All About Tej

Then, in 1270 A.D., Yekuno Amlak, a wily monarch of Abyssinia - as the land was alternatively called in earlier times - drew upon the legend of Solomon and Makeda to declare

An Ethiopian meal served in a mesob (Click to enlarge)

himself to be the direct descendant of Menelik. This established the Solomonic Dynasty of Ethiopian emperors that ruled for 700 years and ended in 1974, with the fall of Emperor Hayle Selasse to Communist revolutionaries. The brutal Derg ("Committee") ruled until 1991, when a long-time rebellion finally succeeded, thus creating a nascent democracy in Ethiopia.

We must now take this ancient story of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba with a block of salt (which, incidentally, were called amole in Abyssinia and were used as currency well into the 19th Century). In fact, despite Ethiopian lore disguised as history, there is no proof that the land of Saba was located in the portion of eastern Africa that is now Ethiopia. It may have been in Yemen, across the Red Sea, and the monarch whom the Ethiopians call Makeda was called Bilqis on the Arabian peninsula. There may even have been two Sabas, one on each side of the Red Sea, with neither one dominating the other. Scholars disagree, and the hard archaeological evidence is spotty at best.

The Bible has very little to say about Ethiopia that offers much help in clarifying its relationship with the ancient world. Two passages in the Old Testament - 1 Kings 10: 1-13, and 2 Chronicles 9:1-12 - tell a story of a Queen of Sheba who visited King Solomon on a diplomatic mission after hearing tales of his greatness. It doesn't say she was from Ethiopia, nor do she and Solomon consummate their summit.

Then, somewhere between 1314 and 1322 A.D. (scholars believe), an anonymous author composed the Kebra Negast ("Glory of Kings"), a book that became the Ethiopian national story. This lengthy saga clearly intends to turn Yekuno Amlak's newly declared "Solomonic Dynasty" into historical fact: It embellishes the brief biblical story of Solomon and Makeda and creates the child Menelik.

Yet this story remains the central mythology of the nation and is now recognized as the legend that helped to found and foster a culture and a civilization, which began definitively in the first century A.D. with the Aksumite Empire, in what is now northern Ethiopia and Eritrea, then slowly evolved into modern Ethiopia. For the next two millennia, empires and emperors waxed and waned, until a 19th Century surge of unification and conquest under the powerful Emperor Menelik II forged the modern nation.

From Leslau's Harari (top) and Gurage etymological dictionaries

But several other Ethiopian languages - some Semitic, some not - use the word "tej" or something like it to mean "honey wine," and Amharic itself seems to have borrowed the word from a cognate, or root word, in an Ethiopian Semitic mother tongue. [See the chart just below, or see the expanded chart with words for honey.]

Wolf Leslau's three-volume Etymological Dictionary of Gurage, a southern Semitic language related to Amharic, has an entry (bottom left) for t'egay, t'ege, t'äge, däg'ä, which are variations of Semitic-language words for "honey," "honey water" or "honey wine." Leslau's Harari dictionary also has an entry (top left) that shows the word for "mead" in Harari (another Semitic language) along with related words in other languages, including the Cushitic Sidama and Qabena.

In the notation of linguistics, these words for "honey wine" - which clearly have a kinship to tej - can best be represented as *d'agay, a theoretical root word, or cognate, where the asterisk indicates that a root word has been reconstructed by scholars from the best available evidence. The word *d'agay probably goes back a few thousand years, before the time when a single ancient South Ethiopian Semitic language split off into Amharic, Tigrinya, Tigré, Harari, Gurage (with its numerous dialects) and several others.

Complicating the picture slightly: Whereas ancient South Ethiopian Semitic languages used *d'agay to mean "honey" and its derivatives, ancient North Ethiopian Semitic languages called honey mar, which is the modern Amharic word for "honey." But in South Ethiopian Semitic, mar tended to mean "beeswax." Linguists hypothesize that the northern branch adopted mar, the southern word for "beeswax," to mean "honey," just as the northern branch morphed the word *d'agay into t'ej and took it as the word for "honey wine."

About two millennia ago, then, when Northeast Africa may well have been more culturally advanced than much of Europe, the South Ethiopian Semitic mother tongue used *d'agay and its evolutionary forms to mean "honey," "honey water" or "honey wine." In Amharic, the "d" sound has since evolved into a "t," and "gay" has evolved into "ge" and then into "j." So this is how linguists theorize that *d'agay became t'ej:

The variant spellings of the final form represent two things: the difficulty of transliterating Amharic into English; and the pronunciation differences, noted in the chart just below, between Ethiopian cultures with related languages, as well as non-related languages that have borrowed the word.

Note, too, the apostrophes in some of the names. Together with consonants called plosives (p, t, k), the apostrophe represents an ejective, a distinct sound in Ethiopian language that's transcribed in this way in linguistics. Listen closely to an Ethiopian saying "t'ej" and you'll hear the consonant with the apostrophe spit or snap just a bit inside the mouth.

Because most people won't know this sound, the spelling of "t'ej" is commonly simplified to "tej" when transliterating from Amharic to English, eliminating the apostrophe, which means nothing to everyday readers. Some linguists prefer that it be written t'ejj, with a double "j" used to represent the hard "g" sound of the Amharic letter that ends the word. Still others will transliterate it as t'äjj, with a diacritic, in an attempt to better represent the vowel, which probably sounds more like the "u" in "but" than the "e" in "edge."

Although the Amharic "t'ej" almost certainly came from *d'agay, how this particular root word came to represent "honey" or "honey wine" - or how any word in any language comes to represent anything - is anyone's guess. The late Professor Leslau, a groundbreaking authority on Ethiopian Semitic languages, doesn't cite any extra-Ethiopian roots in his writings on these words, although some of his work has now been surpassed by more recent studies and groupings of Ethiopian languages.

Ethiopian Language See Full Chart	Honey Wine	Language Family
Amharic, Kistane-Soddo	t'ej	Semitic
Sebat Bet Gurage cluster (six dialects)	t'ej, dag'a	Semitic
Silt'e	tajji	Semitic
Wolane	t'ajay	Semitic
Zway	t'eje	Semitic
Inor, Mesqan, Gogot/Dobi	dag'a, t'ej	Semitic
Harari	gohoy, t'ajji	Semitic
Gafat (extinct)	s'aj	Semitic
Tigrinya, Tigré, Ge'ez, Saho	mes/miys	Semitic
Bilin [in Eritrea]	mes/miys, mid	Cushitic
Xamtanga, Qimant	miz	Cushitic
Oromo	daad'ii	Cushitic
Arbore	d'aadi	Cushitic
Kambaata	daat'a	Cushitic
Qabena	tajjita	Cushitic
Komso	taadita, tajjeeta	Cushitic
Baiso	t'ejii	Cushitic
Hadiyya, Libido	dik'aasa	Cushitic
Awngi, Kunfal	mishi	Cushitic
Sidama	malawo/malabo, t'ajje	Cushitic
Afar	malb, gohoyu	Cushitic
Somali	khamri malabeed	Cushitic
Gedeo, Burji	boka/booka	Cushitic
Tsamai	xoronko	Cushitic
Kafa, Boro, Mocha	bito	Omotic
Anfillo	bita	Omotic
Hozo, Seze, Bambassi	bit'	Omotic
Kwama	biti	Omotic
Zargulla	c'ajj	Omotic
Aari	s'ajji	Omotic
Dorze, Dizi, Gamo-Gofa	t'ej	Omotic
Maale	dago	Omotic
Wolayta, Chara	'eessa	Omotic
Yemsa	éésa	Omotic
Bench	es	Omotic
Karo	ala, sia	Omotic
Hamer-Banna	zia, alla, ant'si	Omotic
Shabo	'oo	Nilo-Saharan
Nyangatom	a-tede	Nilotic (Nilo-Saharan)
Anuak	ogool	Nilotic (Nilo-Saharan)
Majang	ogool	Surmic (Nilo-Saharan)
Chai, Tirma	gimáy, t'acc	Surmic (Nilo-Saharan)
Me'en	gima, boké	Surmic (Nilo-Saharan)
Mursi See Full Chart	gimma	Surmic (Nilo-Saharan)
Non-Ethiopian Language See Full Chart	Honey Wine	Country (Lang. Family)
Sudanese	duma	Sudan (Nilo-Saharan)
Kikamba, Imenti	uki/uuki	Kenya (Bantu)
Xhosa	iQhilika	South Africa (Bantu)
Maa	enaisho olotorok	Tanzania, Kenya (Nilo-Saharan)

Among the world's myriad languages, wine made from honey goes by many names. But two of them, with variations that adapt them to the features of each language, tend to dominate.

One common name is mead or its linguistic kin. The etymology of this word - through Greek, Latin and other ancient avenues - does nothing to suggest extra-Ethiopian influences on the word "t'ej." The second common name, somewhat more generic, is hydromel, which comes from two Greek words: "u'dro," meaning water, and "méli," meaning "honey." Simple enough. In fact, the modern French word for honey is miel, and the modern Italian word is miele. And then there's metheglin, a spiced mead. The word comes from Welsh and means "medicinal liquor." Not surprisingly, Ethiopians (and other cultures) have often used mead to soothes what ails them.

Variations of "mead" and "hydromel" are common among Indo-European languages (see the language chart with African and non-African languages added). In the west, the Spanish call it aguamiel ("agua" is the Spanish "hydro"). In the east, the Russians call it medovukha (clearly a variation of mead), and even the Indian language Sanskrit calls it medhu. In between, there's the Italian idromele, the Greek ydromeli, the Lithuanian and Latvian medus, the Danish and Norwegian mjød. The similarities to either mead or hydromel are apparent.

None of this helps to explain the origins of the Ethiopian word tej, nor of the other Ethiopian or African words for honey wine. This is certainly no surprise. It also reaffirms the theory that Africans began to cultivate honey and ferment it into wine without European influences.

Just as interesting is mes, the most widely known alternative name for tej because it's used in Tigrinya, the dominant language of Eritrea, which was once part of Ethiopia. The two countries share a lot of history, including the evolution of their Semitic languages, and both Amharic and Tigrinya are written with the same unique Ethiopian alphabet developed to write Ge'ez millennia ago.

The ancient language Ge'ez - the "Latin of Ethiopia," now extinct, except as the liturgical language of the Ethiopian Christian church - also called the beverage mes, and both modern Tigrinya and modern Tigré retain the word, derived from the Ge'ez cognate *mys. This is no surprise, especially in Tigré, the extant language closest to Ge'ez. Leslau, in his Comparative Dictionary of Ge'ez, relates mes to the Arabic mata, which means "mix well," and with the Old South Arabian myt, which means "wine." It seems quite likely that Ge'ez borrowd "myt" and transformed it into "mes," thus making the history of "mes" easier to trace than the history of "tej."

And notice the crossover of this Semitic word: Bilin, a Cushitic language of Eritrea, has borrowed mes, but older people also call it mid; and both Xamtanga (miz) and Awngi (mishi), Cushitic languages of Ethiopia, use forms of it as well. Notice, too, that these words are not so far from the English mead - perhaps a linguistic coincidence, as sometimes happens. Or perhaps not.

In fact, the many different names for honey wine across Ethiopia, [see the chart at right or its full version], where the country's myriad cultural and ethnic groups speak more than 80 languages, suggest that even separate Ethiopian cultures developed honey wine as their own traditions.

Most of Ethiopia's languages are classified in one of four language families: Semitic, Cushitic, Omotic and Nilo-Saharan (especially its Nilotic and Surmic sub-groups). Although Amharic is the official and most widely spoken language, it's the second language (by necessity) for many Ethiopians. In Tigrinya, a sister Semitic language to Amharic spoken in northern Ethiopia and Eritrea, the wine is called mes, as it is in Tigré, the language closest to ancient Ge'ez.

But there's another twist. In Afaan Oromo, the most widely spoken first language in the country, honey wine is called daad'ii, which isn't as divergent from tej as it may seem. In fact, the kinship between the two words may reflect a strain of Ethiopian history.

Some Cushitic linguists suggest that Amharic - the Semitic language that dominates the country, even though the Cushitic Oromo people and their language are more numerous - may have borrowed tej as an altered form of daad'ii. As noted earlier with the cognate *d'agay, the "d" has changed into a "t" and the "g" into a "j" in modern Semitic languages. But the Amharic "j" or "jj" (a long sound) can reflect, in some borrowed words, the evolution of a former Cushitic "dy" or "di" sound.

More evidence for this hypothesis: Why do the other major Semitic languages - Tigrinya and Tigré - retain the old Ethiosemitic mes for honey wine, but Amharic uses tej? Tigrinya and Tigré are spoken in northern Ethiopia and Eritrea, farther away from the central part of the country, where the Amhari and the Oromo met, mixed and, long ago, fought to control the country's cultural and lingistic destiny.

Using the Cushitic "daad'ii" as the cognate for "t'ej," this could be another possible evolutionary path:

Of course, this begs the question: Where did "daad'ii" come from? Could it, too, have come from the Semitic cognate *d'agay? In what direction did the borrowing go? We'll certainly never know. Still, if "tej" is an evolved form of "daad'ii," or even if "daad'ii" was an intermediate form, it could further show how the Amhari people have dominated the majority Oromo people in Ethiopian history, taking their name for honey wine and transforming it into the word known 'round the world. And if, as the linguist Max Weinreich wrote (quoting others), "a language is a dialect with an army and a navy," then the Amhari may have used language as another weapon to conquer their more numerous rivals.

Incidentally, the Oromo use the word booka for the yeast used to ferment their honey wine, and their best-quality daad'ii is daad'ii booka, with the yeast still in it. This is the type of daad'ii used at ceremonies. A few other Ethiopian Cushitic languages have borrowed booka or something similar for "honey wine."

Daad'ii is so revered in Oromo culture that the Macca Oromo of Wallagga, Ethiopia, have even written a song that sings its praises and alerts people to its dangers. In their 1996 essay "On Some Masqala and Daboo Songs of the Macca Oromo, Alessandro Triulzi and Tamene Bitima translate this paean to honey wine.

In the 1930s, the German researcher Carl Seyffert published a book on honey in Africa (see Chapter 7 below) in which he identifies three qualities of Oromo honey wine: hamtuu, the weakest (literally "bad, feminine"); boru, medium strength (literally "hard, heavy, thick"); and bekumu, the strongest (possibly from "beekuma," meaning "intelligence, ingenuity," or possibly a cognate for "booka," badly transliterated by a non-linguist). In Amharic, beteha refers to a mild tej that's not fully fermented or that might not have used enough gesho.

Other cultures have found other fermenting agents. The Majang people of Ethiopia use the bark of the mange tree to make ogool. The Anuak, a Nilotic people of Ethiopia, pound and dry the bark of three trees - the aromo, the buodho and the jaa - to make their strong ogool. The jaa, Kigelia aethiopica, is commonly called the "sausage tree" because of the shape of its seed pods. In the Democratic Republic of Congo, the Nandi people make a honey wine called kipketinik, a mixture of fermented honey and water flavored with the flower of the sausage tree.

To ferment their honey wine, called d'aadi, the Arbore people of Ethiopia use aar, which is made of sorghum sprouts. The word means "bull," a testament to its fortitude. When a household has d'aadi fermenting, the residents may not shout or fight in the house, and when the wine is ready to drink, the first taste always goes to the spirits of the family's ancestors.

Note, in the chart, how numerous Ethiopian languages have shared and borrowed their various words for honey wine. The Amharic t'ej becomes tajji in Silt'e, another Semitic language, and c'ajj in the Omotic language Zargulla. The Semitic language Inor retains the older dag'a, where the "d" sound doesn't morph into a "t." Sidama, Afar and Somali - Cushitic languages of Ethiopia's Moslem cultures - use forms of malb, their word for honey, to mean "honey wine." This and other alcoholic beverages are rare in Moslem communities. And whereas it's impossible to say how far a borrowed word can travel, the Chadian Nilo-Saharan language Kenga calls honey "tèèjè."

No doubt tej goes by numerous other names in small communities whose languages have yet to be fully documented, although many Ethiopian languages - Chaha, a dialect of the Semitic Gurage language, as well as about 15 other Gurage dialects, and even Cushitic and Omotic languages - borrow the Amharic word "tej." In fact, the word "tej" has taken additional forms in Amharic: In Addis Ababa, tejjam and tejjo refer to a drunkard, and tejete means to brew tej.

The information for the chart was provided by scholars of Ethiopian and African languages from around the world. Because Ethiopia wasn't the only culture to ferment honey, a fuller version of the chart includes the words for "honey wine" in many more non-Ethiopian languages, just to show how widespread the tradition of fermenting honey is. I welcome additions. Those pan-African honey wines aren't always exactly like tej, but they're certainly fermented in the same spirit.

Finally, a word about spelling. The orthography of transliteration is always a challenge with Ethiopian languages: Unique among millennia-old African tongues, Amharic has its own alphabet. But there's no standardized way to convert Amharic fidels (letters) into English, and many of the less widely spoken languages of the country only developed a written tradition, if they have one at all, when they came in contact with outside cultures. The Latin alphabet tends to dominate, although some African languages use Arabic script.

The orthography of the language chart is based upon the advice of linguists and their etymological dictionaries, and these many names for "honey wine" represent the best possible scholarly attempts to recreate their pronunciations in English. Sometimes the orthographic variations - especially in the word "tej" itself - seem insignificant, and linguists do disagree on some of them. But most of these words are so difficult to represent in our alphabet that only native speakers can truly hear - and correctly pronounce - the differences.

Excavations at Aksum, the first great civilization to emerge in what is now Ethiopia, have found accounts of the consumption of honey wine and its use in rituals. Aksum formed as early as 400 B.C. and collapsed in the 10th Century A.D., reaching its zenith in the fourth century A.D. under King Ezana, whose writings mention honey wine.

The Encyclopedia of World Environmental History says that tej is "thought to be one of the oldest alcoholic beverages ever produced," and B.S. Platt, in a 1955 article in the Proceedings of the Nutrition Society, wrote that "fermented honey drinks may have been the earliest alcoholic beverages known to man, and the discovery of them has been attributed to the Hamites." The German researcher Carl Seyffert's important 1930 study of honey and bees in Africa (see Chapter 8 below) documents the affection of African cultures for honey wine. The website gotmead.com, "your mead resource," tells the name for mead in numerous languages: After the Ethiopian entry "tej," it notes that this has been its name "since about 400 B.C.," a fact that linguists might dispute (see Chapter 2). No other country on the gotmead.com site bears a historical notation after its word for mead.

From Eva Crane's 1999 book, adapted from Carl Seyffert's 1930 book (see Chapter 8 below), a map showing where ancient Africans drank honey mixed with water. The key (red square) reveals that people in Ethiopia (blue square) added a fermenting agent to the beverage.

Eva Crane, in her 1999 book The World History of Beekeeping and Honey Hunting, tells us that the ancient Greek historian Strabo (63 B.C. - 24 A.D.) wrote about Troglodytes living in ancient Ethiopia. "Most of the people drink a brew of buckthorn," he reported, "but the tyrants drink a mixture of honey and water, the honey being pressed out of some kind of flower." According to Crane, Strabo doesn't specifically say that the Ethiopians fermented this drink. But gesho, the fermenting agent of tej, is a species of buckthorn, so fermentation must have taken place. (See map at left.) This may be the earliest reference to Ethiopians fermenting honey water with gesho.

"In many areas [of Africa], particularly in the east," Crane writes, "honey was fermented in water for a longer period, with the root of some other part of a specific plant which had been found to increase fermentation and thus give a higher alcohol content. One of the most famous of these drinks was tej or t'edj in Ethiopia; Christianity had arrived there in the 300s, and alcohol was not prohibited."

Crane notes that according to 16th Century European chronicles, Ethiopians added saddo wood (Rhamnus tsaddo) to cause fermentation. Gesho, of course, is Rhamnus prinoides, clearly kin to the fermenting plant observed by the Europeans.

In some Nilotic cultures, located largely in southwestern Ethiopia, people use sorghum beer and honey wine to anesthetize animals before a sacrifice. The Nyangatom, a Nilotic people of Ethiopia, once had a clan that did this. The Maasai, of Kenya and northern Tanzania, still employ the practice for their eunoto ceremony initiating senior warriors, during which they strangle the sacrificial animal with a leather waist cloth taken from a woman's garment.

One of the earliest written records of tej comes from inscriptions on stones translated in 1962 by the Dutch scholar A.J. Drewes in his book Inscriptions de l'Ethiopie Antique, which is written in French. His revelatory work requires no reading between the lines: The ancient Ge'ez inscriptions that he deciphers tell us explicitly what some proto-Ethiopians drank.

"Memorandum concerning the food of the royal court according to the law of the country," begins one text, written in the middle of the third century A.D., during the height of Aksum's power. The inscription goes on to describe the victuals: There's virgin mutton, virgin beef, honey, wheat, beer, a bucket of butter and - best of all - honey wine.

In Ge'ez, it's called mes, the word still used by Tigrinya today. But we know it as the intoxicating tej, and here we have proof that the Aksumites fermented it. The inscription says the mes came served in a gabata, which Drewes translates as sargato (a frying pan). Ethiopians today serve their wot-covered injera atop a large round plate called a gebeta.

Accounts from as early as the 16th Century, when European exploration of Abyssinia began in earnest, document the presence of this special honey wine, usually consumed only by Ethiopia's ruling elite. The production of tej surely predates those accounts by a millennium or more.

These historic chronicles, published in the 16th through early 20th centuries, offer many sweet tidbits about tej: its production and consumption, and its place in Ethiopian society. In the passages that follow, notice how the recipes differ in the proportions of honey to water, and how the authors describe slightly different fermentation processes: Some say, for example, to leave the mixture in the sun, while others say to keep it out of the sun.

Notice, too, that the name "tej" itself has numerous spellings in historic accounts, once again because there's no standardized way to transliterate Amharic. Gesho, too, is spelled in a variety of ways in the historic literature.

The writers all agree that only the privileged classes drank tej before its democratization in the 20th Century, and the servant who got a taste was a lucky one indeed (although sometimes he would taste it to confirm that it hadn't been poisoned). So important was tej to the highest of Ethiopian society that royal homes would have a tej azaj, or tej butler, in charge of the royal mead. Another recurring theme: the weakness of the warlike and capricious Emperor Theodorus (1855-1868) for tej. His affliction with drink helped to bring about his downfall and death.

Taken together, this body of writing by more than two dozen travellers creates a thorough portrait of tej in Ethiopian history. Most of the explorers even enjoyed the often potent potable, although some seemed almost embarrassed to admit it.

"The Ras [chief] insisted upon my dining with him every day," wrote the Scottish explorer James Bruce in his groundbreaking account of his time spent in Ethiopia in the 1770s, "when he was sure to give me a headache with the quantity of mead, or hydromel, he forced me to swallow, a liquor that never agreed with me from the first day to the last."

Theophilus Waldmeier, an English missionary, wrote in his 1866 memoir: "Raw beef is not always eaten, but it is liked by people; and honey wine (mead) is much appreciated, but all cannot afford to obtain it, which is no loss to them, as it is intoxicating." Four years later, Henry St. Clair Wilkins stops for a meal with his party in Takoonda and writes: "Here we partook of our own fare in contentment, after an ineffectual attempt to swallow some tej, the home-brew of the village." Charles Hindlip, another Englishman, writing in 1906, refers to "teg, the national drink made of honey, nasty and strong."

Rhamnus prinoides leaf, commonly called gesho

Clearly, tej is not a potable for all tastes. But most of the visitors found tej more to their liking than did Bruce, especially when enjoyed with spicy Ethiopian food.

The first Western account of Ethiopian culture was written and published in the 1530s by Father Francisco Alvares, a Portuguese priest who spent six years in Ethiopia with a mission from his country. He seemed to enjoy tej more than his Scottish counterpart of two centuries later. "They make wine from many seeds," Alvares wrote, "and the wine of honey is much the best of all." He reported that this wine "walked about with great fury, the mistress of the house, concealed behind a curtain, taking her own share."

Later, the cleric recalls a celebration and a most generous host:

The ceremonial, presentation and welcome all over-flowed with drink. He had near him four large jars of very good mead, and with each jar a goblet of crystalline glass. We began to drink, and his wife and two other women who were with her helped us well. They would not leave us until the jars were finished; each jar held six or seven canadas, and yet he ordered more be brought, saying that he would not let them go if we did not drink more. We left him for good reasons, saying we were going away to relieve ourselves.

That 16th Century Portuguese pastor apparently used a different translation of the Bible than Robert Moss Ormerod, the 19th Century Briton who, upon visiting Ethiopia, declared: "This honey-wine is the obstacle here to the progress of Christianity. Total abstinence on the part of missionary and people is indespensible." He was, of course, quite wrong: Ethiopians today enjoy both Christianity and tej.

Jeronimo Lobo, another Portuguese explorer of the 16th Century, observed that "the common drink of the Abyssins is beer and mead, which they drink to excess when they visit one another; nor can there be a greater offence against good manners than to let the guests go away sober: their liquor is always presented by a servant, who drinks first himself, and then gives the cup to the company, in the order of their quality." Of some time spent with an Ethiopian monk, he reported: "Having invited him to sup and pass the night with me, I set before him some excellent mead, which he liked so well as to drink somewhat beyond the bounds of exact temperance."

In his seminal 1684 history of Ethiopia, the German scholar Job Ludolphus makes brief but appreciative mention of tej. After discussing the nation's food and its preparation, he observes:

Their drink is somewhat more dainty, and is the glory and consummation of their feasts, for so far they still retain the custom of many of the ancients, that as soon as the table is clear'd, they fall to drinking, having always this proverb in their mouths, That it is the useful way to plant first, and then to water. They drink themselves up to a merry pitch, and till their tongues run before their wit, and never give off till the drink be all out. They make excellent hydromel by reason of their plenty of honey, which inebriates like wine. They call it tzed; they make it smaller for their families, mixing six parts of wine, with one of water.

Hormuzd Rassam, in his 1869 book, had two experiences with tej. Early in his journey, he writes that his host "brought me, as an introductory present, a horn of téj - mead, the common beverage of the upper classes in Abyssinia - which, by the way, was as sour as vinegar." But later, before an early morning meeting with Emperor Theorodus, "his Majesty sent me a large glass bottle containing about three gallons of very old and clear téj, which he requested me to drink for his sake. He was aware, he said, that I was not partial to such beverages, nevertheless as the téj was coeval with his reign he wished me to try it, and to give my opinion of its quality. I drank a little to satisfy him, and found it much superior to any liquor I had hitherto tasted in the country." This demonstrates the important of the tej-maker, and once again reaffirms Theordorus' affection for his tej.

An 1872 issue of the National Sunday School Magazine offers a squib on the coronation of Yohannes, citing to a volume of tej that seems more like lore than fact: "Prince Kassa of Tigre, entitled 'King of Kings of Ethiopia, by the will of the people of Abyssinia,' has been crowned Youarnisse [Yohannes], otherwise John, Emperor of Ethiopia. There were upwards of 300,000 people present. The camp reached for about eight miles. The plain of Axum was covered, and the feast lasted for ten days. Sheds were built, reaching nearly a mile, where all the people feasted. About 20,000 cows were killed, and 40,000 gallons of honey-wine drank."

Emperor Menelik II honored his guests with copious tej Click to enlarge

Edward Gleichen, a traveler from fin-de-siècle England, wrote in 1898 that during a meal with Emperor Menelik, a maid-servant "proceeded to hand them the tej in small flagons, over which a piece of rag was thrown to keep away the evil eye. At the conclusion of this repast, a species of native spirit distilled from honey and flavoured with aniseed was handed around. This is a most potent liquor." He is probably referring to araki/areque, a sort of Ethiopian ouzo. "Tej is extremely popular with all ranks," he adds, "but it is only the middle and upper classes who can afford it. It is decidedly intoxicating, and the apostles of temperance, were they to visit the country, would find their work cut out for them." Later, he says more about tej in this excellent account of its varieties:

For the benefit of those who do not know tej, I must explain that it is the drink of the upper classes of the country; it is made by fermenting honey and hops and water together, and this process produces a strange-tasting drink rather like a bitter cider, and intoxicating, distinctly. The brands of tej differ according to the locality: Ras Makunnen's [father of Hayle Selasse] best tastes like sweet, strong old Madeira, and Menelik's like still hock, whilst the inferior kinds vary between bad sherry and sourish water with dead bees and lumps of wax and bark and earth floating in it. The lower classes drink talla, a sort of weak beer, made out of barley, which tastes just like what it is - inferior barley-water with beery reminiscences.

A little later we were rather startled by a message from his Majesty informing us that he would come to see us. Though we did our best to dissuade him from such a step, he soon afterwards came, accompanied by some slaves carrying arrack [araki] and tej. He said, "Even my wife told me not to go out, but I could not leave you in grief, so I have come to drink with you." On that he had the arrack and tej presented to all of us, himself setting the example.

Commenting on a mission to Abyssinia 20 years earlier by the Rev. Samuel Gobat, Blanc makes this secular observation: "He travelled over the country for three years, preaching, discussing with the debteras [literates] and priests, who, for a glass or two of tej (mead), made him every possible concession, and overwhelmed him with exaggerated eulogies, which he has jotted down in his journal with inconceivable naiveté." Then, Blanc recounts this fascinating story about what the working class will risk for a taste of tej:

On one occasion a soldier who was on guard crept near the queen's tent, and, taking advantage of the darkness of night, whispered to one the female attendants to pass him a glass of tej under the tent. She gave him one. Unfortunately, he was seen by a eunuch, who seized him, and at once brought him before his Majesty. After hearing the case, Theodore, who happened to be in good spirits that evening, asked the culprit if he was very fond of tej; the trembling wretch replied in the affirmative. "Well, give him two wanchas [a large horn cup] full to make him happy, and afterwards fifty hashes with the giraf [a long hippopotamus whip] to teach him another time not to go near the queen's tent. Evidently, Theodore, with a large experience of the beau sexe of his country, was profoundly convinced that his precautions were necessary.

In the village of Beatmohar, in 1876, Robert Bourke visits a European friend, gets a taste of tej - and confirms once again the predilection of the emperor:

Kirkham at once produced some honey-wine, called "tej" in Abyssinia; it was excellent, and proved very refreshing after our ride. "Tej" is made in the following way: to one part of honey are added seven parts of water, and well mixed; then some leaves of a plant called "geshoo" are put into the mixture, to make it ferment; it is put outside in the shade and left for a day or two. A piece of cotton cloth is strained over the mouth of the large earthenware jar, or "gumbo," and through this the "tej" is poured; the servant tapping the cloth with his fingers to make the liquid run freely. It one wants to make it stronger, the first brew is used instead of the water; adding honey and geshoo leaves in the same way. In the time of King Theodore that monarch had tej five years old, which made any one drink in a very short time. But those were the "good old times" which we read of.

Emperor Theodorus, who became a slave to tej Click to enlarge

The German explorer Heinrich Thiersch, writing in 1885, didn't quite consider tej to be wine and offered this brief observation: "Another snare for [King] Theodore was that referred to in the Proverbs of Solomon, xxxi, 4, 5: 'It is not for kings to drink wine; nor for princes strong drink: lest they drink, and forget the law, and pervert the judgment of any of the afflicted.' There is no wine in Abyssinia; for where the palm-tree begins to flourish, the grape-vine ceases to grow. But in its place is the fermented honey-wine (tetsch), and brandy is but too well known. Theodore became a slave to these pleasures, and thereby a slave to anger and a spirit of revenge."

But not only kings lost their heads from tej. In this 1885 anecdote about Ethiopian weddings, from The Illustrated English Magazine, we learn that "on the bridal night a most novel custom is observed by groomsmen - they occupy the bridal chamber with the married pair. This, no doubt, is in case the husband, taking too much tedge, begins to quarrel so early in the honeymoon, they are there to keep matters amicable."

In an 1856 account, the legendary explorer Sir Richard Burton affords tej this lengthy footnote:

This is the Abyssinian "Tej," a word so strange to European organs, that some authors write it "Zatah." At Harar it is made of honey dissolved in about fifteen parts of hot water, strained and fermented for seven days with the bark of a tree called Kudidah; when the operation is to be hurried, the vessel is placed near the fire. Ignorant African can ferment, not distil, yet it must be owned she is skilful in her rude art. Every traveller has praised the honey-wine of the Highlands, and some have not scrupled to prefer it to champagne. It exhilarates, excites and acts as an aphrodisiac; the consequence is that at Harar all men, pagans and sages, priests and rulers, drink it.

Henry Dufton's 1867 account of his time in Emperor Theorodus' Ethiopia again confirms the necessity of enjoying tej if you want to conduct diplomacy with the locals: "Before proceeding to business we were well supplied with tedge or honey-wine, which was followed by the strong arracky of the country, neat; so that before the interview was over we, who had not touched strong waters for a long period, were slightly affected by them. We should assuredly have refused to drink, especially the arracky, but were afraid of giving offence." He later reports that the time of day made no difference to his hosts: "We were now well supplied with arracky and tedge (honey-wine) in the drinking line, as well as with a plain breakfast of teff bread and stewed meat to satisfy the more solid demands of hunger." Finally, there's this lengthier account:

The entrance of [the governor] was the signal for the circulation of hydromel or tedge. This was kept in large gumbos or stone jars with narrow necks, covered with a piece of cotton-cloth, through which to drain it, so that the leaves of the gesho, a plant used in the making of the wine, may not pass through. From these gumbos it is poured into narrow-necked Venetian flasks called barillyè, these being preferred to glasses as the dust and flies are thus excluded in a great measure. Notwithstanding this advantage pertaining to the barillyè, in a great man's house it is not uncommon to see coloured glass tumblers, which, being scarce and expensive, are considered articles of luxury. The servant, after presenting the tedge, always holds out the hollow of his hand, which the receiver fills with wine, and sees the servant drink before he will taste himself - is it a provision against poison. The Abyssinians also present and receive everything with both hands, even if it be a pinch of snuff; they have a peculiar fondness for snuff, taking it into the mouth in preference to the nose.

Samuel White Baker offers an account of tej in his 1868 book about a visit to Abyssinia, although his transliteration of a key component in the wine is more than a bit off:

I paid all my Tokrooris their wages, and I gave them an entertainment after their own taste, by puchasing several enormous bowls of honey wine. The Abyssinians are celebrated for this drink, which is known as "tetch." It is made of various strengths; that of good quality should contain, in ten parts, two of honey and eight of water; but, for a light wine, one of honey and nine of water is very agreeable. There is a plant of an intoxicating quality known by the Abyssinians as "jershooa" [gesho], the leaves of which are added to the tetch while in a state of fermentation; a strong infusion of these leaves will render the tetch exceedingly heady, but without this admixture the honey wine is by no means powerful. In our subsequent journey in Central Africa, I frequently made the tetch by a mixture of honey and water, flavoured with wild thyme and powdered ginger; fermentation was quickly produced by the addition of yeast from the native beer, and the wine, after six of eight days, became excellent, but never very strong, as we could not procure the leaves of the jershooa.

Inside an Ethiopian tej bet ("house") See a slide show of tej bet images

Martim de Albuquerque, a French writer, offered this tidbit in 1907:

The epithet of "dry" or "sec" is not only applied to European intoxicants. The favourite drink of the upper classes in Abyssinia is a kind of mead, called tej, which is composed of honey mixed with water, and allowed to ferment. For ordinary drinking tej, one part of honey to seven or eight of water is considered sufficient, and in this a slightly bitter herb, called geshu, which answers in some ways to hops, is infused. A stronger quality, from which araki, the spirit of the country, is distilled, is manufactured from one part of honey to three of water, with a stronger infusion of geshu. This mixture, in which the sugar is not apparent to the taste, is known as yedaraka [derek] tej, or literally dry tej.

Curiously, large portions of this passage appeared verbatim in a squib on tej in a 1908 issue of the magazine Notes and Queries. The magazine entry was signed by W.F. Prideaux. Unless that was a pseudonym for Martim de Albuquerque, the squib is clearly plagiarism by modern standards.

Herbert Vivian, a Briton visiting Ethiopia in 1901, noted the enormous number of servants present in the homes of the wealthiest Ethiopians. He observed: "Every retainer has his own duties, and will under no circumstances consent to do any others at all. In a big household one man looks after the tej and nothing else, another concerns himself only with the guns, another is merely treasurer, another has charge of certain animals. In fact there is an infinite division of labour."

Arthur J. Hayes, a doctor visiting Ethiopia in 1905, was once called upon to treat a tej-related ailment. After recounting the tale of a satisfied patient, he tells us:

Another Habash found me less satisfactory as a physician. He had come to ask what medicine he could take to cure the headache caused by tedj. Now, tedj is the beer, or mead, of the country; it is made from fermented barley, and flavoured with honey diluted in the proportion of one part to three parts of water. It is a very heady - and, to the Europeans, a most nasty - drink, and the Abyssinians consume enormous quantities of it. Parkyns was told of a man who swallowed twenty-six pints at a sitting, on the occasion of a wedding-feast at which the English traveler was present. But he regarded this statement as "a stretcher." I told the inquirer that the one and only prescription was not to drink tedj, and thereupon the little audience of his fellow-countrymen enjoyed a laugh at his expense.

Then, in a footnote to this tale, Hayes says: "I do not know whether the women drink much tedj, but even the ladies of the land did so in Bruce's time." He goes on to describe a bacchanalian feast, taken from Bruce's 18th Century writing, in which the women ate, smoked and drank on par with the men. He concludes: "And as there is a complete absence of gêne [embarrassment] in the conduct of modern Abyssinian women in other respects, I have little doubt that they still favour the tedj when the mood prompts them."

These parchments, hand-painted on cow hide, show two scenes of Ethiopian life related to tej. In the top scene, Ethiopians enjoy a traditional meal around two mesobs. Notice the berele with tej. In the bottom scene, some Ethiopians pound gesho - that is, grind the leaf into a fine power for use in making tej.

In Montagu Wellby's 1901 book on Ethiopia, the author learns about "the national drink" at a bakery/brewery in Harar:

Adjoining the bakery were the "tej" brewers. To drink tej is the highest bliss of some Abyssinians; it is one of the main objects of their existence. Without tej and without women life would be a blank to them. The process of making it is simple enough. Water and honey, in proportions of 5 to 1, are mixed together, and to this is added an infusion of the leaves of the geichi bush, which gives the drink its intoxicating strength. The longer this mixture stands, the stronger it becomes, till finally the essence of tej - known as araki - is distilled from it. The women employed in its manufacturing were generous enough with their offerings, pouring first a little into their own hands to drink, and then handing me the glass.

In 1904, Philip Maud published a piece in National Geographic about his trip to Ethiopia and recalled a meal served to his party by a district governor. "Serving-men plied us with 'tej,' the national drink of Abyssinia, which is made from honey," he wrote. "Old 'tej' is very heady, but not unpleasant in taste. Abyssinians of importance never travel without their 'tej" women. These ladies make the 'tej' in camp, and carry it on the march."

Dutch explorer Benjamin Nachenius encountered tej, which he noted is called "mes" in Tigrinya. He then explained how it's made, noting that one must "knead" the honey/water mixture by hand before letting it sit in the sun for several days:

Slechts de honigwijn (in het Amahrignan "tetch" en in het Tigrinya "mees" genoemd) was met heel veel zorg bereid en van uitmuntende kwaliteit. Deze hyonigwijn wordt door de Abyssiniërs op de volgende wijze bereid. In een grooten aarden pot wordt tegen één deel honig drie à vier deelen water gemengd en dit goed met de handen door elkaar gewerkt en gekneed; daarna voegen zij daarby den wortel (voor de mindere kwaliteit) of de bladeren (voor de beste soort) van eene plant door hen "geessho" genaamd, waarna de pot hermetisch gesloten wordt en gedurende drie à vier dagen aan de warmte van de zon blootgesteld. Na verloop van dien tijd heeft de gisting voldoende plaats gehad en heeft de tetch zijnen eigenaardigen half zoeten, half rinschen smaak verkregen en is daarbij koppiger geworden dan de meeste zware wijnen. De Abyssiniërs weten er ook een sterken araki of brandewijn uit te stoken. [Read an English translation of the passage.]

Octave-Ernest Collat, a French explorer, offers a brief anecdote that confirms, as late as 1906, other accounts of drinking tej: "Dans les festins, un domestique place à côté de chaque convive une petite carafe appelée 'berille,' pleine de 'tetch,' dont il se verse dans la main les premières gouttes pour témoigner en les buvant de l'absence de tout maléfice." In other words: "At feasts, a servant places beside each guest a small carafe called a 'berille,' full of 'tetch,' of which he pours in the hand the first drops to testify by drinking them of the absence of any evil spell."

The Italian explorer Matteucci Pellegrino visited Abyssinia in 1880 and confirmed some of the properties of the wine:

É incre dibile la quantità di tec che beve un ricco abissino specialmente in fin di tavola. Il tec o idromele è la bevanda più favorita in Abissinia. Essa si compone di miele, acqua e ghisció. Si scioglie il miele nell'acqua, la quale deve essere in tal quantità da diluirlo interamente e da produrre un liquido chiaro e poco dolce. Fatta questa prima mescolanza, si prendono delle foglie di ghisció rasciugate al sole, e si pongono sopra il fuoco in un meetad, per farle leggermente abbrustolire. È bevanda piacevole al gusto, se il ghisció non è soverchio, ma se ve n'ha di troppo non è piacevole, riscalda gli intestini ed inebria. [Read an English translation of the passage.]

A somewhat patronizing and slightly unappetizing account of tej comes from Edward Randolph Emerson's 1908 guide Beverages Past and Present:

On state and formal occasions [in Ethiopia] it is the practice to serve tedj in brillas. A brilla is a round glass bottle with a long slim neck, and an absurdly small orifice; it holds about a pint and somewhat resembles a wine decanter. Owing to the small throat it takes considerable time to fill them but on the other hand it cannot be said that the expert - and every Abyssinian is an adept - is very long in emptying it; the novice, however, finds it no simple task, for when the brilla is elevated above a certain angle the liquor refuses to flow, and again if the lips are too tightly closed over the neck the progress of the fluid is materially hindered. When the tedj-bearer comes around, after pouring a little into his left hand and drinking, he passes the brilla to the guest, who immediately takes a sip and then, placing his thumb over his mouth, he retains it until he has finished its contents, and calls for another or as many as he desires. There is no limit placed upon the number a man may drink and if he is overcome nothing is thought of it, excepting, perhaps, by the individual the next day.

At first sight the use of the brilla seems rather strange, but when it is looked into more closely, it is seen these people have solved quite a difficult problem, and the practice shows a degree of niceness that one would hardly expect to find in a people of their character and environments. It there is any other country that has more flies in it than Abyssinia the traveler will do well to stay away from it. No matter in what part of the land you may visit there will be flies so thick it is almost impossible to eat without getting them in the food, and tedj, being made from honey, is sweet and of course more than usually attractive to these pests. If the liquor is poured into a glass it would necessitate the immediate drinking of the whole amount and, even if that was done, the chances would be that a fly had managed to gain access to it before it had all gone down the drinker's throat. On the other hand with the use of the brilla all this annoyance and trouble is obviated. The brilla is held in the hand with the thumb over its mouth, and conversation proceeds with only a momentary interruption now and then, caused by raising the bottle to the lips.

Emperor Melelik II's receptions always flowed with tej Click to enlarge

This raises the subject of the tej drinking vessel the berele (or "brilla" as Emerson writes it). In ancient times through the 19th Century, tej would often be served in cups carved out of animal horns. Theodore J. Bent's 1896 account is one of many: "We paid daily visits to Abyssinian houses during our stay in Asmara, and got to know some of the people quite well. They would give us tedge or hydromel out of great horn cups - horns which in the first instance must have been of enormous dimensions, and which, as we got into the interior, we found every chief had, out of which to regale his guests with mead. These horn cups on journeys they carry in stamped leather cases, and hang to the saddles of their mules."

But Robert Peet Skinner, writing a decade later, begins to document the emergence of more modern methods of enjoying tej. At a banquet, "serving men with large baskets kept the good things going, and others passed tall blue enameled drinking-cups filled with tedj. In the good old days the drinking-cups were of horn, but modernism 'made in Germany' has obliterated at last this vestige of the Biblical civilization of Ethiopia. So great was the demand for tedj that a pump forced it through a pipe, under the end of which one cup replaced another, as soon as the one preceding was full."

In 1877, the Frenchman Emilius Cosson offers this delectable tale of an Abyssinian feast - an important rule of tej:

The old chief received us very courteously, and motioned us to sit down on the sofa at his side, the rest of the company arranging themselves on the ground at his feet, while the servants and soldiers stood in a row around the wall. A large earthen jar of tedge (mead) was now brought in, and several glass bottles in wicker cases. They were taken out, filled, and handed to the guests, who were not slow in emptying them in the primitive fashion, for there were no glasses. In Abyssinia it is considered polite to drink at least two bottles of tedge at a visit, but you are at liberty to pass the bottle when half empty to a favourite servant, for him to finish. A good tedge is rather heady, so we always took care, when out visiting, to keep a native servant, with a steady head, standing behind us, for the special purpose of emptying our bottles, a duty which it seemed to give the greatest satisfaction to perform.

The Abyssinians hold to the ancient rule which forbids the mixing of cups and council together, and it is not their custom to discuss any serious subject while drinking tedge; things which would give grave offence, if said before drinking, are accepted as merely banter under the genial influences of the mead; chaff and jest are therefore freely indulged in at these feasts. This custom, however, renders it a very difficult matter to induce an Abyssinian to talk seriously, as he is sure to try to put off the trouble of so doing by sending for the tedge horn, after the arrival of which, it is useless to try to make him talk sense.

On another leg of his visit, in the village of Guddofelassie, Cosson learned more about the customs that surround tej:

It was not long before the shoum, or chief of the village, came to offer us a present of tedge (mead), which he brought in glass bottles carefully encased in wicker-work, for bottles are precious things in Africa.

When an Abyssinian servant offers his master tedge, he makes a cup of his two hands, and expects to have some of it poured into them for him to drink; this is his perquisite, and it also serves as a guarantee that the liquor has not been poisoned. The same custom prevailed in Europe in the middle ages, when every nobleman had his "taster," only the Abyssinian drinks out of his hand, as he does not know the art of poisoning the edge of a cup, and it would be considered highly disrespectful for a slave to touch his master's drinking horn with his lips.

A 2004 stamp of R. prinoides

In his 1881 book about a visit to Abyssinia, William Winstanley writes at length about tej and its preparation:

I have not hitherto described how the honey wine in general use among the upper classes is made, and as I engaged a native servant, Baldo Mariam, who was specially skilled in its manufacture, I will now proceed to impart this information. The component proportions vary from one of honey to four or eight of water. I cannot recommend the latter strength myself, and never made it weaker than one to five. These are placed in a jar, and exposed to the rays of the sun for one or two days, herbs possessed of a bitter flavour (gesho) being previously added, and it is in the quality of these herbs used, and the time they are allowed to remain in the wine, that the great difference in flavour consists. I constantly fancied that the wine offered me was not sweet enough, whereas it would of course be ordinarily the impression that hyrdromel must be necessarily very sweet. The fluid, if made originally strong, is improved by keeping, and will remain good for months; it ought not in any case to be consumed in less than a week later its manufacture.

The quantities drunk by natives struck me as prodigious. It affects the head, and occasions stupefaction, but the exhilaration produced by lighter grape-wine is wanting, and quarrelsomeness and stupidity are the usual sequences of over-indulgence; that it can produce nausea and headache I am prepared to vouch. The Abyssinian is very convivial by disposition, and passionately attached to intoxicating beverages.

Charles Johnston published two volumes in 1844 of his extensive travel through Ethiopia, and he devoted two pages to his discussion of tej, beginning with its medicinal value. Notice that Johnston - perhaps because he didn't understand Amharic well enough, or because his translator wasn't clear - seems to mistake a "barilla" (berele) for a particular type of highly fermented tej.

After the reaction following the hot stage of the fever, I felt quite certain a horn or two of "tedge" honey wine would not do me any injury. My servant soon breasted the high hill, and fortunately just in time to find a person in authority, who, immediately he was shown my durgo order, procured a large bullock's horn full of the sweet wine. The manufacture of tedge or honey wine is a royal monopoly, and is not publicly sold; of course there is a kind of conventional license, not exactly smuggling, by which, for double or treble its value, this beverage may be obtained. Even then the purchased article is probably the rations that have been preserved by some carefully disposed guest of the monarch, who, pouring his daily allowance of the bullock's hornfull into a large jar, collects a stock for a day of rejoicing or for private sale.

Tej server in Ethiopia filling a berele

The process of brewing tedge is simple enough; cold water being poured over a few small drinking hornsfull of honey placed in a jar, is well stirred up; to this is then added a handful of sprouted barley, "biccalo," scorched over the fire, and ground into a course meal, with the same quantity of the leaves of the "gaisho," a species of Rhamnae, not unlike the common tea plant, and an intense but transient bitter like gentian or hops. The mixture being allowed to stand for three or four days, ferments, and is generally drunk in that state, but is then rather a queer kind of muddy beverage, full of little flocculent pieces of wax. It is more agreeable, but not unlike, in appearance or character, very strong sweet-wort. To a superior kind, made for the King's own table, besides the "biccalo" and "gaisho," is also added a kind of berry called "kuloh," which grows not unlike the fruit of our elderberry, and may possible be the production of some tree belonging to that species.

The jars containing this are sealed with a large cake of clay mixed with the lees of the decanted liquor. This kind of tedge is allowed to stand for several months before it is used, and is called "barilla," from always being handed to guests in small Venetian bottles of green glass, the fracture of one of which is a grievous offence with his Shoan Majesty, and he always makes the careless party pay for it.

In his 1892 book Drinks of the World, James Mew has an entry on tej, suspiciously taken from Johnston's 1844 account because it mistakes a "barilla," the drinking vessel, for a type of tej:

Taidge or Tedge or Tej is a kind of honey wine or hydromel, said by Father Poncet to be a delicious liquor, pure, clarified, and of the colour of Spanish white wine. The process of its manufacture is simple. Wild honey is mixed with water, and set in a jar, with a little sprouted barley, some biccalo or taddoo bark, and few geso or guécho leaves. A superior kind is made by adding kuloh berries. This is called barilla. The taste of tedge has been described as that of small beer or musty lemonade. The women commonly strain it through shifts.

Mansfield Parkyns, in his 1868 account, once calls the wine by its Tigrinya name. Speaking of how Ethiopians make the festive ambasha bread, he writes: "To make it a stiff dough, as in Europe, it is first generally leavened by the addition of a little 'mése' (honey wine) or beer, for they understand little of the art of kneading." Parkyns did spend time in the northern Tigrai region, where Tigrinya is spoken, so his reference to "mes" (as we now spell it) makes some sense.

Parkyns also shares an anecdote about a medicinal purpose for tej. He reports that tapeworms are a very common condition in Abyssinia, and after describing the bark used as a partial remedy, he turns to part two of the treatment: "About noon, when it [the bark] has taken the required effect, a good quantity of beer or tedge is considered beneficial, on which account, if the sufferer be a servant, he begs for a supply from his master, or any friends who may be dining with him; coming round at meals, holding in his hand a small cross made of two bits of stick or straw, and exclaiming, 'For the sake of Mary, for the sake of the Savior,' &c., when a horn of liquor is usually given him."

But Parkyns' most detailed discussion of tej was so good that it bore repeating. William Dalton's fanciful 1865 book The Tiger Prince reads like a novel, with dialogue between its characters and stories that feel as embellished as they do real. Dalton visited Ethiopia at the same time as Parkyns, and in The Tiger Prince, Parkyns appears as a character and narrates a two-page tale of tej taken word for word from his own book, although Dalton does use "quotation marks" in presenting the passage. It's an extraordinary account of a feast, the most vivid documentation of the interplay between the Abyssinian gentry and their servants during a tej-drinking ceremony. As told by Dalton, Parkyns' story begins when a "great jar of mead" arrives in the banquet hall, a jar so large that

one man cannot possibly carry it. Its mouth is covered with a piece of rag, drawn tight over it as a strainer, to prevent bits of wax, bark, and other extraneous matters from falling into the drinking-vessels when the mead is poured out. These vessels are the wanchas, or horns, common tumblers, and a sort of bottle from Venice, called brillé. The office of pouring out the mead devolved on one of the logonamy, who brings in the jar. He supports it under his arm, raising and lowering it to fill the wancha, which is held by another servant, called the fellaky, who keeps tapping or scratching the rag with his fingers, to facilitate a free flow of the liquor. Under the mouth of the jar is a bowl to catch the droppings. It is easy for this functionary to appropriate to himself one glass out of every five or six, if he knows how to arrange matters with the logonamy, who holds the jar, so that he may keep pouring on a little after each vessel is filled. Besides this, he has the right of emptying into his reservoir about one inch of the liquor from every wancha filled (which is a great deal, as they are very broad at the mouth, and narrow downwards), and from every brillé, or bottle, two inches.

In Dalton's book, cultures unite as revelers dance, invigorated by tej Click to enlarge

The first horn poured out is drunk by the logonamy, who holds the jar, and the second by the tedge melkernia, who has the superintendency of the brewery; the fellaky then arranges the horns on the ground near him as fast as they are filled, and the asalafy, or waiter, takes them up, drinks one himself, presents one to the master of the house, and afterward hands them round to the company. Before offering a glass to any one, the waiter pours a little of the contents into his left hand and drinks it off; this is to allow that the mead is not poisoned. Ordinary persons drink about two thirds, the remainder being the perquisite of the waiter, who, as soon as the glass is returned, drinks off the content. He would not, however, presume to put his master's cup to his lips, but, raising it above his head, pours the contents into his mouth from a distance. This feat is rather difficult to perform; for if he has not the knack of letting the mead flow straight down his throat without attempting to swallow it, he must choke; and if he has not the dexterity to give a right direction to the stream, it will probably be spilt down his neck. If it be a wancha, it is still more difficult to manage, on account of the depth of its mouth.

It may be readily imagined that, at a large party, all these tops and bottoms of glasses would form together a considerable quantity, and that the servant would have as much as he could do to carry himself, to say nothing of the glasses, were he to drink all that falls to his share; so he either distributed it among his fellow-servants, or collects it in a bowl for a great tipple with his friends in the evening.

Finally, Parkyns' narrative ends, and Dalton concludes the tale in his own voice: "Not a word was spoken during the eating. The copious draughts of mead, however, let loose the company's tongues, and so far, and at such random did they now run, I may say that they had all run into one; producing a din that might have been heard a mile away, their voices being as loud as their appetites were strong. So copiously, however, did they drink, that, in a very short time, what with their feeding and libations, the great din must have subsided into a blended, and, certainly, not very harmonious snoring."

Gerald Portal, writing in 1898, offers this long detailed account of tej, which he also refers to as "mése," noting its regional connection. His tale is rife with the classism associated with tej and Ethiopian culture of the era:

A few minutes later presents arrived, consisting of two sheep, which I did not want, and a most welcome jar of "tedge," a fermented drink greatly prized and drunk in large quantities by the Abyssinian aristocracy.

This tedge, or "mése," as it is called in some parts of Tigré, when well made, is by no means disagreeable to the European palate, being not unlike new cider; but it varies greatly according to the taste of the chief for whom it is brewed. Its composition is as follows: one part of honey is mixed with about five or six parts of water, and well kneaded about with the hands, until the honey is thoroughly in solution. This mixture is poured into a large but narrow-mouthed earthen jar called a gumbo, into which are then put a quantity of the leaves of a bitter herb called gesho, in appearance not unlike tamarind leaves; sometimes instead of these leaves a smaller quantity of tsaddoo, or bitter bark, is used. The mouth of the jar is then covered with a cotton cloth, and the liquid is left to ferment for two or three days. The fermentation begins within a very short time, and is apparently very violent in its action.

Emperor Menelik II Click to enlarge

At the end of three or four days, or even less if the weather is warm, the tedge is ready for drinking, and in a great man's house is usually first poured through a cotton strainger into a large hollow cowhorn or buffalo-horn. This horn is then brought by slaves into the presence of the chief and his honored guests, and the tedge is again poured into narrow-necked glass flasks like small decanters, holding about a pint, from which it is not very easy to drink gracefully, but which have the advantage of excluding most of the dust and flies.

Tedge can, of course, be made sweet or bitter according to taste, by regulating the proportions of honey and of the bitter leaves, while its strength for intoxicating purposes increases in proportion to its bitterness. We noticed during our journey that the bitterness of the tedge varied, as a rule, according to the social standing of our host. Thus, Ras Alulu and the king himself liked their tedge very "dry" or even "brut" - too dry, in fact, for our foreign tastes; whereas most of the ordinary chiefs of districts and commanders of divisions gave us a sweeter and, to our taste, more welcome brew.

When, in any chief's house or tent in Abyssinia, the slave brings in the jar or horn of tedge, he pours it at once into the narrow-necked flasks, the first of which he then takes to his master, to whom he presents it with both hands and with bowed head; the slave then makes a sort of cup of the palm of his hands, which is invaraibly filled from the flask by the master, who sees his servant drink these few mouthfuls before he will touch it himself or offer it to a guest. This is a safeguard against poison, but although in many cases it is quite unnecessary, it would be a grave breach of etiquette to omit any part of the ceremony; and to offer a cup of wine to a stranger without it being previously tasted in his presence would be a manque de tacte which might lead to serious complications.

A berele, c. 1899, in a book by the Russian A.K. Bulatovich (Click to enlarge)

The privilege of making tedge is restricted to persons of rank and position, and any common soldier or person of lower orders convicted of encroaching on the privileges of the aristocracy of Abyssinia would have to pass through some very unpleasent moments before being considered to have purged his offence. This excellent and sanitary law was made by the late King Theodore, who argued that the chiefs and upper classes could be expected to have self-control and be trusted not to drink too much of the intoxicating liquor, where the lower orders, if allowed to make or drink tedge, would not know when to stop, and would seize every opportunity of getting drunk and of reducing themselves to the level of the beasts whom in many characteristics they already so nearly resemble.

Frederic Villiers, a "war artist and correspondent" (according to his books), published an account of tej in 1921 with some phrases that sound suspiciously like Portal's 1898 account. Decide for yourself:

Tedge, or mêsé, as it is sometimes called, is not unlike new cider. One part of honey is mixed with about six parts of water and stirred until completely dissolved. Then it is poured into a narrow-neck earthen jar and a bitter herb called sesho, the bark of the traddo tree, is added. The liquid is then left to ferment and at the end of four days it is ready for consumption. For a snappy drink I can highly recommend tedge. It is strained through cotton cloth, tied round the mouth of the earthen jar into cow horn, which are used as drinking utensils. The beverage can be made sweet or bitter according to taste, and is most refreshing and sometimes very potent - especially the bitter variety. I think this would satisfy some people in these prohibition days who like to have a "snap" in their drink, for with perseverance one could get quite forward on sufficient horns of tedge.

This so-called barbarous land had drastic liquor laws long before the most civilized countries of Europe and America ever thought of them. In Theodore's reign in 1868 the common people were not allowed to make tedge because their Emperor came to the conclusion that they did not get drunk like gentlemen, but made beasts of themselves and quarreled in their cups. The drink which he permitted the lower classes to have is less harmful to the human stomach than near-beer. It is made from toasted bread soaked in water and sweetened with honey and, like tedge, strained into earthen jars. This drink, I am told, resembles an old fifteenth-century beverage in England called mead.

In his 1901 memoir, Augustus B. Wylde recounted a rare tale of an Ethiopian Moslem drinking tej. "The respectable and total abstainer Saïd got drunk, though not badly," Wylde wrote. "He said it was the first and last time that he would ever drink tedj, and I believe him." Later in his narrative, Wylde told the Western world about the pleasures and perils of tej, confirming much of what Winstanley wrote, and adding some new wrinkles:

We entered a big rectangular room in which the rasses [chiefs] and head man were waiting to receive us on a raised platform and we after shaking hands were given chairs in the post of honor next to Ras Mangesha. Music, singing and dancing of the usual Abyssinian description then commenced while the feast was being got ready, and hydromel in glass bottles was handed round, the tedj bearer always pouring out a little of the liquid onto the palm of his hand and drinking it to show it was not poisoned. These brillas are nearly all made in Austria of colored glass and are like a small wine decanter without a stopper and hold about a pint. Their necks are very small and they take a long time to fill. When once they are handed to the guest he takes a sip and then places the thumb over the neck of the bottle to keep out flies that are always very numerous on these occasions. The beauty of drinking out of a brilla is that it need not be done in a hurry and one can be made to last a long time, and perhaps an Abyssinian will drink four or five full while a European is getting through one. The tedj has different effects on different natures. To one it may be an intoxicant, to another it has only a soporific effect, and it depends greatly on the quantity of geshu [gesho] plant used to bring on fermentation. Geshu is, I think, of the laurel tribe, as it is an evergreen, never entirely losing its leaves. It has an insignificant little flower and the leaves have but little taste, until added to the honey and water, of which tedj is made.

Later in his journey, Wylde came upon a proto-intoxicating repository:

After following the Meli for about three miles, we went off the road to the village of Woha Eilou, a properly belonging to Queen Taitou, the wife of King Menelik. The man in charge was very civil, and gave us everything that he had of the best, besides a jar of very fine tedj. When we arrived it was raining hard, and he put Schimper and I up in his house, and the female proportion of the establishment crowded round us to have a long look at the Englishman. Next morning I was shown over the estate, which was very well cared for and produced a great quantity of corn, and a good deal of butter was made. Besides these two very necessary articles, three houses were full of bee hives, and the honey taken from the wanza flowers being greatly prized, as being of a white colour, makes a very clear tedj. The honey is sent to Adese-Ababa for the queen's use.

Although only the upper classes normally drank tej, apparently emperors would sometimes relax the rules. In a 1911 issue of Blackwood's Magazine, under a chapter heading "Christmas at the capital of Menelik," writer Ian Hay reports that during a holiday celebration at the Ghibbé (imperial palace), "many of the crowd in the hall were soldiers, and their officers sat in three rows on the steps of the great dais, and instead of tel [tella] were given tedge ad lib., served to them in water carafes, from which they drank without troubling themselves about glasses, emptying a bottle at one draught. It was an extraordinary scene and very picturesque."

A few pages later, the author tours a royal kitchen and sees

several large barns filled with great tubs of tedge (the native mead, made from fermented honey), all half sunk in the earthen floor, and covered with thin sheets of calico, as the tops were left open, to keep out the flies and dust. In one of the barns a carpet was spread, and a small table, with chairs beside it, was set. Some dim and dirty-looking glasses were on it, and we were invited to taste samples of the tedge and red wine. I drank a little tedge, which was really not at all unpalatable, but I thought very strong. It was of extra quality, being made for Royalty.

Then, the author describes a process rarely seen in the literature - the extraction of honey from the comb for making the tedge: "This was managed by putting a great quantity of it into a cloth suspended over a large wooden tub. Leather thongs were then passed double over it in two places, and four slaves pulled them tight as they jerked the cloth backwards and forwards from side to side: this squeezed the honey out into the tub underneath. The refuse wax was then made into squares like bricks, and piled all around the sides of the barn."

In his 1995 book The Making of Modern Ethiopia: 1896-1974, historian Teshale Tibebu describes the 19th Century geber (taxation) system of the late 19th and early 20th Century, "wherein people thought they were getting free food and drinks from the generous teleq saw (big man)." In fact, this system

was a mechanism of creating hegemony across the various ranks of the ruling class, and also over the producing class, although the latter were hardly represented in the redistributive-banquet culture. Banquet was a means of elaborating hegemony throughout the polity. Raw meat and tej of different qualities were served at the banquets. The best food and drink was offered to the notables. The clergy belonged to his group. Then came the intermediate level food and drink. Last were the non-producing poor. They received talla (local beer), instead of tej, and the leftover food. If talla was the only drink served at the banquet, a distinction was made in the quality of the talla - the best for the notables, the next best for the commoners, and the leftovers for the non-producing poor. The non- producing poor were not bound by the etiquette of eating moderately, which they shared with the clergy. In some case, raw meet and tej of the same quality were served for the entire audience in the banquet hall, and the leftover was given to the non-producing poor.

Depending upon the region and local variations, tax paid in honey was quite widespread. The annual tax in honey was about four pounds. The honey collected thus was used for making tej (mead). If the people of the region did not produce honey, they had to pay its equivalent in kind or cash.

In the tej bet, about 30 women worked, producing two kinds of tej: one for the commoners, and one fit for the emperor, who never drank it. The mekwannint [nobility] ate quietly and unusually remained sober, as on these occasions they were on public display. Champagne and cognac were provided first, followed by tej, which few ever finished since they preferred champagne and cognac. The nobility's preference for champagne and cognac to tej shows that they had begun to develop Western consumption tastes. The gabbar [commoner] who sat in the banquet hall and was offered tej hardly thought that the tej was the very honey he had offered as tribute, mixed with water.

Finally, there's this mention of tej from a book whose title is almost as dizzing as the beverage itself. Written in 1838 by Samuel Morewood, A Philosophical and Statistical History of the Inventions and Customs of Ancient and Modern Nations in the Manufacture and Use of Inebriating Liquors observes:

[The Abyssinians] have a good agreeable liquor made from honey, which is very intoxicating. The honey of Abyssinia is very plentiful, and is white, hard and well flavoured. The use of this material in making intoxicating beverage, is not not only extensive in this country, but also in the adjoining states, and it seems to be a staple commodity. When Alphonsus Mendez passed through Dancali, near the coast of Babel-Mandel, it was with this liquor he was entertained by the monarch, who, on entering the hall of audience, was preceded by a domestic with an earthen pitcher full of hyrdomel, while another attendant carried a porcelain cup, out of which, with ceremony, his Majesty pledged his guest in a flowing bumper.

So goes the history of tej, which apparently didn't escape the attention of anyone who explored Ethiopia.

Incidentally, these writers spelled tej in a variety of ways because there has never been an international standard for transliterating Amharic into English. This accounts for "geshu" rather than the now-accepted "gesho" - which is how it appears on stamps issued in Ethiopia - as well as other spelling quirks of writing Amharic in English. [Look at 12 Ethiopian stamps honoring gesho and beehives.] The complex nature of the Amharic syllabulary - with its 276 letters, including some consonants that you can write with more than one letter - doesn't help the situation.

EVERYONE IN ETHIOPIA can now drink tej, whether or not the emperor and his guests offer it to them. It is, in fact, considered to be the "national drink." Some make it at home - for weddings, women traditionally prepare gallons and gallons of it - and Ethiopians will often use tej to replace some of the water required in making certain dishes, such as a spicy wot.

Many people drink their tej at a "tej bet," or "tej house," a commercial establishment, very often owned and operated by a woman, that specializes in serving tej. The alcohol content of the tej that you buy in a tej bet varies widely, from 6% to 11%, according to studies, and this may account for the custom of dancing with a bottle of tej on your head.

The name "tej" refers to an Ethiopian wine made with honey, water and gesho. Sometimes you'll see it referred to as "ye'mar tej," where "mar" is the Ethiopian word for "honey" and "ye" is a preposition that means "with" or "of." Thus "ye'mar tej" is "Ethiopian honey wine made with honey." Why the redundancy? Because you can also make "ye'buna tej," which is Ethiopian honey wine flavored with coffee (buna), or you can make "ye'birtukan tej" (flavored with orange), or "ye'zinjibil tej" (flavored with ginger), or "ye'muz tej" (flavored with banana), and so on with numerous other flavoring agents (including, an Ethiopian woman told me, jalepeno peppers!). "Ye'mar tej" simply tells you that the only flavoring, apart from the requisite gesho, is honey.

The sweetness and alcohol content of tej depends upon how long you ferment it and what kind of gesho you use. The longer the fermentation process, the more the sugar from the honey will turn to alcohol. Tej left to ferment for months and months can almost take on the taste and color of liquor (but still with a sweet undercurrent).

The strongest tej is called derek, which is the Amharic word for "dry." This is often the result of tej made with gesho leaf, or tej made with gesho stick but fermented for a very, very long time. Derek tej made with leaf is slightly bitter, a taste prized by the people who relish it. Next comes makakalanya, or tej of "medium" sweetness. This is the tej most frequently served in tej bets and homes. Finally, there's laslasa, or "sweet" tej, which is usually just berz, a mixture of honey and water, without gesho, that sits for two or three days before consumption. Under the bountiful Ethiopia sun - "thirteen months of sunshine," the country's promotional slogan says - that's enough to get a little bit of fermentation going.

The neighborhood tej bet is a very popular gathering place in Ethiopia. Google Earth even has an aerial map showing the location in Nekemte of Edme Ketle Tej Bet (at the center of the map). The name means "wise leaf." You can also look at aerial locations of these other Ethiopian tej bet. There are myriad such places all over the country.

There's even a city in Ethiopia called T'ej Washa, located in the North Wello region of the country, east of Lake Tana and Gondar, the nation's former capital. The word "washa" means "cave," and while I don't know whether the town's name truly has anything to do with honey wine, standard Ethiopian dictionaries list no other meaning for the word "tej."

To make all of this tej, Ethiopians need plenty of honey and gesho. Ethiopia is the largest honey producer in Africa, and fully 70% of the honey sold in Ethiopia goes to the making of tej, according to an April 2007 report by an Ethiopian research agency. Other reports say the amount of Ethiopian honey used for tej is as high as 80%. This means that a valuable export crop is lost to national tej production.

But the situation is changing slowly, according to a July 2006 story in Africa News. The piece reported on a lecture by Dr. Nuru Adigaba from the Holeta Bee Research Center:

The presentation made clear that honey is a significant cash crop in Ethiopia with 95% of what is produced coming to the market and generating 360 to 480 million birr revenue for those in the business. But the most striking fact is that almost the entire volume of the honey marketed is consumed by the local demand as an ingredient production tej. "When honey is bought for preparing tej what matters the most is volume and weight rather than quality, which is key in table honey production," Nuru said. As a result, the apiculturalists would not be compelled to produce honey that is up to the standards demanded by the international market.

However, he admitted that there was a gradual shift from using the honey output only for tej to using it to produce table honey with a growing emphasis given to the sector by private investors. "For instance, currently around seven companies have been involved in establishing honey processing plants, which will collect and process table honey both for export and for local markets," he said.

Gesho, too, is abundant in the country (see below), and some of it is even exported to Ethiopian grocery stores and wineries around the world.

An Ethiopian tej bet (Click to enlarge)

You can drink your tej from a glass if you like, but as already noted, it's traditionally enjoyed using a berele, a flask-like vessel with a wide bottom and a long, narrow neck. The picture at right, which you can click to enlarge, shows tej served in a glass and a berele. The photo was taken at a tej bet in Lalibela, Ethiopia, and the color of this tej is the richest yellow I've ever seen.

Homebrew tej, including the tej you'll drink in a tej bet, usually has a lower alcohol content than commercially bottled tej, although you can allow it to ferment for many months to give it more kick. It's even been studied by scientists: A 2005 study looked at tej for its yeast and lactic acid content, and another study, conducted in 2001, examined the chemical and nurtitional properties of the wine. [Chapter 8 below offers more links to studies of tej and honey in Ethiopia.]

Numerous American wineries make tej (see Chapter 7 below), and at least two wineries in Ethiopia also make tej and bottle it for sale: They are called Nigest Tej and Tizeta Tej - "nigest" means "queen," "tizeta" means "memory" - and neither can be easily found in the United States, if they can be found here at all.

Commercially bottled tej looks and tastes more like a dry or medium-dry white wine, and its alcohol content ranges from 11 to 13 percent, the same as most commercial wines. The restaurants in Washington D.C., despite that city's enormous Ethiopian population, all sell commercially bottled tej rather than homebrew, and one Ethiopian visitor to D.C. noticed the difference: "For the first time," he wrote, "I also tested tej that looked like white wine. I do not know what they did to its color. It tastes like tej, it smells like tej, it is made out of tej-making ingredients, but it looks like white wine."

When a tej is especially strong, Ethiopians will say it has "betam teru moq'ta," which means that it gives you a "very good buzz." The word "moq'ta" literally means "heat." Incidentally, all factory-made alcohol, including Nigest Tej and Tizeta Tej, is taxed in Ethiopia, but homebrew tej and tella (an Ethiopian homemade beer) is exempt from the national alcohol tax.

Gesho is the ingredient that makes tej tej. Without gesho, you have a beverage that the Ethiopians call birz, a mixture of honey and water that is allowed to ferment, very slightly, on its own for a few days before it's consumed. Birz doesn't have the spicy pungency of full-on tej, and it certainly doesn't have the alcohol content.

The gesho is a woody plant with leaves on its branches. Both parts of the plant can be used in making tej. (See Chapter 5 below.) The woody part of the gesho, when used for tej, is called "gesho inchet," which means "gesho stick." The leaves are called "gesho kitel," or "gesho leaf." Pieces of inchet can be as thin as a piece of linguini or as thick as your thumb. Kitel comes in two consistencies: Sometimes it's sold as dried crumbled leaves that look like oregano, and sometimes the leaves are ground into a fine powder that looks almost like flour.

Each type of gesho produces a different color and flavor of tej. Most Ethiopians today will tell you that they prefer gesho inchet. Tej made from inchet is pale yellow and tastes at once sweet and spicy. Tej made from kitel is amber and usually has more of a pungent flavor. Notice that in the historic accounts of tej, many of the chroniclers say that Ethiopians used gesho leaf in making their tej. These writers also observed that royalty preferred a sharper-tasting tej. In fact, although the chroniclers may not have realized it, the sweeter tej they seemed to enjoy may well have been made with gesho stick. The sharper royal variety almost certainly used gesho leaf.

Just as historical narratives told of tej, so do some recent books, newspaper articles and web site. And just some people - particularly the British, it seems - still can't take it.

Writing in the U.K. Guardian, Bob Maddams decribes an Ethiopian new year's celebration, warning revelers, "Parties don't really get going until around midnight and in Ethiopia don't stop till dawn. Go easy on the tej, though. It's got a kick like an Ethiopian mule, and you might just need another thousand years to get over the hangover."

Christine Campbell, writing for the The Independent of London, attended a feast in Gondar, where

everyone was drinking tej, home-brewed wine made with honey. Hospitality dictated that I must be served a full cup - in this case a large blue plastic beaker. Two or three sips of this potent brew in the already intense heat were enough to convince me that drinking more could prove unwise, and a nearby shrub was the beneficiary. No one seemed to notice. The priests, in robes of yellow and blue of Vermeer-intensity, were cheerfully practising their English. The women were too busy dicing meat and chopping garlic, onions and herbs with eight-inch scimitars.

And Marie Javins, writing on her web blog about a trip to an Ethiopian tej bet, seems to agree: "The women danced, too, jerking their shoulders back and forth in a way that looked shockingly non-PG for modest Ethiopia. We stared in awe, or maybe we were under the influence of the tej the group had ordered. Tej is a sickenly sweet honey-like wine, finished by no one at our table."

Matt and Ted Lee toured Ethiopia's best eateries with the Ethiopian-born, Swedish-raised American chef Marcus Samuelsson and offer this anecdote about a tej bet:

In a district of luggage makers, we found Gonder Tej Bet, a barnlike establishment with green walls and rows of long, low wooden benches painted the same hue. In this cool, dim oasis, merchants in dark suits chatted quietly. The bar had its wine-making operation on-site: green fermenting barrels, shoulder-high, open at the top and draped with burlap.

As we took our seats, a man in a blue work suit approached and poured tej - the only beverage served - from a stout, blue-enameled tin kettle into bulbous glass flasks. The wine was almost opaque, the luminescent color of fresh orange juice, and deliciously off-dry, like a Riesling spiked with turmeric. After a few flasks of the low-alcohol brew, we were ready for lunch and headed to Habesha, Samuelsson's favorite restaurant in Addis.

Addis Ababa's Berele Cultural Center, shaped like the tej drinking vessel, will have a museum, library, restaurant, conference hall and wedding hall.

"About a month ago," writes one sojourner on his web site, "I went up to the now infamous Honeymoon Tej Bet in Sululta with a friend visiting Addis from the States. We were treated to a jam session with people dancing as if it were their last night on earth. We noticed the unusual dance style of a young man who had no trouble balancing a birile of tej on this head as he moved to the hypnotizing beat of Ethiopian traditional music. We immediately reached for our camera. This had to be shared!!!" He has now posted his video for all to see. Watch for the man in the video dancing with a berele of tej on his head.

The Friends of Ethiopia web site has an articled called How Microbrew Can Save the World in which the author discusses the history of homemade alcohol. Eventually, the discussion turns to tej:

Consider the case of Ethiopian t'ej and tella. T'ej, Ethiopia's national drink, mixes fermented honey with a variety of herbs and sometimes fruits. Historically, t'ej drinking was reserved exclusively for royalty, but eventually it became a drink enjoyed by all on special occasions. Female household heads brewed t'ej for weddings, naming ceremonies, religious holidays, and other celebrations. Tella is for common drinking, brewed from locally grown grains and flavored with an indigenous plant called gesho, which has been shown to have medicinal benefits.

T'ej is stronger than industrial beer and much cheaper than imported spirits, so it has slowly become the drink of choice for impoverished men--the same refugees from the country-side who seek economic opportunity in the city, but instead find unemployment, loneliness, and despair. Nowadays, t'ej is more often associated with excessive drinking sessions in debauched t'ej halls than with royal ceremony. Having lost much of its dignified luster, the quality of t'ej has also plummeted. Processed sugar often replaces honey as the source of fermentation, and chemical food colorings are used to approximate the yellow glow that comes when real honey is used.

But the picture isn't all bleak, and the piece goes on to discuss Tizeta T'ej, which is made by a company started by an Ethiopian man living in Canada. He has since moved home to Addis Ababa to operate his company.

Certainly most Ethiopian tej bet are perfectly safe, as are their wares. But during the days of the Communist dictatorship called the Derg, life in Ethiopia was precarious, and a tej bet could be nefarious. On the web site of the Ethiopian Student Association International, one blogger recalls this tale:

I know a story of this guy who was sold in the mid 1970s. He was a superintendent some place in Gondar. He was not originally from Gondar, though, probably from the south.

One night he was invited to a tej bet by his local friends. His friends were with other strangers that he did not know. They drunk tej all night and when it was time for to go home, he was told he was going with the strangers. Guess what: They kidnapped him and took him with them. This was not just a regular kidnapping. Those so-called friends were paid to bring him to the tej bet. His whereabouts were not know for several years, and later when the Derg was fighting TPLF [a liberation movement] in northern Gondar, he was discovered by his students.

In her 1994 book A Song of Longing: An Ethiopian Journey Kay Kaufman Shelemay recounts this tale of a practical joke that led her and a friend to a tej bet. Looking for a place to stay for the night, they asked a local for advice:

We followed him to a building across the road. On the porch stood several young Ethiopian women wearing faded, Western-style cotton dresses. They took us inside and poured us each a beer. Looking around at the large room flanked by smaller rooms, we realized we were in the tavern, called a tedj bet, which serves as both social club and brothel.

As dusk settled our hostess showed us to one of the small rooms, nearly filled by a well-used bed promising unnamed diseases. For a while we set inside with the door open, occasionally, stepping out into the main room to see what was going on. This tedj bet had no live musician to play tunes on the one-stringed bowed instrument called the masenqo, so as evening fell someone played masenqo music on a small tape recorder. Business picked up as men from the area stopped by to drink and have a good time. We were clearly the subject of many conversations, and as the crowd became rowdier, we began to feel uncomfortable. After a final visit to the maggot-infested outhouse, accompanied by curious neighborhood children and a snarling dog, we retired to our room and locked the door.

We unpacked out peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and fruit juice stashed away for just such an emergency and read aloud Philip Roth's Our Gang by candlelight. As the noise outside mounted we consoled ourselves with the fact that there were two of us. At around 9:00 p.m. the music stopped, and we laid down upon the flea-ridden bed fully dressed in our hooded raincoats and hiking boots, small utility knives open at our sides.

At 5 a.m. we awoke, hurriedly drank coffee provided by the ladies of the house, left a few Ethiopian dollars in payment, and headed toward the bus. As we walked out the door a group of people laughed and applauded. We knew then that we have been the objects of the local equivalent of a practical joke. We waved, adjusted our packs, and walked across the road to the bus.

Despite the appearance this account may give, a 2002 study of sex workers in Addis Ababa found that only 1.4% of tej bets surveyed had sex workers in them. Count on the Kiwis to know a good drink when they see it. Curtis Palmer, a member of a New Zealand wheelchair basketball team called the Wheelblacks, travels a lot and once visited Ethiopia. His blog offers this about Ethiopian good and drink: "You eat your meal with your fingers by picking up the veggies and stuff between the ingera. You use your right hand only and it can get messy, especially with my gammy hands. My favourite was this stuff called shiro. It's a bean type mushy stuff that is kinda like bean dip. The locals combine it with smoking chillies and wash it down with this stuff called tedge. Tedge is grouse and it's pretty much home brewed petrol." In Aussie and New Zealand slang, "grouse" means "excellent."

Bienvenue en Éthiopie, a French travel guide, offers this very helpful and interesting account of where to get and not get your tej on a cross-country vacation:

Le tedj est un mélange de feuilles et de miel mis à fermenter et qui donne une boisson de couleur jaune orangé au degré d'alcool d'environ 15%. Le qualité de tedj dépend en grand partie de l'utlisation exclusive de miel, souvent remplacé à la ville par du sucre, afin d'accélérer le processus de fermentation. Les amateurs doivent être avertis que le mélange d'alcool et de sucre peut se révelér traître. En revanche, on trouve de très bon tedj à la campagne, de Gondar à Arba Minch. [Read an English translation of the passage.]

Pour le tedj, ou hydromel, il faut savoir ne pas en abuser dès qu'il a une odeur de sucre ou d'alcool trop évidente: ce sont des boissons de mauvaise qualité et leur absorption n'est pas recommandée. A Abra Minch, plusieurs tedg bet proposent un tedj pur miel qui ravira les connaisseurs et permettra d'initier les profanes. En revanche, éviter ceux de Jinka où vraisemblablement le miel est de mauvaise qualité. On trouve de bon tedj à Lalibela mais d'autant meilleurs si l'on s'aventure à la périphérie de la ville. Pour ceux qui voyagent dans les montagnes du Sud-Wolo, la qualité sera au rendez-vous dans les tedj bet de campagne. A Sodo dans le Woleyta, il y a également de bons tedj, ainsi bien sûr qu'a Gondar et à Dessie. Dans ces villes toutefois, ne pas hésiter à essayer plusieurs endroits et ne pas insister s'il vous apparait que le tedg contient du sucre.

A Addis-Ababa, il ne faut pas s'attendre à une grande qualité. Allez plutôt déguster celui de Honey Moon, dans la petite ville de Sulutta à 20 km au nord d'Addis sur le route de Dabra Markos. Lá, vous pourrez aussi déguster de l'excellent viande de chèvre crue et du gured gured, viande crue de boeuf marinée du beurre, ainsi que de kitfo, le tartare éthiopien, et du mouton grillé. Toutefois, au contraire de tedj bet de campagne où le berele (carafon) est à 50 centimes ou 1 birr, il faut compter 6 birrs par consummation. Qualité assurée. [Read an English translation of the passage.]

Another French guidebook, simply called Éthiopie, tells tourists to look for good-quality tej at the Hotel Axum perpendicular to Gebreselassie Road. This establishment is a favorite of Ethiopians, says the book, but it's frequented almost exclusively by men.

Despite warnings that the tej in Addis Ababa isn't as good as the tej one finds in the countryside, each of these books recommends a restaurant in Addis where a patron can find good tej: Shangra La, on Cap Verde Street across from the Desalegn Hotel; and Addis Ababa Restaurant, not far from St. George's Church. There are also many small tej bets in Addis and environs that a glossy color guidebook would probably never discover.

"There is no better place to reconcile husband and wife and restore broken families than a churchyard where the words of God are heard daily through the prayers and ecclesiastical sermons that are conducted," begins a story in the Aug. 7, 2005, edition of Africa News. The lengthy piece then recounts the mediation of a marital dispute. It ends like this: "The chairman offered an invitation for all of us to share together in some food and beverage. The priest supported the idea, saying that it was a divine idea and that a little wine will chase away Satan and his squad. He seemed to be yearning to dip his lips into a flask of tej after all his deliberations."

In his book 1970 book Traditional Ethiopian Church Education, Imbakom Kalewold confirms this heavenly indulgence. In a review of the book, Amnon Orent tells us that "people sometimes pay for clerical services with talla (a native beer) or tej (a kind of strong mead); Ethiopian priests are notorious for their drinking. Assafa Gabra Maryam, an Ethiopian playwright, characterizes a priest as saying 'if one stops drinking, what else is left in this world?'"

Tej is also a currency in Ethiopian elections, according to a 2004 story in the Addis Tribune. "Those of us who were around can bear eye witness accounts of the political gymnastic that went into the election of parliamentarians," says Asratemariam, the author of the piece. "Some of us were astute enough to garner a few 'biriles of tej' in return for our votes."

In 2002, James P. DeWan of the Chicago Tribune did a story on mead to coincide with the Real Ale Festival in the city. Needless to say, the subject of tej came up, and it provokes a history lesson:

Like most Ethiopian restaurants, Mama Desta's Red Sea Restaurant in Chicago serves tej. "When Ethiopians make tej they add hops," owner Tekle Gabriel said, "which temper the sweet honey flavor with bitterness."

That mead is made from honey is what caused its ancient popularity as well as its ultimate decline. Sugar was not widely available in the known world until well into the second millennium. For thousands of years before that, honey was humankind's primary sweetening ingredient. Since spontaneous fermentation is not uncommon in nature, it stands to reason that ancient cultures would have discovered mead independently of one another.

Even so, Gabriel said he knows people in his native Eritrea who claim that mead originated in that region.

"In Ethiopia, it's been going on for thousands of years, and it's still very common today," he said. "In almost every Christian home in every village you'll find people making their own."

Added to this was the growing popularity of beer. Though honey stored very well, beer's main ingredient, malted barley, kept well, too, so beer could easily be brewed at any time without having to wrestle a hive of angry bees. Mead soon became relegated to royalty or, for the commoners, special occasions.

"At certain times some of the Ethiopian emperors thought it should be only for the nobility, so occasionally they outlawed its brewing in commoners' houses," Gabriel said. "Besides, barley is much more available and beer quenches the thirst better, anyway, so in Ethiopia honey wine mostly is brewed around the holidays."