If you’ve ever sat at a sun-drenched table in Beirut, Zahle, or a seaside taverna in Cyprus, you’ve seen it. A clear liquid poured into a small glass, followed by a splash of water and a few ice cubes. Suddenly, the liquid transforms. It turns a milky, ghostly white. This is the "louche" effect, and the drink is arak. But what is arak made from, exactly? Most people assume it’s just another anise spirit like ouzo or pastis, but that’s like saying a vintage Ferrari is just another car. There is a specific, ancient chemistry at play here that makes arak the undisputed king of Levantine spirits.
It’s potent. We’re talking 50% to 60% alcohol by volume (ABV). It’ll put hair on your chest, as my grandfather used to say, but when done right, it is incredibly smooth. To understand what’s in the bottle, you have to look at two primary ingredients: grapes and aniseed. That’s it. No sugar, no artificial flavorings, and definitely no cheap grain neutral spirits if you’re drinking the good stuff.
The Foundation: Why Grapes Matter
Everything starts with the vine. While some cheap, industrial versions of anise spirits use molasses or grain alcohol, authentic arak is a grape brandy at its core. In Lebanon, which many consider the spiritual home of the drink, the Obeidi and Merwah grapes are the stars. These are indigenous white varieties that have survived for centuries in the high altitudes of the Bekaa Valley.
The process begins exactly like winemaking. The grapes are harvested, crushed, and fermented. This creates a base wine. But you wouldn't want to drink this wine; it’s specifically crafted to be distilled. After the first distillation, you get "baqia," a raw grape spirit.
It’s interesting because the terroir of the grapes actually survives the heat of the still. If the grapes are grown in the chalky soils of Mt. Lebanon, the resulting arak has a crispness that you just can't replicate with industrial ethanol. You can taste the mountain. It’s subtle, but it's there.
The Second Distillation and the Aniseed Secret
This is where the magic happens. After the first round of distillation has stripped away the impurities, the spirit goes back into the copper pot still (often called an alembic). This is when the aniseed is added.
Now, listen. Not all anise is created equal.
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True connoisseurs look for Syrian aniseed, specifically from the village of Hineh on the slopes of Mount Hermon. These seeds are tiny but packed with anethole, the essential oil that gives arak its licorice flavor and that famous milky transformation. If a producer gets cheap and uses star anise (which comes from a different plant entirely) or synthetic oils, the drink loses its soul. The seeds are macerated in the grape spirit, and the mixture is distilled a second, and sometimes a third, time.
The heat of the still coaxes the oils out of the seeds. This is a delicate dance. If the fire is too hot, the aniseed burns, and the arak tastes scorched. If it’s too low, the flavors are muddy. Expert distillers, like those at Chateau Musar or Domaine des Tourelles, watch the still like a hawk. They only keep the "heart" of the run—the middle portion where the flavors are perfectly balanced. The "heads" and "tails" (the beginning and end of the distillation) are discarded because they contain harsh alcohols or off-flavors.
The Aging Process: The Clay Amphora
You might think that once it’s out of the still, it’s ready for the table. Nope. Not even close.
Freshly distilled arak is angry. It’s sharp, aggressive, and can burn the back of your throat. To mellow it out, the spirit must be aged. But unlike whiskey or cognac, you don’t put arak in wood. If you put arak in an oak barrel, the wood would overpower the delicate anise.
Instead, traditional producers use clay amphorae.
These clay jars are slightly porous. They allow the spirit to "breathe" just a tiny bit. Over several months—usually at least twelve—the harsher alcohols evaporate through the clay (the "angel’s share"), and the flavors of the grape and anise marry together. It becomes velvety. It gains a certain roundness. By the time it’s bottled, it has transformed from a fiery moonshine into a sophisticated digestif.
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Why Does It Turn White?
This is the question everyone asks. The answer lies in the anethole oil. Aniseed oil is soluble in high-proof alcohol but not in water. When the arak is sitting in the bottle at 53% ABV, the oil is completely dissolved and invisible.
The moment you add water, the alcohol concentration drops. The oil can no longer stay dissolved, so it precipitates out of the solution into billions of tiny droplets. These droplets scatter light, creating that opaque, milky appearance. Scientists call this the "spontaneous emulsification" or the "ouzo effect."
In the Levant, they call it the Milk of Lions.
There is a strict etiquette to this. You must always add the water before the ice. If you put ice in first, the cold causes the oils to solidify into an unappealing film on top of the drink. Water first, then ice. Always.
Arak vs. The World: Ouzo, Pastis, and Sambuca
People get these mixed up all the time. Honestly, it’s understandable. They all taste like licorice. But the differences are massive once you look under the hood.
- Ouzo: Usually made from a base of grain neutral spirit rather than grapes. It’s often sweeter and lower in alcohol.
- Pastis: This is a French maceration. It’s not always distilled with the herbs; often, the flavors are just steeped in the alcohol. It also usually contains sugar and licorice root.
- Sambuca: Basically a liqueur. It’s loaded with sugar. If you try to drink Sambuca the way you drink arak, you’ll have a world-class headache by noon.
- Absinthe: Uses wormwood and a whole bouquet of other botanicals. It’s a different beast entirely.
Arak stands alone because of its purity. There are no additives. No sugar. Just the essence of the grape and the seed. This makes it the ultimate food spirit. Because it lacks sugar, it cleanses the palate. It cuts right through the fats of a lamb kebab or the creaminess of hummus.
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How to Spot the Good Stuff
If you’re standing in a liquor store looking at a wall of bottles, how do you know what to buy?
First, check the ABV. If it’s under 45%, put it back. Traditional arak needs that high proof to keep the anise oils in check. Second, look at the label for words like "triple distilled" or "aged in clay." Brands like Arak Brun, El Massaya, and Tourelles are the gold standards.
Avoid anything that tastes like candy. Real arak has a dry, spicy finish. It shouldn't coat your tongue in syrup. It should feel like a lightning bolt that turns into a cool breeze.
The Cultural Weight of the Spirit
In villages across Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan, making arak is a community event. It happens in late autumn, usually after the grape harvest. Families gather around the "karakeh" (the still). There’s food, music, and a lot of "sampling."
It’s more than just a drink; it’s a symbol of hospitality. You never drink arak alone. It is fundamentally a social lubricant designed for the Mezza—the long, slow spread of small plates. You take a sip, you eat a piece of pita with labneh, you have a grilled tomato, and you talk. You talk for hours. The arak keeps you sharp while the food keeps you grounded.
Actionable Steps for the Arak Amateur
If you’re ready to dive into the world of this ancient spirit, don’t just buy a bottle and shoot it. Treat it with respect.
- The Ratio: Start with 1/3 arak and 2/3 water. This is the classic "golden ratio." As you get used to the flavor, you might move toward a 50/50 split, but don't rush it.
- The Vessel: Use a small glass. In the Middle East, they use thin-walled glasses that look like tea glasses. It stays colder that way.
- The Food Pairing: Don't drink this with a steak or a burger. Pair it with salty, fatty, or acidic foods. Olives, feta cheese, raw kibbeh, or grilled sardines are perfect. The anise handles the "fishiness" of seafood better than almost any wine.
- Storage: Keep the bottle at room temperature. Don't put the bottle in the freezer. If the arak gets too cold, the oils can crystallize in the bottle, ruining the texture. Keep the chilling to the ice in your glass.
Arak is a survivor. It has outlasted empires and survived prohibitions. It remains a handmade product in a world of mass production. When you understand what arak is made from—the specific grapes, the volcanic soil, the Syrian aniseed, and the patient clay—you realize you aren't just drinking alcohol. You're drinking the history of the Mediterranean in a glass.