The fine points of feni

They hate it for its strong smell. Others bemoan its weird taste. The true-blue Goans, who drink it with the respect it deserves, dismiss these claims as superficial. “What do they know about pure alcohol? Amateurs,” they will exclaim, watching yet another tourist turn their nose up at the state’s beloved feni. Given that they are nursing their eighth (neat) peg, with some fried xinanio (mussels) or pomfret rechiado for company, and can still stand straight, it is saying a lot. I tend to agree.

In our childhood, feni was given to us only when we were sick. Despite a dash of sugar added to it, one whiff was enough to clear out blocked nostrils; the heat of the liquor a balm for hoarse throats. The ‘serving feni to the sick child’ was quite a ritual — the bottle lovingly brought out of the dark cupboard, small glasses placed on the table, the child seated in front, my grandmother carefully pouring out the right amount, the addition of the sugar and finally, the spectacle of watching the child gulp it down in one shot. Having been the child at the receiving end, I must tell you, it was quite a treat.

My love for the cashew feni is largely based on two things — watching the entire process of making it and drinking neero (the first juice removed from the cashew).

My grandmother’s place is on a small hill in the small village of Camurlim in north Goa. As children, a yearly treat for us would be being taken to Shyam’s cashew farm to watch the process of making feni. Before starting out we had the instructions, keep in line, use the stick at all times to climb and don’t touch or taste anything without asking. The climb for our young limbs was very steep, and the rough sticks we carried were able tools. Once atop, we were able to see the whole village and the ones yonder. The entire hill top was full of cashew trees, hanging low with just ripened and semi-ripened fruit. If we reached before the plucking of the cashew fruit, we were allowed to help the men — picking the low-hanging fruit and separating the cashew seeds. 

Men were busy at work at the various stations: the big stone basin where the cashew was stamped and crushed to remove their juice. The cashew is crushed by foot and made into a large colourful cake, this was then placed under huge boulders and tied with a rope. The basin had a small corner where the first round of juices was collected and filled in bottles or basins. This was neero, and if lucky, we were given to drink it fresh. Sitting on a low-hanging branch of a cashew tree, with the whole village spread out in front of us, and sipping neero was an experience unmatched. 

Neero is pure, unadulterated cashew juice, nice and wholesome with a slightly bitter aftertaste. It is strong, it hits your nose and then went down your throat in one smooth swallow. If Shyam was in a good mood, and if we behaved, we were allowed to take bottles of neero back home. It had to be drunk within a day, else it would ferment or turn rancid.

This neero is collected in a large earthen pot, buried in the ground and left to ferment for several days, before being sent for distillation. The first distillation produces urrak, then Cazulo (not so popular) and finally feni.

I’ve heard it is one of the strongest liquors around and gives a nice buzz, which depending on your capacity, can be quite instant. Most feni-haters don’t get why Goans go gaga over this intoxicating drink. To me, it has more to do with nostalgia and the fact that it is distilled in their own backyard.