In Asturias, Cider Is ‘Not Just a Beverage in a Bottle’

By Sofia Perez

Each culín, or pour, is purposely short, an inch or two at most, with frequent refills to follow. It’s meant to be downed in one quick shot, while the cider’s bracing acidity is still balanced by the light bubbles. Photo courtesy of Sidra de Asturias.

The bartender lifts the bright-green bottle high above his head with one hand. Down by his hips, his other hand holds a clear, wide-mouthed glass, tilted at a sharp angle. Although the geometry of the positioning seems counterintuitive, he pours without hesitation, never looking up at the bottle or down at the glass. A steady but thin golden stream of Asturian sidra strikes just inside the rim and slinks to the bottom, like a perfect bank shot nailed from three-point range. The technique is designed to aerate the hard apple cider and create a bit of fizz, but the sparkle is fleeting. 

Each culín, or pour, is purposely short, an inch or two at most, with frequent refills to follow. It’s meant to be downed in one quick shot, while the cider’s bracing acidity is still balanced by the light bubbles. Dawdlers should expect to receive the stink-eye and an admonishment from locals.

Scenes like this occur daily throughout the Asturias region of northwest Spain, where this particular drink is served in this exact way as a matter of regional pride and heritage. The technique even gets its own verb in the local language: escanciar. There are long-standing conventions around how sidra is made and consumed here, as well as regular competitions to determine who pours it best. But to truly understand the central role that this beverage plays in the local culture, it helps to time travel more than 2,000 years into the past. This story begins in the apple orchard.

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Although smaller than Connecticut, Asturias cultivates nearly half of the world’s apple varieties, and most rural homes here have pomaradas, or apple orchards, where families grow the fruit for their own consumption and cider-making, or to sell to local producers. Asturians have been making and drinking sidra since Greco-Roman times at least, according to the writings of Greek geographer and historian Strabo (c. 7 B.C.E.). Professional cider-making operations, known as llagares, that wish to sell their cider with the Protected Denomination of Origin (DOP) seal must follow all the cider-house rules, with the “house” in question being the Consejo Regulador, the regional regulatory body that was created in 2003 to ensure the product’s quality and its connection to place. 

The most important rule of all is that the fruit must be grown in Asturias, though llagares are free to choose from 76 of the area’s more than 500 cider-apple varieties when making their blends. The region produces three-quarters of Spain’s sidra. According to Guillermo Guisasola, the current Consejo president, Asturians drink more of it than any other population in the world—an average of 60 liters per person per year—whether that’s at home or in the region’s more than 1,000 sidrerías and chigres, cider-focused restaurants and bars.

The connection to apples is hard-earned. The local geography and weather present their share of agricultural challenges. Asturias gets soaked with more than 40 inches of rain per year. Over 80 percent of its area is mountainous and includes a significant portion of the Picos de Europa National Park and Biosphere Reserve, a steeply pitched, almost lunar topography of limestone and brush that reaches heights of more than 8,500 feet. These are the stomping grounds of wolves and brown bears. The inaccessibility of much of Asturias’ terrain precludes any significant amount of mechanized agricultural production. Fishing, dairy farming, and the raising of livestock (cattle, sheep and goats) lead the way, but apple trees are seamlessly integrated into the landscape. 

“It’s not like on olive or citrus farms, where the land is bare,” says Guisasola, an apple farmer himself. “In many places here, the cultivation of apples is done in pastures that are also being used to feed livestock.”

The three main types of sidra made from this humble ingredient are those that bear the DOP seal—that is, when their producers have met the Consejo’s extensive protocols, an achievement that’s indicated on each certified bottle. 

The most prevalent kind is sidra natural tradicional, which comes in the same signature green bottle regardless of which llagar makes it. This style of sidra is meant to be escanciada, and it is unfiltered, so it often contains some sediment; for this reason, drinkers leave behind the dregs of each short pour and dump them out before receiving their next shot. The floors of many sidrerías and chigres are covered in sawdust; I wouldn’t recommend wearing your priciest shoes to visit. 

Sidra natural filtrada, also referred to as sidra de mesa, or table cider, is filtered and does not get aerated before serving; its production volume is tiny compared to the traditional style. 

Finally, sidra natural espumosa undergoes a second fermentation in the bottle or tank, like Champagne and other sparkling wines, to create natural bubbles. The word “natural” is important to all three types: In the case of the sparkling kind, it means that the carbonation occurred as the result of that second fermentation. There are also artificially carbonated sidras on the market (as well as other sidra-derived products) but these are not eligible for the Consejo’s seal, even if the apples used to make them were locally sourced.   

Asturias consumes 90 percent of the DOP’s sidra natural tradicional, with 8 percent going elsewhere in Spain and 2 percent to international markets, while the numbers for the sparkling kind are flipped; only 12 percent of the DOP’s sparkling cider is drunk in Asturias, with 73 percent consumed elsewhere in the country and 15 percent internationally.

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Most rural homes here have pomaradas, or apple orchards, where families grow the fruit for their own consumption and cider-making, or to sell to local producers. Here, apple trees near Sidra Trabanco. Photo by Sofia Perez.

Sustainability is a hallmark of the Asturian sidra industry, which is anchored in its surroundings. After the apples have been pressed for their juice, many llagares feed the solids back into the circular economy. Producers like Sidra Trabanco, one of the biggest names in the business, give apple remainders to area ranchers to use as cattle feed, and the ranchers return the favor by providing the cider-makers with manure to fertilize their trees. 

“The sector also incorporates the byproducts of pruning,” says Guisasola, “grinding and blending them into the soil, which helps to capture carbon.” 

And because every single llagar sells its traditional sidra in the same green bottle, any producer can reuse any bottle after it has been cleaned and the identifying label removed. 

“It’s not recycling,” Guisasola says. “It’s reusing, which requires even less energy. Our sector leaves a very low carbon footprint.”

The product is so steeped in tradition that in November 2021, the Spanish government announced it would be applying to UNESCO to have sidra asturiana added to the international organization’s list of “Intangible Cultural Heritage.” The UN body will hand down its decision on all country applications next year.

When I toured Asturias last October, I visited Sidra Trabanco, a family-run operation that has been around since 1925 and operates two llagares, a restaurant, and a few event spaces. Trabanco still hews closely to time-honored practices when making its traditional sidra. While most producers now exclusively use pneumatic machines to extract the juice from the apples, for speed and efficiency, Trabanco largely relies on its old oak presses. 

“The apples spend about two and a half days in the wooden presses,” says Yolanda Trabanco, the fourth generation of her family to work in the business. “It’s a more laborious process because you have to frequently move the pulp to the center of the press to get the most juice out of the fruit. We do that manually, with spades, just as our grandparents did.”  

While Sidra Trabanco also owns some of the faster modern presses, it resorts to these only when it needs to pick up the pace, during those periods when too many ripe apples have come in at once. 

“The traditional presses have a special value for us,” says Trabanco. “They were my grandfather’s, and for as long as we can still use them, they will not be retired.” 

When it comes time to adjust the blends, the company will only transfer its sidra from one barrel or tank to another if the moon is waning, another long-standing custom. 

“We keep working the way that our grandparents did, and I think there’s nothing more sustainable than that,” says Trabanco. “Respecting nature and nourishing it without exploiting it.”

From harvest in the fall to bottling in the spring, the entire cider-making process usually takes about five months, during which time fermentation turns the juice’s natural sugars into alcohol, highlighting the drink’s acidity and developing a rounded flavor. Most Asturian producers use a blend of apples for each sidra, though the exact number can vary greatly. As with winemakers, the llagarero (cider-maker) is the one who decides on the combination. Trabanco’s higher-end bottlings can include anywhere from 18 to 50 varieties of apples, though the company has also been experimenting with varietal ciders. Once bottled, the traditional sidras are off to the restaurant, bar, or retail store, ready to be poured from on high.

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Except when they aren’t. Tradition, after all, is often a relative concept. The history of another major Asturian producer reflects a different branch of the sidra story. Grupo El Gaitero was established in 1890 by three families whose names make up the official corporation title—Valle, Ballina y Fernández, S.A.—though the business is currently run only by Fernández’s descendants. While El Gaitero does make a sidra that has to be aerated by hand, it is most known for producing sparkling cider. In fact, this product was the company’s founding premise. 

In the 1800s, members of the Spanish Fernández and Ballina families had been traveling to and from Mexico and Cuba, respectively, for the textile and comestible trade. Some decided to set down roots. At the same time, the Ballina family was going back and forth to Cuba. As increasing numbers of Spaniards emigrated to the Americas, these Asturian families spotted a business opportunity: Sell expats a potent memory of home. The game-changer that made this move possible was a carbonating machine that was being used by the pharmaceutical industry at the time. 

Traditional Asturian sidra could not survive the long ocean voyage without turning to vinegar, but a company called Sidra Zarracina, later bought by Grupo El Gaitero, began using a device they dubbed a champanizadora, or Champagne-maker, to create a stable carbonated product—one that’s different from the sidra natural espumosa that undergoes a second fermentation in the bottle or tank. This new type of bubbly sidra could be shipped overseas without spoiling. 

Over the years, this kind of sidra became closely associated with the Christmas season. 

“Our brand evokes an emotional response,” says María Cardín, the fifth generation of the Fernández family to work for El Gaitero. “It is not just a beverage in a bottle. It’s family—those moments of joy that people associate with their grandmothers. It’s history, roots, tradition.” 

But is the tradition in the way the drink is served or the beverage itself? Asturians have been drinking sidra natural tradicional for a long time, historically tapping the barrel directly and consuming the liquid from wooden vessels. 

Folks only began to escanciar in the last 150 years or so, with the advent of the first industrially produced glass bottles and drinking glasses, made with sand from the beaches of the coastal city of Gijón. The signature curves and thickness of the bottle’s neck allows servers to control the speed of the pour, as they seek to duplicate the aeration that used to occur naturally when collecting sidra from the barrel. The green glass became so identifiable that, in the early days, producers didn’t even bother to use labels to prove the product’s authenticity. The only way to know which llagar made a particular sidra was to look at the cork, where the information was recorded. 

El Gaitero’s María Cardín makes the case, though, that sidra natural tradicional doesn’t corner the market on tradition. 

“Our sidra has been around for 130 years, which is not nothing, and could also be considered traditional,” she says. “We shouldn’t demonize the fact that sidra can be consumed in different ways. We should look to conserve traditions but without getting stuck in the past. Otherwise, the product is going to disappear and will exist only in museums.”

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Because every single llagar sells its traditional sidra in the same green bottle, any producer can reuse any bottle after it has been cleaned and the identifying label removed. Photo by Sofia Perez.

While producers may have different perspectives on sidra customs, they share some of the same challenges in today’s marketplace. 

“The population of Asturias is getting older, and younger people are not consuming sidra at the same level,” says Trabanco. “Habits are changing, and yet sidra has not changed for centuries.” 

The culture of sidra is intimately connected to the way it’s served and consumed, but the need to aerate each person’s small pour requires the steady presence of servers who are trained to escanciar—or, at the very least, knowledgeable customers who are willing and able to do it themselves. This also compounds the issue of cost. In Asturias, a 700-milliliter bottle of sidra goes for about 3 Euros, but serving it is much more labor-intensive for bars and restaurants than, say, popping open a can of soda or a bottle of beer. Yet the locals haven’t demonstrated much enthusiasm for paying extra for a beverage they’ve known their whole lives, whether it’s the kind of sidra that needs to be aerated or other styles. 

“A Coca-Cola would not cost you the same in one place versus another, because of the service and surroundings,” says Cardín. “So why should sidra—even different types—be expected to cost the same everywhere? There are good, bad and average sidras. Then, if it’s escanciada for you, that should have a different cost. The product deserves to be given its proper value.” 

The pandemic has only complicated things further. While producers that focus on sparkling sidra, like El Gaitero, had it a bit easier, because retail sales remained relatively strong, they did take a hit as holiday celebrations—their peak selling season—were much smaller and less festive than usual.

Finally, there’s the issue of the glass. It’s a longstanding local tradition that each group of drinkers shares one tumbler. In addition to getting rid of the sediment found in natural sidra, folks leave behind a little bit of each pour to “wash” the glass, by swirling around the dregs and dumping them out, before handing it off to the next person. Obviously, Covid put an end to that practice. It’s now individual glasses all around.

Even before the pandemic, many of the larger producers were developing and launching new products, like a cider vermouth, sweet ice ciders, and single-serving cans and bottles of carbonated ciders (regular and alcohol-free) that don’t require aeration, the latter packaging aimed at younger customers in particular. 

In May 2021, El Gaitero rolled out its “Spring Cider,” which also comes in an apple-grape version; the name is actually written in English, even for the Spanish market. With it, the company aims to expand the seasonality of its product line beyond Christmas. Similarly, Trabanco began selling individual cans and bottles marketed under the name “Pecado del Paraíso” (“Original Sin”); the label features an apple that doubles as a mouth. 

“We saw that we needed to maintain the essence of the product, but somehow reach a younger generation so that they don’t abandon sidra in favor of other beverages,” says Trabanco.

What these products may lack in ritual, businesses are hoping they’ll make up for in flexibility. 

“We were thinking about young people who are looking for something simple, something that doesn’t have too much alcohol—because some of them are just starting to drink,” says Cardín. “We have to show people that sidra can be consumed in other ways, and create new products without demonizing them because they are not traditional.” 

Not everyone is on board. 

“I don’t agree with sidra being served in a can like it’s a beer because it loses its essence,” says Adrián Álvarez Corzo, who grew up above his family’s cider-house restaurant in Oviedo. “I’ve seen people drink it in glasses with ice, as if it were a whiskey on the rocks, and my horrified expression says it all.” 

However, many of the folks I interviewed were a bit more open to the idea of new products, as long as no one takes away the classic version. 

“I suppose some llagares want to explore other market niches, which is great,” says José Burgos, a native of Gijón who currently lives in Oslo, Norway. “But I will continue to prefer the sidra I have known and consumed my whole life.” 

That long-standing connection makes changing anything a challenge. The bond with sidra gets cemented early. Every single Asturian I spoke to about the subject brought up memories from childhood, well before they were even consuming alcohol. Enrique Loredo a professor at the University of Oviedo in Gijón, remembers harvesting cider apples every fall with his family. 

“There were trees on our land, and we’d sell the excess fruit to a nearby llagar,” he says. “We’d fill the car with sacks of them, and they’d give us an IOU that we could cash in months later, once their sidra was ready.” 

For Alicia García, the beverage brings back images of summertime and family gatherings. 

“My first memories of it are connected to the sidra that my grandfather used to make at home, which was always the star of those meals,” she says.

Some Asturian schools even take students on field trips to llagares to teach them sidra history. Burgos is one of several folks who tells me that he first tasted the beverage when he was about five, at his school’s amagüestu celebration—chestnut festivals that take place in Asturias every fall, where people drink the recently pressed nonalcoholic cider. He also remembers drinking it at fiestas de prao, rural celebrations of each village’s patron saint. 

“You cannot conceive of these festivals without sidra,” he says.
Of course, it also helps that sidra pairs well with the local cuisine. If you stop by one of those rural festivals, you’ll want to thank the local saint for sidra’s refreshing acidity and light fizz as you work your way through an enormous tureen of fabada, a white-bean stew packed with chorizo and other pork products, or slice through cachopo, the Asturian version of veal cordon bleu, which features ham and cheese sandwiched between fried and breaded veal cutlets so large they hang off the edges your plate. Luckily, sidra is also a welcome companion to the region’s seafood, like sea urchin, as well as the wide array of local cheeses, especially the more assertive types, like pungent blue Cabrales.

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Many of the larger producers were developing and launching new products, like a cider vermouth, sweet ice ciders, and single-serving cans and bottles of carbonated ciders (regular and alcohol-free) that don’t require aeration, the latter packaging aimed at younger customers in particular. Photo by Sofia Perez.

The social component of sidra is inextricably linked to the affection it generates; it is the great equalizer. “It doesn’t matter if you’re upper class or lower class, young or old,” says Adrián Flórez Collar. “Everyone consumes sidra here when they get together with friends and family.” 

Flórez Collar grew up in a rural area within the municipality of Cangas del Narcea, where he recently took over his family’s artisanal honey company. It operates out of the Muniellos Biosphere Reserve, which is the largest oak forest in all of Western Europe, according to UNESCO. He hopes the business will help to safeguard the ecological, cultural and ethnographic history of his homeland and carry on the agrarian traditions that were passed down to him from his parents and grandparents. 

“We could bring our fresh vision to these rural communities and ensure that there’s a new generation to take over when the time comes, but sadly I don’t think that is happening,” he says.

In the last few decades, the region has had to weather major economic blows, which has seen Asturians flee the countryside for urban centers. A major driver of these struggles and the ensuing migration has been the sharp decline of coal mining, which was one of Asturias’ leading industries. More than 90 percent of the local population has been affected by mine closures and phase-outs, according to the European Commission. As tourism and other service sectors work to fill the gap, some are hoping that sidraturismo and other forms of rural tourism will boost the local economy.  

There are, in fact, many locations in Asturias where the history of coal and sidra intersect, including Sidra Trabanco’s llagar in Lavandera. The company’s aging barrels and tanks are kept inside a deep tunnel that the Spanish government first began to dig in 1892. Back then, the plan was to establish a railway link between area coal mines and the nearby port city of Gijón, but the government abandoned the project after 15 years. When the Trabanco family bought the land, it decided to preserve the tunnel, which they now use as a cider cellar. 

“In this area, there are many abandoned rail tunnels,” says Trabanco. “When we transformed ours, we did it to make this history visible.”

For her and many other Asturians, sidra is an emblem of regional pride, one that cannot be separated from its physical origins. 

“It forms part of my identity,” says Burgos. “I only drink sidra when I go back to Asturias. Obviously, it’s something I could have in other places, but it’s not the same as enjoying it in your homeland, surrounded by your people and sharing it with them.” 

From the farmers who cultivate Asturian apple varieties and the llagareros who blend them, to the champion escanciadores who pour the beverage from great heights without losing a drop, to the loyal customers who celebrate their lives’ milestones in a cider-house or by opening a bottle of bubbly cider in a land far from home, sidra is the tie that binds them to this place. You could even describe it as a strand of Asturian DNA. 

“It is more than just a beverage; it is our cultural heritage,” says Álvarez Corzo. “There is no Asturias without sidra.”