bade them farewell and floated back up the hill.

Some days later, the no-hangover claim was conditionally confirmed by no less an authority than a French medical doctor who has lived in Monchique for many years and owns an immaculate watering hole called Barlefante. No serious harm is likely to come to one’s head, provided medronho is not mixed with any other beverage, opined Dr Jean Serran.

Forestry workers and farmers in the Serra de Monchique have medronho with coffee for breakfast. They make a toddy out of medronho, honey and hot water to stave off colds. The Barlefante offers a delicious medronho cocktail with liquidised melon and crushed ice. But, says the Doctor, beware of the thoroughly Portuguese potion which combines equal portions of medronho and port wine. The Portuguese call this cocktail an Arrasa Miúdas. In English it is a “Brain Dissolver.” Apparently it is a very tasty drink, but two of them is at least one too many.

— Text by Len Port. Photographs by Nuno Campos. Algarve Magazine, June 1988.