Family Kitchens Keep Goa’s Lost Orchata Tradition Alive

In Ribandar, Eunice strolls through her garden, brushing away dried leaves from a kokum plant. When orchata is mentioned, her wrinkled face lights up with a smile.

“I first tried orchata in my early teens; it was a beloved family drink,” she recalls.

She didn’t make it at home; her family bought bottles prepared by the Coelhos from a few Panaji shops—Cappuccina Bar and Restaurant, Farm Products, and Lija Camotim.

“We would especially purchase it in summer, enjoying it with plenty of ice.”

During one tough summer after the birth of her first child, she subsisted almost entirely on orchata. Years later, her daughter‑in‑law found herself doing the same.

“It had been nearly thirty years since it was last sold,” she says. “I missed its sweet, almond‑like flavor and decided to recreate it myself.”

What followed were years of trial and error. “I experimented with ratios, and after five to seven summers I finally nailed it,” she says, smiling. She laughs at the memory; all she wanted was to taste the orchata of her childhood.

During the COVID‑19 pandemic, demand rose unexpectedly, turning it into a small pre‑order business.

Eunice prepares her concentrate from a blend of almonds and cashews; the cashews give it a creamier texture. She mixes the concentrate with an equal amount of milk, then dilutes it with water for a silky finish.

Guilhermina Vas, Eunice’s friend and former colleague, who grew up in Panjim’s Altinho neighbourhood, is small‑framed and animated. She jumps into the conversation before Eunice finishes, eager to share another memory.

Her gold‑rimmed glasses slip to the edge of her nose as she laughs. “Orchata isn’t for everyone,” she says. “In my household, I was the only one who enjoyed it.”

Her neighbour, Dona Zenia, who lived two houses away, celebrated every birthday with homemade orchata.

“I used to anticipate that day just for the orchata,” she laughs. “My sisters, however, weren’t fond of it.”

“Ice makes all the difference,” they both insist.

I ask Eunice what drinking orchata feels like after all these years, and what memory it evokes.

“It makes me happy,” she replies simply.

“Doesn’t it remind you of your mother?” Guilhermina asks.

Eunice fiddles with the base of her glass; her smile softens and, for a moment, her eyes glisten.

“I instantly picture my mother coming home in the afternoon after play, asking for a glass of orchata,” she says.

She pauses.

“One glass was never enough.”

Her mother, she says, would retrieve a bottle from the family icebox and pour her a glass.

“It reminds me of the simple, happy times I enjoyed in the home I grew up in at Chorao, just across the river.”

“When people drink it, they often close their eyes. It carries them back to childhood, or to a time 20 or 30 years ago when a grandmother or aunt would prepare it,” says Oliver. “It feels deeply personal—tied to a memory, a person, or a moment.”

When people drink it, they often close their eyes. It transports them back to childhood

by OLIVER FERNANDES, THE GOAN KITCHEN

Sitting on Eunice’s verandah, it becomes clear that orchata survives thanks to those who remember making, serving, and drinking it together. The recipes can be recreated, but the world they came from cannot.

The older generation that preserved these recipes has passed away, while the younger generation that inherited them has moved away from Goa in search of better economic prospects.

The social boundaries that once dictated who could obtain certain ingredients have shifted. What once signaled privilege is now more accessible, and the exclusivity has faded.

The Goa that once produced those orchatas has changed as well. Overtourism and rapid development have swapped fields for resorts and apartment blocks, altered coastal skylines, and reshaped once‑quiet villages.

At the river, a speedboat whizzes by. Ribandar, with its pastel‑coloured homes and winding lanes, is slowly transforming. Yellow‑plated tourist taxis ply its narrow streets; old houses stand abandoned or are replaced by apartment blocks. Orchata, too, has largely vanished from family tables.

The drink’s history runs deeper than mere nostalgia. In India, food often carries caste connotations, and orchata is no exception. Its ingredients, the occasions it was served, and the households that made it all signaled privilege, wealth, and colonial ties.

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