Hiroyasu Kayama has a packed agenda. Japan’s Greatest Bartender’s pinned post on Instagram is a hand-drawn calendar indicating closed dates for his universally toasted Bar Ben Fiddich in Tokyo. Kayama, whose ASMR cocktail videos draw millions of views on YouTube, is in India taking over Panjim’s tony establishments – and learning more about distilling Goa’s most loved cashew drink. Not feni, but urrak.
Urrak or urraca – but never arrack – is an ephemeral spirit. It’s the first distillate that emerges when fermenting cashew apples before they become the more potent and pungent feni. Just like the fabled Hapus mango, urrak’s seasonality is what makes it so special. This cloudy elixir, with an alcohol by volume (ABV) between 13-15 per cent, is available for fleeting 15-odd scorching weeks between March and May. It’s when cashews ripen naturally under the sun.
Unlike its stronger sibling, urrak carries the fresh, fruity essence of cashew without the assertive funk that makes feni an acquired taste. Its delicate profile – with a subtle warmth – makes it the perfect companion for Goa’s humid summer evenings. People will tell you that you can preserve urrak in glass bottles that can be refrigerated and consumed throughout the year, but according to purists, that is a fundamental misunderstanding of urrak’s temporal nature. The attempt to extend urrak beyond its natural lifespan is a failure to grasp the essence of what makes it precious.
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Credit: Hideaway, Goa
The chilli debate
Like so many other things in Goa, what was once a cherished local tradition has found itself catapulted into the spotlight. Travel vloggers and “foodies” alike can’t get enough of urrak, and the ritual surrounding the drink. The Great Pandemic Migration that brought city folk to Goa’s shores resulted in a new audience hungry for the “authentic” and the “local”.
Urrak, just like the state’s monsoon, emerged as the perfect discovery. In sped-up Reels and YouTube Shorts, you see influencers pouring fresh urrak from reused plastic water bottles, mixing it with soda and Limca, and garnishing it with salt. For the final dramatic flourish, a slit green chilli is rimmed around the glass, and planted into the drink. When you take a sip, the chilli is what shoots up your nasal passageways first, rendering a bit of a kick to an otherwise mild drink.
As urrak has found a wider audience, it has also come to represent a point of contention. Some Goans insist that the chilli is a recent addition, an influence of tourists over yet another aspect of the state’s cultural life. On the other hand are those who experiment with the beverage, embracing the small evolutions as part of the spirit’s living heritage. For almost all Goans, though, urrak represents belonging, a sensory anchor to place and memory.
Sheldon Abranches, partner at the modish Hideaway and Juna, Goa’s coveted bars, told me that a sense of community pervades the urrak experience. Friends arrive at a party with their prized batches, each slightly different, of secret provenance. “It brought everyone together,” he said. For the last couple of years, Abranches and his partners have been hosting bar takeovers, where they invite bartenders and chefs from around the country to experiment with urrak. This year’s theme is The Big Fat Urrak Party.
These aren’t your run-of-the-mill infusions – Hideaway once had a clarified urrack cocktail named Biryani, which combined caramelised onions, spices, and rice. Another from this year is inspired by mango sticky rice. Naturally, these experiments leave the “No Green Chilli” camp clutching their pearls. “It has polarised people,” Abranches admitted. “But the whole idea is to expose urrak to another set of people. Our hope is that once they try an urrak cocktail, they will be inspired to drink it the traditional way.”
But how can you know what the traditional way to drink urrak is, when there’s barely any consensus on urrak itself? There are variations in the beverage found in North, East, and South Goa. According to Abranches, Northern urrak tends to be fruity and approachable, while Southern variants embrace a drier, more traditional character. This variation defies standardisation – which also explains urrak’s conspicuous absence from Goa’s Excise Act.
“Everyone talks about urraca, everyone drinks urraca, everyone loves urraca, and there are some that even dream of urraca. But in fact, urraca is actually a veritable ghost spirit,” said Hansel Vaz, founder of Cazulo Premium Feni. This spectral quality, existing everywhere yet officially nowhere, has protected (prevented?) urrak from the homogenising forces of mass production. Vaz told me this has forbidden entrepreneurs from packaging, bottling and distributing urrak commercially. “I realised our Portuguese-Goan ancestors understood something very critical,” he said. “The mere mention of urraca in the law books would intend that urraca as a term would have to be defined, and thus to be regulated.”
Defining urraca is complicated; its flavour profile, strength, and character not only change across distilleries and vary across the geography of Goa, but also change with time from the day of distillation. “You would be silly to stick your neck out to create a definition with so many variables. And so it is simply a drink that has to be the first distillate from cashew juice.”
Vaz considers urraca a “recruitment drink” – a gateway spirit accessible even to those who might be intimidated to taste a cashew feni. Its lower alcohol content allows for it to be consumed “sessionably”, and outside of fancy bars, it remains defiantly affordable.
Credit: Hideaway, Goa
Also read: It’s not idli-sambar, Goa’s real food crisis is tradition losing out to Instagram Reels
Goa to Tokyo
Beyond the traditional preparation, lies a landscape of careful innovation. O’mio Gelateria, an ice cream shop in Goa, introduces a limited-period urrak sorbet every year. Vaz is now experimenting with “magic leaves” – allspice garnishes that create an entry point for Western palates without the heat of chilli. “Because after the trilogy ritual of Limca, salt, chilli, what next? We have got to keep the audience engaged with evolved flavours,” he said. These explorations are yet another step in a process that has sustained urrak through generations: an understanding that cultural practices must breathe to remain alive.
Vaz has been taking Kayama (and other acclaimed Japanese bartenders) to distilleries, introducing them to the culture of urrak and feni. Kayama’s interest in the drink is a recognition that certain traditions carry weight in their resistance to standardisation. As he prepares to introduce urrak to his patrons in Tokyo this April, Kayama will be a participant in a centuries-old conversation.
And in urrak’s journey from Goan tavernas to Tokyo’s elite bars, a truly local symbol gradually becomes universal – not through mass production, but by remaining exactly what it is and has always been.
This article is part of the Goa Life series, which explores the new and the old of Goan culture.
Karanjeet Kaur is a journalist, former editor of Arré, and a partner at TWO Design. She tweets @Kaju_Katri. Views are personal.
(Edited by Ratan Priya)
AloJapan.com