Bisk-ah!

All about my favorite Istrian brandy

The perfect ending to a meal: that’s biska on the right and travarica on the left.

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I’m not much for cocktails. That’s because most spirits don’t agree with me. Gin makes me throw up (I’m allergic to juniper), vodka gives me instant headaches, and rum, well, that just never ends well. Tequila is the only hard alcohol my body can tolerate.

Make that tequila and rakija. This traditional fruit brandy—synonymous with the Balkans—comes in all sorts of flavors. You’ll find plum, pear, honey, apple, herb, apricot, walnut, cherry, and fig, to name a few popular varieties.

I’ll admit, I was slow to embrace it. My first taste was the classic plum or šljivovica. From the first sip, I knew it was strong. I have since learned that rakija can be 30% to 50% alcohol by volume. To put that in perspective, wine ranges from 5% to 23%. I suspect homemade varieties, of which there are many, have a stronger alcohol content than the commercial ones. Either way, it’s the kind of drink you sip slowly. Usually from a small fluted shot glass.

By way of introduction, my husband said most people drink it to either open the appetite (as an aperitiv) or to assist digestion (as a digestiv). My first inkling of its cultural significance, however, came when we were shopping for a carpenter to build the windows and doors for our stone house. 

After touring the carpenter’s workshop and discussing the project, we were asked to come inside to have some of his wife’s biska. As an American, I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like if we decided to share a shot at 10:30 in the morning with the window-and-door salesperson at Home Depot. 

But that’s the custom here. When arranging business, you sit together and share a drink to nurture your relationship or seal the deal. So yes, I had a shot of biska early that morning. I was immediately hooked on this esteemed Istrian spirit.

Biska, I hardly knew ya

When I learned that biska is made from mistletoe, my first thought was, “Isn’t that poisonous?” Turns out, not when you drink it like this. I’ve been told that it’s made with only the leaves—which grow parasitically on apple trees—not the berries. But I think fermentation may magically remove the ingredient that upsets people’s stomachs. (Google tells me that if you consume mistletoe raw, you will feel awful but you won’t die.)

While there are plenty of distilleries nearby, many people make their own biska by adding mistletoe leaves and perhaps some herbs to what’s called loza—the grape remains leftover from making wine. It’s basically grappa, I think. You can get it from local wine producers and some stores.

I can’t remember if the carpenter’s wife, who sold her homemade drink in clear glass bottles with a pretty label, was officially an OPG (a family-run agricultural business), but we did go back to buy some from her.

Now that we are living in our house, we continue to get our biska from local producers, either a closer OPG or the host of the rental we stayed in before our house was ready. Just recently, we also received some from our neighbors. We were out for a walk and they invited us over for a drink. I think the conversation turned to how much I love biska, and they gave us some from their own stash. I’d show you a picture so you could appreciate its golden amber color but it’s already gone.

Other Istrian brandies

When you’re finishing your meal at a konoba, it’s almost a given that you’ll be offered a shot of rakija on the house. In addition to the ever-present biska, you’ll most likely find teranino or travarica. 

Teranino, which is dark red because it’s made from the Teran variety of grape, is the sweeter of the two, and may include warm spices like cinnamon, clove, or star anise. Travarica is infused with different combinations of herbs like fennel, rosemary, lemon balm, myrtle, thyme, marjoram, or wormwood. It’s more popular towards the coast.

Neither my husband nor I ever choose the teranino. To me, it tastes a bit like cherry cough syrup. I will say it’s greatly improved when served cold. The travarica is nice and spicy, though it can’t hold a candle to my beloved biska. Less commonly, you’ll also find my husband’s favorite, erba, which is flavored with lemon verbena leaves.

The first time I was offered schnapps, I was confused. Isn’t that a different drink? Because so many German tourists come here, I think the locals just use the German word for brandy. Just know that when someone asks you to stop by for a coffee or a schnapps, they mean rakija.

In Buzet, there’s an agricultural store that sells everything you need to become a local producer, including all sorts of bottles for storing wine, olive oil, and rakija. But it’s also common to reuse bottles for storing your homemade adult beverages, which is why I tell people to never trust the bottle labels. I once thought I was helping myself to a low-alcohol medica—it’s sweet and made from honey—and it turned out to be a super-strong grappa. So always check, sniff, or ask before you pour. 

A glass of my husband’s homemade orah rakija in a traditional shot glass, which we bought at the local agricultural store.

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My husband recently decided to try making walnut (orah) rakija. To some loza, he added lemon slices, orange slices, and some whole walnuts still in their green shells. He let it sit in the sun for several weeks before adding brown sugar and distilled water. It turned out great.

He even bought a special measurement tool to figure out the alcohol content, though I don’t think he bothered in the end. In any case, we’re both hoping to learn how to gather some mistletoe leaves next year and make our own biska. What will I do in the U.S. without it?