The question of why arak started to refer specifically to the anise spirit, remains. But somewhere around the 12th-century it began. “Anise came after many years of experimenting with different [herbs] and flavors,” writes Erdir Zat in his book about raki. Today, when the word arak is used around the Mediterranean basin, certainly on its Eastern shores, it refers to the spirit of anise. Once adopted by the region, not only did the word arak reflect the sweat of its distillation process, it revived the local belief that the person who drinks it, will sweat. Drinking arak is the perfect way to keep cool in the Middle Eastern climate.

Adeeb came back holding a tray of colorful small dishes – a mix of the Palestinian cuisine he grew up on and the Bulgarian food he enjoyed while living abroad. “Our cuisine – of the Levant, or let’s say of the historical area of Greater Syria, was developed around arak,” he said, while pouring us another glass. “The year round vegetables, the pungent olive oil, the kibbeh nayyeh, the mint, fresh greens, citrus and grilled fish were all flavors created with the lingering taste of anise on our tongues.” The way of dining in the Levant was most likely influenced by the fumes of the lion’s milk as well. Arak, unlike any other high proof alcohol, is enjoyed with the food. Not strictly before or after eating. The many little plates of meze crowd the table and set a slow pace for savoring both food and drink. Just as the word meze, from Farsi, ‘to taste’, suggests it should be. “Otherwise you’ll get horribly wasted,” Turkish food writer Aylin Oney Tan warned, when I wondered out loud why drink is paired with food. Though her explanation has a lot of truth to it, the reason is likely tied to the historical health benefits of anise.

Anise is native to the Levant. It’s believed to have originated in Egypt, and was among the early medical herbs documented. The first time anise is mentioned is in the Egyptian Papyrus Ebers dating back to circa 1500 BC. It was later noted by both Hippocrates and Pliny with an extravagant list of uses, to help a cough, soothe the lungs, ease menstruation symptoms and encourage lactating. It was even considered an aphrodisiac for the lazy libido. But above all, every text concerning arak speaks of anise’s digestive powers.

“Why not cardamom, mint or coriander seeds? Why, of all herbs, anise?” I thought about the conversation I had with distiller Yuval Hargil, earlier that week. “Show me another herb that is as diffused into food and beverages in countries throughout the world. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about this,” he shared with me. Since he established his craft distillery, Julius, in 2008, Hargil has produced an ample variety of spirits: eau de vie, gin, mead, a mead distill and a selection of bitters. But never arak, and I couldn’t help but wonder why. “I’m dying to produce arak. But the one precedent upon which we founded this distillery was the commitment to only use local ingredients. No one is producing aniseed in Israel,” he explained. Hargil ends up adding to the mystery rather than solving it. 

Adeeb finally took a break and sat across from me. “All the arak producers get their anise from Syria,” he said and opened his palm to reveal Syrian seeds. We both took a handful and tossed them into our mouths. Today, anise is rarely produced in Jordan, Iran or Lebanon. In Lebanon, a country that considers arak to be their national drink, Faouzi Issa from Domaine des Tourelles is the only commercial producer growing his own seeds. “It’s a very tough plant to cultivate. It needs a lot of investment, experience, and it’s extremely labor intensive,” Adeeb explains. Once a household plant around the Mediterranean, aniseed production mostly takes place today in Turkey, India and Syria.

At the same time, many older producers are speaking of the younger generation’s newfound interest in the traditional drink. Small craft distilleries and experimental home productions have been “picking up,” as Faouzi describes it. The international trend of discovering and promoting gastronomic cultures is likely to have had a hand as well. “Don’t forget that the majority of the Arab world affiliated with this drink, is a dry Muslim society,” Hargil mentioned. “Arak belongs to small communities of drinkers within that world,” he explained. There’s nothing like a shared goal to strengthen a community.

I took a seat under the welcoming tree. The restaurant’s breathtaking view stretched before me, Mount Meron and the Lebanese Plateau behind it peeked from the left, the sea of Galilee to the right, and Jordan straight ahead. Adeeb Doha, the younger of the two brothers that own Rai, poured me a glass of arak made in their distillery on the first floor of the restaurant. He quickly disappeared back into the stone structure. I sank two cubes of ice into my glass and watched the clear spirit turn milky, as the anise oils touched the water. The color spread like a drop of white ink. In Turkish, they call it Lion’s Milk, because, “Either you are one for drinking it or you’ll turn into one when you’re done,” I was once told.

The sun became soft on our necks and the sky lit up with a fiery orange and red. Abeed’s wife, Milka, finally came downstairs and joined us from the kitchen. Laughter rose from the large table to our right as people greeted her with a smile. If there was ever a time for the the Middle East to reclaim one of its biggest symbols, the time is now.