A trowel (/ˈtraʊ.əl/), in the hands of an archaeologist, is like a trusty sidekick – a tiny, yet mighty, instrument that uncovers ancient secrets, one well-placed scoop at a time. It’s the Sherlock Holmes of the excavation site, revealing clues about the past with every delicate swipe.
With fiesta season just around the corner this May, it feels only right to talk about libations — and the deep history behind what we drink when we celebrate. I have had my fair share of headaches post-drinking, but the memory of the first time that I was handed a half-filled coconut shell of bayah in Kiangan, Ifugao, stayed with me. The rice beer had a slight tang, cloudy and potent, but what lingered wasn’t the taste — it was the moment. Each sip came with a story, a joke, a memory.
Long before bottled beer lined supermarket shelves, the ancestors of present-day Filipinos were already skilled in the art of fermentation. Across the islands, people crafted their own brews from coconut sap, sugarcane, rice, and pineapples. Drinks like tuba, basi, tapuy, bayah, and palek were central to rituals and daily rhythms alike. They flowed freely during weddings and wakes, harvest feasts and healing ceremonies, drawing people together in both joy and grief. These brews carried meaning, connecting generations through shared taste and tradition.
In the Visayas and parts of Luzon, tuba, a coconut sap wine, was essential in rituals, especially in relation to ancestor veneration, weddings, and coming-of-age rituals. It was common for elders to pour the first drink onto the ground as an offering before anyone took a sip, ensuring the spirits were acknowledged. In the Cordilleras, rice wine like tapuy and bayah played a similar role in cañaos and hamul (community feasts) and peace pacts, where drinking together signified unity and trust.
Meanwhile, in Ilocos, the love for basi (sugarcane wine) ran so deep that, when the Spanish colonial government tried to monopolize its production in 1807, Ilocanos revolted. The Basi Revolt, though ultimately unsuccessful, became a symbol of resistance, a reminder that, for Filipinos, beer and identity were deeply intertwined.
Even in Batanes, where rice and coconuts were scarce, the Ivatan brewed palek, a fermented pineapple wine. This ingenuity reflects a truth that has held across centuries: if it has sugar, Filipinos will find a way to turn it into alcohol. These traditional brews were markers of culture and tradition, present in everything from religious ceremonies to rowdy village feasts. They were drinks of both the divine and the everyday — offered to spirits, shared among elders, and clinked together in celebratory toasts.
As the centuries rolled on and Spanish and American influences grew, a new drink emerged to challenge the dominance of these indigenous brews. By the late 19th century, the rise of San Miguel Beer would forever change the way Filipinos drank, replacing the earthen jars and bamboo cups of old with the unmistakable clink of glass bottles.
A short history of beer brewing
Beer brewing is one of humanity’s oldest and greatest discoveries, right up there with fire and finding out that mangoes taste better with bagoong. Archaeological evidence suggests that humans have been fermenting grains for at least 13,000 years, with the oldest traces found in a Natufian burial site in present-day Israel, proving that, even in deep history, people knew a proper send-off required drinks.
By 5000 BCE, the Sumerians in Mesopotamia had refined brewing techniques, even composing a hymn to Ninkasi, their goddess of beer, which doubled as both a prayer and a recipe (arguably the first drinking song). Ancient Egyptians took beer to the next level, making it part of daily wages and religious offerings, while the Chinese brewed their own millet- and rice-based beers as early as 7000 BCE.
In the Americas, the Incas fermented chicha, a corn beer that relied on human saliva to jumpstart the process (a fun fact best learned after drinking it). Across continents and civilizations, beer was fuel for labor, ritual, and questionable decisions, a tradition that continues to this day.
SMB vs. Red Horse
In 1890, Manila saw the birth of La Fabrica de Cerveza de San Miguel, a small brewery established by Spanish and Filipino entrepreneurs. At the time, beer in the Philippines was a luxury, mostly imported from Europe and reserved for the elite. But San Miguel Brewery had a vision to create a beer that could rival European imports while remaining accessible to everyday Filipinos. The result was San Miguel Pale Pilsen, a golden lager brewed with German-style techniques but adjusted for the tropical climate. Crisp, slightly malty, and refreshing, it was the perfect beer for a country where the sun is a year-round companion.
What began as a modest operation in Manila quickly became a national obsession. By the early 20th century, SMB was being transported across the islands, reaching even the most remote provinces. During the American colonial period, bottled beer became a marker of urban life, replacing earthen jars of basi and bayah.
By the post-war period, San Miguel Beer had firmly secured its place as the drink of choice for Filipinos of all social classes. Whether at fiestas, birthdays, graduations, or just another Tuesday night at the sari-sari store, SMB was there, cold and waiting. It became the equalizer of celebrations, equally enjoyed by farmers cooling off after a long day and executives unwinding after meetings.
But for those who wanted something stronger, bolder, and less forgiving, there was another option: Red Horse Beer.
Red Horse is San Miguel’s wilder, stronger cousin, introduced for those who felt Pale Pilsen was a little too polite. With a higher alcohol content (6.9%), Red Horse, as the name implies, kicks back. It’s the beer of choice for those looking to “level up” their drinking session, the fuel behind deep philosophical debates at paresan, and the reason many Filipinos have found themselves passionately belting out “My Way” at 2 am.
For many, choosing between SMB and Red Horse is a matter of personality. San Miguel Pale Pilsen, on the one hand, is the reliable best friend, the one who keeps the night going without too much drama. Red Horse, on the other hand, is the friend who convinces you to take a spontaneous road trip at midnight and makes you believe texting your ex is a great idea. Some even believe in the “Red Horse Theory,” which claims that the beer comes in “good” and “bad” batches, one that goes down smoothly and another that seems to hit extra hard. Whether there’s truth to it or not, one thing is certain: Red Horse is not for the weak.
Despite its reputation as the stronger, more unpredictable sibling, Red Horse has earned its place in Filipino beer culture. It has become the beer of rock bands, working-class heroes, and those who prefer their inuman sessions to be a little more intense.
San Miguel may have started as a small brewery in Manila, but today it dominates the Philippine beer industry, with Pale Pilsen and Red Horse reigning supreme. Whether you prefer the classic, easy-going taste of SMB or the wild energy of Red Horse, both beers reflect the evolution of Filipino drinking culture, from ancient rituals to modern fiestas, from earthen jars to ice-cold bottles in convenience stores.
Whether it’s a mild-mannered Pale Pilsen, a bold Red Horse, or a mystery batch of homebrewed Ifugao bayah that might knock you flat, every sip carries echoes of centuries-old traditions. It’s a taste of history and celebration, of ingenuity and adaptation — proof that wherever Filipinos gather, fermentation follows, and the line between ritual and revelry often blurs over a shared drink. – Rappler.com
Stephen B. Acabado is professor of anthropology at the University of California-Los Angeles. He directs the Ifugao and Bicol Archaeological Projects, research programs that engage community stakeholders. He grew up in Tinambac, Camarines Sur. Follow him on bluesky @stephenacabado.bsky.social