Last Thursday night, I lingered outside shul after the evening service marking the transition from full-blown festival to the intermediate days, which are referred to in Hebrew, (rather quaintly, it always seems to me) as Hol HaMoed, which roughly translates as ‘the weekdays of the appointed time’. One of my fellow-congregants mentioned that, when Sukkot is over, he will be making a liqueur from the etrog, the citron which is one of the four species we ‘take’ on Sukkot, to hold, shake, and parade around the shul, echoing the Sukkot ceremony in the Temple. I mentioned that I would be doing the same (although I suspect I will have to freeze my etrog – and any others I can beg from my neighbours – and make the liqueur after we return from Portugal).
I then mentioned to my friend that, always ready to employ a pun, I call my etrog liqueur (which is, unsurprisingly, very reminiscent of limoncello) etgrog, with the same verbal wit that leads me to call the liqueur I make from loquats (shesek, in Hebrew) shisky. I suspected that my friend might understand the pun, because he is a native Dutchman, and I always suspected ‘grog’ came into English from the German. The word has, to my ear, a Germanic ring to it. However, he had no idea what the word ‘grog’ might mean.
It occurs to me that some of my readers might be in a similar state of ignorance, so let me explain.
It can’t have been much fun being a sailor in the Royal Navy in the 18th Century. Off the top of my head, I can think of several less attractive features of life at sea. The cramped and uncomfortable accommodation; the need to work outdoors in all weathers, from blazing heat to violent rainstorms; the hazards of climbing the rigging or even just negotiating the deck in stormy weather; the lack of fresh meat, fruit or vegetables and the monotony of the diet.
Let’s take a quick diversion. In 1731, Spanish sailors boarded the British brig Rebecca off the coast of Cuba and sliced off the left ear of its captain, Robert Jenkins. This traumatic auriculectomy was used as a pretext by the British to declare war on Spain in 1739, a conflict that is now known as the War of Jenkins’ Ear.
In 1740, British Commodore George Anson led a squadron of eight ships on a mission to disrupt or capture the Pacific Ocean possessions of the Spanish Empire.
Returning to Britain in 1744 by way of China and thus completing a lengthy circumnavigation of the globe, the voyage was notable for the capture of the Manila galleon, but also for horrific losses from disease, with only 188 men of the original 1,854 surviving. Some 1400 of the men died of scurvy, a disease caused by vitamin C deficiency.
As fortune would have it, in 1739, James Lind, a Scottish medical doctor, had joined the British Navy. By 1747 he had become surgeon of HMS Salisbury. He conducted an experiment on the crew of the ship, supplementing their diet with limes and lemon juice. Although the value of citrus fruits in preventing and curing scurvy was known beforehand, Lind was the first to conduct a controlled experiment to demonstrate the benefits unequivocally. Within a short time, the British navy had adopted Lind’s recommendation to provide limes and lemon juice to all sailors when at sea. The Americans, for some reason, took over a century to be convinced, spending most of that time burying far too many sailor victims of scurvy, while mocking British sailors as Limeys.
Resuming our main story, I should properly speak about the lack of fresh meat, fruit or vegetables, with the exception of limes, and more limes, and even more limes. I am reminded of the Monty Python spam sketch. I hasten to add that I don’t recommend you follow the link. I find the sketch puerile, painfully drawn out, and utterly stupid. However, I recognize I may be in a minority here, and I offer the link as a public service.
Another dietary supplement offered to British sailors, as long ago as the 1600s, was rum. (I hazard a guess that the rum ration was more immediately popular than the lime ration. In 1740, Admiral Vernon made the already established tradition a formal daily practice. At the same time, concerned for the sailors’ health and ability to function, he ordered that a mixture of one part rum to four parts water be distributed to ratings (the naval equivalent of privates) every day. The amount of rum in this ‘tot’ was about an eighth of a pint.
Admiral Vernon was known by the nickname ‘Old Grog’ on account of his fondness for wearing a cloak made from a coarse, loosely woven fabric that was a blend of silk and mohair or wool. This fabric was known as grogram. While the ratings may have been pleased that the ration had been formalized as part of Navy regulations, they were undoubtedly far less happy that the rum was now watered down. This ration soon became known as ‘grog’, placing the blame for the watering down firmly on Vernon’s shoulders, together with his cloak.
The rum used in the 1900s was 55% proof. The diluted grog would therefore have been 11% proof, somewhere between beer and dinner wine in potency.
At this point, of course, I have answered the question: What is the origin of the term ‘grog’? However, I am now left with a supplementary question: Why is a coarse mixture of silk and mohair or wool known as ‘grogram’? It turns out that my suspicion that the origin lies in German was very wide of the mark. In fact, it is an Anglicised corruption of the French term ‘gros grain’, which means ‘coarse grain’.
In French, I believe the ‘o’ in ‘gros’ is pronounced more or less as the ‘o’ in ‘so’ and the ‘ai’ in ‘grain’ as the ‘a’ in ‘apple’. So, the sound of ‘grogram’ is not a million miles from the sound of ‘gros grain’. These days, Bernice tells me, the fabric is known in English as gros grain rather than grogram.
While ‘grog’ tends not to be applied to strong drink outside its navy context, the adjective describing the effects of alcohol on one who drinks not wisely but too well – ‘groggy’ – is used much more widely.
One final note. In the 1970s, the Admiralty agreed that the tradition should end, because ships were by then equipped with many sophisticated weapons and other systems that meant the level of hard manual labour was much lower than previously, and that also meant that the risk of being drunk on duty was much greater to the world at large, and no longer confined to the sailor himself. Since then, July 31st, the date the official daily rum ration was scrapped, has been marked in the Royal Navy as Black Tot Day. On that black day every year, ratings are served a commemorative tot of grog. With apologies to those who were anticipating an in-depth geo-political analysis of the ramifications of the killing of Yahya Sinwar. I really fancied a week off from ‘the situation’. There will still be enough time to file a report from the home front next week, although by the time you read it we should be in Port
In Australia, grog has been used as an alternative to alcohol probably until this new century.
BYOG was a common acronym used on invitations to parties where alcohol was not supplied by the hosts.
With the advent of unlicensed restaurants the G was dropped and these restaurants are commonly called BYOs.