Medalla—the aluminum blood of the Boricua beach cooler, the beer that somehow manages to taste both like absolutely nothing and deep regret at the same time. It’s a constant yet uninspiring fixture in every Puerto Rican gathering, a bland testament to the purgatory of being neither here nor there—a reflection of Puerto Rico’s own status as a territory caught between identities.
The beer comes to us from Cervecera de Puerto Rico, founded in Mayagüez in 1937—an era when the island was deep in the throes of economic transformation, clawing its way out of colonial poverty into the slick, humming machinery of American-style industrialization. Medalla Light didn’t show up until the 1970s, a decade drenched in mass production and cultural flattening. It wasn’t brewed to make a statement—it was brewed to sell. Ice-cold, cheap, and utterly inoffensive, it was tailor-made for the tropical climate and the island’s working-class palate. And it worked. It sold like hell.
Over time, Medalla became something more than a beer—it became a brand of identity by default. It survived the onslaught of international competition and managed to plant its flag in the sand as one of the few local products that could still be found in every bar, colmado, and family cooler. Not because it was good, but because it was ours. A small, fizzy triumph of Puerto Rican production in a marketplace otherwise swallowed by imported sameness.
But there’s a difference between survival and glory. For all its local roots, Medalla is still a beer that tastes like nothing. It is the embodiment of mediocrity, an underwhelming brew that mirrors the island’s complex relationship with the United States. Just as Puerto Rico navigates its liminal space—neither fully a state nor an independent nation—Medalla exists in a brewing limbo, never committing to the bold flavors that define great beers. Its lack of character is akin to the political ambiguity that shrouds Puerto Rican identity, both caught in a cycle of unresolved status and diluted presence.
Drinking Medalla is like swallowing the frustration of this geopolitical stalemate. Each sip offers a taste of resignation, a reminder of the compromises made when potential is shackled by circumstance. This beer doesn’t just lack flavor—it lacks ambition, content to occupy space without making a statement, much like the territory’s ongoing struggle for a definitive resolution.
Why does Medalla persist? Perhaps because it represents the path of least resistance, a familiar discomfort that parallels the island’s own unresolved destiny. It fills coolers out of habit, consumed not for pleasure but for the absence of a better alternative, mirroring the resignation felt by many Puerto Ricans towards their indefinite political status.
