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Grogue, Grogu or Grog: The Traditional Cabo Verdean Drink
On the volcanic hills of Santo Antão, one of the Cape Verdean islands, the air carries a distinct sweetness during harvest season. It’s the smell of fresh sugarcane being crushed, the first step in making grogue — a clear, potent spirit that has flowed through the culture of Cape Verde for centuries.
Grogue (pronounced “grog”) is to Cape Verde what cachaça is to Brazil or rum is to Jamaica: a sugarcane spirit deeply woven into the social fabric. But unlike its Caribbean cousins, grogue remains largely unknown outside the ten islands that make up this West African nation. That anonymity may be its greatest asset.
FromCane to Cup
The production of grogue follows a rhythm as old as Cape Verde’s colonial history. Between January and May, farmers harvest sugarcane from terraced plots carved into mountainsides. The cane goes straight to the trapiche — a traditional press powered by oxen walking in endless circles. The extracted juice, called calda, must be fermented within hours or it spoils.
“You can’t wait,” — explains João Delgado, a third-generation distiller from Paul Valley. — “The sugar starts changing the moment you cut the cane. That’s why industrial rum tastes different. They use molasses. We use the living juice.”
Fermentation happens naturally in large wooden vats, relying on wild yeasts present in the environment. After seven to ten days, the fermented wash reaches about 15% alcohol. Then comes distillation in copper alembic stills—often handmade contraptions that look more like museum pieces than functioning equipment.
The first distillation produces a liquid of roughly 20% alcohol. The second pass brings it up to 45-48% — the sweet spot for grogue. Some producers push higher, but traditionalists insist the best grogue hovers just below 50% ABV, preserving the delicate vegetal notes that distinguish it from other cane spirits.
Read also: From Cane to Culture: The Story of Grogue in Cape Verde
A Social Institution
In Cape Verdean society, grogue occupies a space somewhere between sacrament and social lubricant. No significant event — birth, death, marriage, or saint’s day — passes without it. The ritual of sharing grogue can follow some old (unspoken) rules: the host pours, guests accept, with both hands, and everyone drinks from the same glass, wiped clean between rounds.
“It’s about trust,” — says Maria Santos, a cultural anthropologist at the University of Cape Verde. — “When you share grogue, you’re saying we’re all the same here. Rich, poor, young, old—the glass doesn’t discriminate.”
This egalitarian spirit extends to the production side. While a few larger operations exist, most grogue comes from small family producers who make just enough for their community plus a little extra to sell. The government has tried various schemes to formalise and regulate the industry, with mixed results. Many producers operate in a grey zone—technically illegal but culturally essential.
The Pontche Revolution
Traditional grogue consumption was straightforward: neat, at room temperature, no chaser. But younger Cape Verdeans have embraced pontche (punch), mixing grogue with everything from honey and lime to passion fruit and condensed milk. These cocktails — often prepared in large batches for parties — have made grogue more approachable for those who find the straight spirit too harsh.
The most famous is pontche de mel — grogue mixed with honey, lime, and sometimes cloves or cinnamon. Each family guards its recipe, and debates about proportions can stretch late into the night. Some add tamarind, others swear by a touch of coffee. There are plenty of variations, but the base of the drink always remains the same.
Challenges and Change
Climate change poses an existential threat to grogue production. Cape Verde’s chronic water scarcity has worsened in recent years, and sugarcane is a thirsty crop. Some farmers have abandoned cane for more drought-resistant alternatives. Others have invested in drip irrigation, but the costs strain small producers.
There’s also competition from imported spirits. Whisky and vodka, once luxury items, now fill supermarket shelves in Praia and Mindelo. Young urban Cape Verdeans sometimes view grogue as old-fashioned, associated with rural life and their grandparents’ generation.
Yet grogue persists. During the COVID-19 pandemic, when international supply chains faltered, local production increased. Cape Verdeans abroad — the diaspora outnumbers the islands’ population two to one — pay premium prices for bottles smuggled in luggage. It tastes like home, they say, in a way nothing else can.
Looking Forward
A new generation of producers is working to elevate grogue’s status. They’re experimenting with aged versions, by resting the spirit in old port wine barrels imported from Portugal. Some are pursuing organic certification, highlighting traditional farming methods that never used chemicals in the first place. A few ambitious entrepreneurs talk of creating a protected designation of origin, similar to cognac or tequila.
Whether these efforts succeed may be beside the point. Grogue’s value lies not in international recognition but in its role as a connector between people, between islands, between past and present. In a globalised world where distinctive local products face constant pressure to conform or disappear, grogue remains stubbornly, essentially Cape Verdean.
“You want to understand Cape Verde?” — an elderly farmer in Santo Antão once told me, pouring another measure of crystal-clear grogue. — “First, you drink.”
The glass was passed. The ritual continued. Some things are worth preserving exactly as they are.
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