The Chemist and the Monk
How modern technology and Orthodox pounds united to preserve a 900-year-old recipe
If you want to know how well-off a monastery is, fiscally-speaking, weigh the thinnest monk. A fat abbot is nothing, but a cloister teeming with well-fed monks suggests a certain worldly wealth. In matters of the spirit, however, you must visit the ecclesiastical vineyards. Because, though Paul cautioned the Ephesians against drunkenness, he did suggest to Timothy not to drink water alone to assuage his bodily pains, and Jesus himself was referred to, from time to time, simply as the ‘vine’.
It is also no secret that the Kykkos Monastery has its share of both. I was not interested in orthodox lucre, and, in lieu of weighing a monk, was drawn to the potable aspects of the holy brotherhood. In particular, I wanted to know how alcoholic a beverage one might brew from grape pulp. Rumours of blindness and brain impairment made the local spirit, zivania, worth investigating. Zivania is still produced and bottled at the monastery’s winery, founded in 1992, preserving a tradition centuries, if not millennia, old, though it was not available commercially until 1998 with the lifting of the 1947 British ban against the spirit.
Like its cousin, grappa, and its brother, raki, zivania is a distillate produced from fermented grape dregs, the zivana. Unlike either of these drinks, zivania, according to an article in The Cyprus Wine Guide, by Dr. Rebecca Kokkinofta, ‘is still widely used as a household cleansing agent . . . as a disinfectant . . . and as fuel to produce a flame.’ Perhaps the French had marketed cognac similarly in the Middle Ages, but have since had the good sense to refrain from doing so.
Zivania has lately enjoyed a certain vogue in Cyprus, and this is due to the efforts of Costas Fournaris, the Kykkos Winery’s technical manager. Converting a window cleaner into a fashionable aperitif could not have been an easy task, and I was willing to drive up into the mountains to hear how he had done it.
The Kykkos Winery is a two-minute walk from the monastery. Expecting a team of cassocked monks chanting as they slaved by candlelight over belching oaken vats, I found a modern office built from aluminium siding tucked neatly into the mountainside. On the other side of the road, the land dropped away into a precipice noticeable for its luxuriant pines and many other flowers and herbs I failed to recognize.
A platter of soujoukko and zivania arrived shortly after I did. I took an immediate liking to Mr. Fournaris. We spoke in English, though this was the oenologist’s third language, Russian being his second. He had studied chemistry in Moscow, specialising in cancer research.
“It was very difficult in Cyprus to find work in my field. After I graduated, I went to work for Loel. When Abbot Nikiphoros conceived of the winery in 1992, I accepted his offer. Here we produce zivania mainly. Because of our work, zivania is now not only a traditional drink, but it is not as dangerous as before.”
Zivania had been officially banned because of its high methanol content, which, if blindness is considered a side effect, one might safely assume will cause the brain to leak directly from the nostrils. Some experts, like Mr. Fournaris, believe there was an ulterior motive.
“The main reason is that the English government wanted to sell whisky in Cyprus.”
There were still the fashionable aspects to consider. I believe ‘nightcap’ had been mentioned in this context, and ‘digestif’. Indeed, one could find the oak-matured Kykkos Special Reserve zivania in supermarkets throughout the island. Or the Cabernet Sauvignon variety. The most popular at the duty-free shops, according to Mr. Fournaris, were the herbal and cherry-flavoured zivanias, whose cherries come from Pedoulas.
“Zivania, for Cypriots, is the traditional alcoholic beverage. In the past, many people used to drink zivania instead of wine during their meals, but they drink it as an aperitif now.” He added, “I always thought zivania was a very interesting drink, and I knew we could give it a new image. When we started, many people were sceptical. But I was sure that it was a good idea. I think that today I am justified. Abbot Nikiphoros also helped because he believed in it too.”
I imagined that there must have been something special about working on the Kykkos grounds, steeped as they were in such a rich tradition of intoxicating beverages. Mr. Fournaris agreed.
“We started with the sweet red zivania, made with extract of cinnamon. This zivania was produced by the monks in the 11th century. They had only one type. The recipe we have is the one they used. We found some notes and produced some samples, and after that, we standardised it. But the main idea comes from those notes.”
“Do the monks drink zivania?” I asked.
“Of course, and the wine too.”
I had always wanted to ask the following question, and for the first time in my life in a position to do so, couldn’t resist.
“Are there any heavy drinkers?”
Mr. Fournaris sipped his zivania. He said, “I don’t know. But every monastery has some relationship with wine and spirits. In the Middle Ages, wine production was persecuted because it was associated with the cult of Dionysus, and also during the Ottoman rule. The monks were the people who protected the knowledge.”
And long live the monks, fat or thin. When I think of all the pleasure Aristotle has brought me over the years, another treasure preserved by the priesthood, it is nothing compared with the fruits of Dionysus. The kazani, incidentally, in which the monks originally distilled their zivania, can still be found in a cellar beneath the small church on the crest of the hill above the monastery.
“The first time we made zivania, we used that kazani. We’re going to make a small museum there.”
This month, Mr. Fournaris will present his products at a zivania festival in Athens. I asked him if there were any more cutting-edge zivanias on the horizon.
“We have many products now. But I have always wanted to make a lemon zivania, and a liqueur, something like Limoncello.”
Following a brief inspection of the winery next-door, in which a small team of bottlers was moodily affixing labels to pints of zivania, we said goodbye and I headed to the monastery to visit the gift shop. The man behind the counter, noticing my attention to his liquor, asked me where I was from. I told him I was American
“I speak five languages,” he said. “Would you like a drink?”
He had already uncorked a bottle. The thought passed through my mind that I would write only about alcohol from then on.
“Would you mind if I take your picture?”
“Costas, at your service,” the polyglot said. Transformed under the eye of the camera into a Cypriot Adolphe Menjou, he waved a German couple away from their perusal of the herbal zivanias, and began speaking to them in their native tongue. I do not speak German, but the result of this conversation was that the Germans agreed to sample Costas’ zivania. When they had finished, Costas poured again. The Germans refused. Costas persevered and, now red-faced, the Germans consumed a second glass. And a third.
I was drunk enough, at this point, to examine the frescoes in the courtyard of the monastery, one of which showed a man, fallen from his horse, sprawling in a dry riverbed. Goggle-eyed, he was being succoured by a woman swathed in a cloud of smoke, reminiscent of car exhaust, that trailed off into the distance. The Kykkos Monastery, immaculately white, loomed in the background.
I thought this a rather odd picture until I noticed a man lurking in the vicinity. Strapped to his back were two earthenware pitchers, possibly empty. He showed little alarm at the fallen man’s condition. In fact, he seemed to be muttering under his breath. I
f this clumsy man was not a drunken monk, and most likely he was not, it occurred to me that on the chilly Troodos nights overindulgence might not be out of the question, even for the most devout, and well-heeled, of souls. Which, I suppose, was not what Paul had had in mind when he had counselled Timothy, but the thought eased me on my way as I stumbled into the parking lot.
[Photographs by Theopisti Stylianou]
