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Just downhill there was another trapiche, visible as a scant chimney sticking out of the cane. Under his aluminum roof was a scene that Mr. Quintero hates to see: shirtless men smoking as they worked, chickens pecking, someone passing out on a pile of cane lint, wooden pots that may produce splinters. But that was the reality of panels in much of Colombia, he conceded.
It was 8 a.m., and panels of an unusual, shiny gold color were being mixed in pots when a pesador named Jimmy Buitrago showed up for work, late. He had been weighing panela at Don Manuel since 5 am, and before that at two other trapiches. He hadn’t slept a full night in three days.
Mr. Buitrago, an 18-year-old, looked no worse for wear as he quickly scooped up the hot dough to form the perfect half-kilogram patties on a table and then stamped them with the initials of the owner of the trapiche. Between cool pots of hot syrup, he slipped into breakfast bites. He had been doing this for four years, he said.
Mr. Buitrago was not aware of Mr. González’s efforts, or even of what a patent was. Lucero Copete, who was wrapping the cooled pancakes in paper for the market, explained to him. “He wants exclusivity,” she said. Mr. Buitrago was incredulous: “Where is he?”
This panela tasted different from industrial factories: richer, smoother and sweeter. “Yes of course!” Mr. Quintero said, pointing to a pile of red gold stems waiting to be pressed. “Look at the quality of the cane.”
Panela is more difficult and less predictable than table sugar, Quintero explained, because it contains all of the components of cane juice, not all of which can be adjusted. In small mountain plots like this, the individual cane is selected for its maturity. The only additive is a little vegetable oil to keep the caramel from bubbling.
The policosanol content of this deliciously tasty panela remained undetermined, and the farthest it would reach was a few miles down the road.
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