Cervecería Feroz—Ferocious Brewery—is located on a former U.S. military base in the Panama Canal Zone, a swath of land that straddles the waterway for five miles on either side. Fort Clayton, as the base used to be called, was turned over to the Republic of Panama in 1999, almost a century after the establishment of the U.S.-controlled canal zone, and a decade after the U.S. invasion. It was later renamed Ciudad del Saber, or the City of Knowledge, and is now home to nonprofits, NGOs, and—ironically—the Peace Corps.
As the location for a craft brewery, it’s not exactly typical. But as an emblem, it encapsulates Panama’s history, complexity, and contradictions.
As I enter and remove my sunglasses, wiping the sweat from my brow, head brewer Antonio Gonzalez takes one look at me and offers the relief that I so desperately need—a cold, crispy Lager. His beers are brewed for the tropical heat. I savor every mouthful, catching my breath between gulps.
Unfortunately for me, Feroz wasn’t around when I first moved to Panama City as a Peace Corps volunteer in 2017. Maybe it was better not to have had the temptation of a craft brewery next door to the office. During that time, I began to ask questions about how we define culture, and to learn more about my new home. Years later, my search for answers—and my thirst for beer—has led me right back to where I started: the City of Knowledge.
Panama is a beer-drinking country. According to the Kirin Holdings 2019 report on per capita beer consumption by country, Panama ranked 21st in the world, with a rate of 78.15 liters of beer per person per year. That makes it the only country in Central America and the Caribbean, and one of only three Latin American countries, to crack the top 30, with Mexico at 23rd and Brazil at 29th.
The market is dominated by local subsidiaries of Anheuser-Busch InBev and Heineken: Panamá, Balboa, and Atlas. The climate is ideal for these one-note beers; here, beer is first and foremost an escape from the unrelenting heat and the oppressive humidity. However, since Panama’s first craft brewery, Istmo Brew Pub, opened in 2005, a small revolution has been brewing in the country’s beer industry.
Craft beer—like music or art—is a medium that both expresses and embraces culture. However, Panama’s complex history and multifaceted identity do not fit easily into a can. Panamanian society is heavily influenced by the United States, and Panama City is still divided by the line that once separated it from the Canal Zone. Americans often forget that the U.S. occupied parts of this country for almost a century, and then invaded the rest of it in 1989. As Panama recovers from this trauma, it continues to change and evolve.
The beer industry in Panama is evolving, too. Over the last decade, brewers have fine-tuned their skills and defined their perspectives. These days, the local craft beer scene has taken on a distinct personality, and is beginning to draw international attention. When Panama sent nine beers to the World Beer Cup in 2018, Casa Bruja Brewing Co.’s Gose Frambuesa took home a silver medal. That technically gave Panama the best win rate—11%—of any country in the competition. Breweries like Casa Bruja, as well as Cervecería Legítima and Cervecería Feroz, are spearheading that movement—and, through consistency and creativity, defining what it means to brew a Panamanian craft beer.
In an industrial park across town, there is another brewery that tells a different chapter of Panamanian history. On one side lies Panamá Viejo, the ruins of the first Spanish settlement on the Pacific Ocean, which was sacked by Captain Morgan in 1671. On the other side stand the skyscrapers of Costa del Este, a planned city built perilously on top of a mangrove forest in 2000, and whose fate is threatened by rising sea levels. And in the middle sits Casa Bruja—the Witch House—one of Panama’s first microbreweries.
“Our business was very different,” Jonathan Pragnell, owner of Casa Bruja, says, reminiscing about the opening of the brewery in 2013. “We were the first packaging brewery—so we were the first to package and distribute.”
This business plan was distinct from the upstart’s main competitor at the time, La Rana Dorada—The Golden Frog—which focused on a brewpub model of multiple locations and cozy bars. “Back in those days, you had a very clear definition of what was a microbrewery and what was a brewpub,” Pragnell explains. This distinction was the key to Casa Bruja’s success, and in distinguishing it from competition. Fortunately for Casa Bruja, the pendulum of beer culture has swung back towards what Pragnell describes as the “sensorial experience” of a U.S.-inspired taproom.
Pragnell pours me a half-pint of my personal favorite, the Chivo Perro IPA, although I’m not sure that eight ounces will be enough. Casa Bruja distributes all over the country and—no matter where you are—when you crack open a bottle of Chivo Perro, you get the same refreshing blast of hops (its dry-hopping makes it unique, here); the same medium-bodied mouthfeel; and the same intoxicating, caramel aftertaste. When poured on draft, its haziness is recognizable from across the bar, though its flavor is more suggestive of a West Coast IPA. It is consistent in its quality, and the fact that it is free of faults, though its mingled character hints at the distinctive way that international beer trends and styles have been inherited and remixed by Panama’s breweries.
“We already have such a good base to build on,” he says. “If you have good processes, and good SOPs [standard operating procedures] ... And you, again, are consistent in your process, your beer will almost always turn out great.”
When asked about what gives Panamanian craft beers their unique identity, Pragnell scratches his beard. “Well it’s hard to define,” he says, “because obviously we are replicating styles.” Today, most professional brewers in Panama were trained abroad. Pragnell, who hails from Panama City, studied engineering in the U.S. at Purdue University before working at BrewDog in Scotland for two years. “As far as flavor profiles and stuff? We tend to do softer things. But now, in the States, breweries are doing softer things, lighter things.”
He has dedicated significant time and energy to his award-winning Gose Frambuesa. The raspberry Gose pours a rich, coral hue, and is immediately tart and salty on the tongue. Pragnell credits Panama’s cultural “closeness to the U.S.” for the country’s high winning percentage in international brewing competitions. However, as far as neatly defining Panamanian craft beer, “I wish I could tell you,” he says.
Pragnell pours me one last tasting glass before heading up to his office. This one is a Berliner Weisse with cucumber and lemon called Bicho de Luz (Lightning Bug), and it is a thing of beauty, equal parts sweet and sour. “Like a Jolly Rancher,” he says and winks.
Walking into Cervecería Legítima feels like visiting your rich friend’s house, except for the security guard who pats you down at the front gate. Past the small, manicured front lawn, the door opens to reveal a party getting started out back on the patio. I’m here to meet photographer Alí Díaz for a drink.
Halfway through my second beer, I feel slightly off-balance, like there is something wrong with my chair. I reach under my seat to find that I’m resting on somebody else’s wallet. I check the ID—it belongs to Pedro Joaquin Icaza de Obaldía, the head brewer. When I go to turn it in, Icaza is behind the bar; he chuckles and shakes his head. “I’ll take that. It’s not the first time.”
“People ask me why we don’t have more variety, more extreme styles. As a brewer … I believe it is important to be consistent with simple things.”
The Obaldia family is descended from the colonial aristocracy that ruled after Panama’s independence from Spain in 1821. José de Obaldia, the Panamanian-born son of a Spanish aristocrat, served as the vice president of New Granada—a predecessor to modern-day Colombia, of which Panama was a province. His son, José Domingo de Obaldía, was the Republic of Panama’s second president from 1908 to 1910, following Panama’s separation from Colombia in 1903. Panama’s society is still dominated today by the generational wealth and influence of the Spanish colonial elite.
Icaza’s own history in this industry dates back to 2013, when he worked with Pragnell at Panama’s first Micro Brew Fest (now the country’s biggest annual craft beer festival) before either one had opened their respective breweries. While Icaza was brainstorming names for his new project, his father showed him a faded photograph of a billboard for his grandmother’s godfather’s cigar shop in Cinco de Mayo plaza, taken in the 1920s. The billboard said “La Legitimidad: Cigarros y Licores” or “Legitimacy: Cigars and Liquor.” The name bounced around in Icaza’s head for a while, until he landed on “Cervercería Legítima” as a way to carry on this particular family tradition.
He invites us behind the bar and into the brewery for a quick tour. The windows of the 1,600-square-foot space look onto the patio where the Friday night crowd has begun to gather. Icaza pours us a taste of his latest creation—the freshest Helles Lager I have ever tasted.
“People ask me why we don’t have more variety, more extreme styles,” Icaza says. “As a brewer … I believe it is important to be consistent with simple things.”
As we sip the Helles, a dreamy look comes over Icaza’s face, and he reflects on his training in Berlin. “When I arrived there, I was excited to make some of my favorite styles of beers. And the professor said, ‘Calm down. You are going to start by making a Pilsner at a professional level. If you do simple things well … you can pinpoint where things went wrong. But if you decide to make something complicated … it will be difficult to define the root of the problem and how to fix it. The path to excellence is doing simple things well—that is how you become a master in the art of brewing.”
Back in the Canal Zone, Cervecería Feroz is experimenting with some funky flavors. I arrive at Ciudad del Saber under the blazing afternoon sun. After 10 minutes walking around the grounds, I can already feel the sting of sunburn as my arms begin to turn pink. A steady stream of sweat runs down the back of my neck, and I know that the only relief will be found at the bottom of a pint glass.
The architecture of Ciudad del Saber is a contradiction. The main campus suggests military hierarchy: barracks arranged around a parade ground, the command headquarters situated imperiously at the top of the central quadrangle. Large radar dishes stand at attention by the artificial lake which—a sign warns—is home to a dangerous crocodile. The buildings have been reclaimed as part of an urban canvas, spray-painted with colorful street art. As you move further out from the center, towards the former officers’ quarters, there is greater harmony with nature and unity of design. The roads curve around hills, and embrace the forests nearby.
“We are in the middle of the jungle, there is rainforest everywhere. From the beginning, animals from the area were really important for our brand identity.”
Built in 1942, the building that houses Feroz was the Quartermaster’s maintenance and motor repair shop. The warehouse is split down the middle by wooden pallets. On one side, it feels like a classic brewpub—dark wooden tables, black metal chairs. On the other side, the industrial steel of the microbrewery is set against the backdrop of a bright purple wall.
The beers at Feroz have personality and a sense of place. “We are in the middle of the jungle, there is rainforest everywhere,” Gonzalez explains. “From the beginning, animals from the area were really important for our brand identity.” Each beer has its own anthropomorphic character on the label, one designed to embody the flavor profile of the beer. The one I choose is called Lagarto Juancho, a New Zealand Pilsner named after the laidback, surfing alligator featured on the label. Gonzalez describes it as an easy-drinking summer beer, perfect for the beach. It is brewed with Mosaic and Amarillo hops that contribute a fruity pop, with tropical aromas of passion fruit and pineapple.
“What I try to do with the beers I make here is that I try to be different,” Gonzalez says. So many years working behind the bar have given him a good understanding of the market. He has noticed that people don’t necessarily want to be drinking a heavy, high-alcohol Double IPA at four in the afternoon under the blazing sun. Recipes must be adjusted to fit local tastes and requirements. “People here want different things, people want options,” he says.
Gonzalez is most enthusiastic about his barrel-aged Mother Funker series. The words come out quickly as he talks about his four second-use barrels. They began their lives as bourbon barrels, which were then purchased by the Carta Vieja rum distillery in Panama. After serving their time in Carta Vieja’s high-altitude solera, the barrels traveled onwards to Gonzalez, who used them to age an Imperial Stout. When they were emptied, Gonzalez decided to do something sour. Two years later, he discovered that the character and culture within each of the barrels tasted completely different from one another, and decided that he would experiment with local fruits.
“This one is brewed with níspero,” he says, or Japanese loquat. It is not a fruit that I have ever eaten or even seen before, but it is delicious and tastes like a sweet and sour peach. I can taste the history of the rum barrels, the smoky smoothness of the American oak; my drink almost feels closer to a sherry or brandy than a beer. The other beers in the series are brewed with cacao, mandarin orange, and mixed berries, respectively. “Along with Casa Bruja, we are the only ones doing barrel-aged sour beers,” Gonzalez says. He dreams of using local yeast from the Canal Zone itself in order to fully express the area’s native flavors.
The beer that best embodies Gonzalez’s beer identity is his Grrrisette, he says. “This is literally the beer that I make for myself. It’s one of my favorite styles,” he says as he pulls the tap handle. Gonzalez calls it his entryway into the world of craft beer. “This is what a local beer should taste like. The way I look at it is that style is just a guideline. You can do whatever you want and make it your own.” The character that represents this beer is a mining jaguar, complete with headlamp and pickaxe. This is a nod both to the origins of the Grisette as a Belgian miner’s beer, and the much more depressing fact that the open-pit copper and gold mines in Panama are destroying the jaguar’s natural habitat.
I’m on my way to an event hosted by Cervecería Feroz at the Museum of Contemporary Art (MAC). As I walk through the city, the sound of drums follows me. Marching bands play on every street corner to celebrate Panama’s independence from Spain and Colombia.
At the MAC, there is an art exhibit exploring the complexities of Panama City through its architecture and history. Later, there will be a concert by the Latin Grammy-nominated group Afrodisíaco, whose music draws heavily on the Bullerengüe tradition started in Panama by Black communities who escaped slavery. I decide that the best place to look for inspiration and identity will be here, at the intersection of art, music, and craft beer. I arrive early at the museum, not sure what to expect.
“Are you here for the architectural walking tour?” The receptionist at the museum asks.
“Umm ... sure,” I reply. “When does it start?”
“They are getting ready to leave right now.”
I hurry to join the group gathered outside. We leave the lush greenery of the MAC and head towards Avenida de los Martires (Martyrs’ Avenue)—the highway that used to be the hard border between U.S. and Panamanian territory. The road is named after the Panamanians who were killed in 1964 while protesting U.S. occupation and struggling for the right to display their own flag in their nation’s capital. One by one we cross a particularly dangerous roundabout. On the other side of the highway is the Santa Ana neighborhood of Panama City. It used to be a vibrant, bustling shopping district, but has since fallen into disrepair. The tour guide continually reminds us that the area isn’t dangerous—but it is chaotic. A man with a parrot on his shoulder walks past me twice. A group of children kick a soccer ball through the bustling crowd. A street preacher yells into a microphone that we are all going to hell. Marching bands are everywhere.
Photo by Cullen Heater
The tour ends at Café Coca-Cola, an institution dating back to 1875, making it the oldest continuously operating restaurant in the city. The name came later in 1906 when Coca-Cola opened its first bottling plants outside of the U.S. in Panama, Cuba, and Canada. The café is the only one in the world to officially carry the Coca-Cola name, and it was the first place outside of the U.S. to serve the drink. When the tour guide finishes his explanation, I ask him about what Panama City’s architecture reveals about its identity. At first he is hesitant to put a label on it, knowing that any one description would be insufficient. “It isn’t any one thing,” he says. “It’s eclectic, a mix of outside influences over time.”
I get back to the MAC as the afternoon heat begins to subside. Gonzalez has just finished setting up the tent for Feroz and offers me a beer as he sees me coming. “You’ll like this beer,” he says as he hands me a Catharina Sour with guayaba, or guava. It is part of his Serie Paletera (Popsicle Series) and features a raccoon pushing a little cart and selling popsicles—both of which are common sights in parks here, although usually not together.
Nearby, the band is setting up for their concert. I head over to talk to them about music and beer. Miroslava Herrera and Tatiana Ríos formed the band Afrodisíaco in 2014 with the mission to restore the original values of Afro-Panamanian culture: community, diversity, and audacity. “As I always say to Tatiana,” Herrera says, “I am not a singer. I am an activist who sings.” The message has always been more important than the music for Herrera, who says she hates love songs and has vowed to never sing “I Will Survive” again. She wants to find a meaning in the music that is so powerful that she has no choice but to use her voice to share it with the world.
Photo by Cullen Heater
“We come from the Afro-Panamanian community but our message is for everyone,” she says. There are hidden messages encoded into the rhythms of Afro-Panamanian music, Herrera explains, and although we have lost the ability to understand these messages, they are so powerful and universal that when we hear the rhythm, our bodies can’t help but dance. To Herrera, however, the message is clear: Love yourself. “From the Afro point of view, we can teach society to overcome the shame that people feel, not just of being Black, but of being in the LGBTQ community, immigrants, Indigenous communities.”
Recently, Panama has been rocked by a protest movement that has paralyzed the country by cutting off its main road, the Inter-American Highway. What started as an Indigenous-led movement against inflation and the high cost of living (including for gasoline, food, and medicine) has transformed into widespread protests against government corruption, led by the left-leaning national syndicate of construction workers, and the guilds of other professions such as teachers, who haven’t been paid by the government in six months.
“Panama City is a jungle. For us, we see in the city so many scars, from urban living, from history, from inequality, from political bullshit.”
“Panama City is a jungle,” Herrera says. “For us, we see in the city so many scars, from urban living, from history, from inequality, from political bullshit.” However, her focus isn’t on the negative. She believes that music can be a source of empowerment, a way to reconnect with our roots and rediscover our connection to the land. “We have to understand the history, the trauma, but also understand the glory. When you have that, it becomes easier to identify who you are and to have a better relationship with yourself.”
Much like in the United States, women and minorities—including Afro-Panamanians, Indigenous people, and immigrants—are underrepresented in the craft beer industry in Panama. Hopefully, that will change as the culture continues to come into its own. The true identity of Panama is boisterously multicultural; the country is uplifting its multitudes as it emerges from the long shadow of U.S. colonialism. Beer can only tell one part of the story. I head over to the tent and get another one.
Under the full moon, the concertgoers gather on the border of the canal zone and dance. “Agua del canal,” the audience chants, nodding their heads with the rhythm of the drums. Herrera’s voice carries the lyrics through the night. “Waters of the canal, dark water and clear water that unite day by day.” The drums reverberate, the coded messages of the rhythm connecting with our collective unconscious.
“I am mixed, the color of the earth,” Herrera sings for the people gathered to watch. She sings for this city and for the memories that haunt the frontier like ghosts. She sings for her ancestors. But most of all, she sings for herself as a proud reclamation of her identity. “In this jungle, I have received the customs and traditions that live in my mind like the descendants of a thousand drums—the legacy of a thousand races.”
Music is a celebration of life, and so is beer. I can feel the rhythm bubbling up inside of me as the drums reach a fever pitch. “Now I move my hips! I will dance until your consciousness awakens.” The crowd erupts spontaneously into dance, connected by the shared experience that night under the full moon.
Words by Cullen HeaterPhotos by Alí Diaz
