Drinking Traditions of the Middle East: 6 Local Beverages That Tell a Story

The Middle East’s drinks reflect its climates and crossroads: high mountain terraces, coastal humidity, and heat-swept deserts. Where grapes thrive on limestone plateaus, wine endures. Where dates ripen by the Tigris and Euphrates, spirits draw sweetness from palm fruit.

Religious norms shape when and how alcohol is consumed, but longstanding craft persists in communities from Beirut to Baghdad. Anise-scented distillates anchor leisurely mezze tables, harvest festivals mark the distilling calendar, and regional produce—grapes, mulberries, raisins—guides what ends up in the glass.

Arak is the Levant’s hallmark anise spirit, traditionally made by fermenting grape juice or molasses and double- or triple-distilling it in copper alembics, then re-distilling with green anise (Pimpinella anisum). Many Lebanese producers rest the spirit in neutral vessels or clay jars before bottling at 40–63% ABV. Clear in the glass, it turns milky (the classic louche) when diluted—aromatic with licorice, fennel, and a sweet herbal lift. Arak is inseparable from mezze culture and long, unhurried lunches, especially in Beirut and the vine-laced city of Zahle in the Bekaa. It’s typically served one part arak to two parts chilled water, with ice added last to prevent clouding oils from precipitating. Expect pairings with grilled fish, salty cheeses, kibbeh, and garlicky dips. Family-run distilleries still fire seasonal stills after the grape harvest, and Sunday spreads often begin with small clinks of tulip glasses across tables crowded with parsley, olives, and the briny scent of the sea.

Turkey’s raki is an anise-flavored spirit distilled from grape- or raisin-based suma, then re-distilled with aniseed and bottled around 45% ABV. It pours clear but turns opalescent with water, earning the nickname aslan sütü—“lion’s milk.” The aroma is pronounced licorice and sweet spice; the palate is silky, dry, and warming. Raki is not simply a drink but a social choreography at the meyhane (tavern), where conversation—muhabbet—moves as deliberately as the plates of meze. In Istanbul and along the Aegean in Izmir and Bodrum, raki tables often begin with melon and beyaz peynir, then progress to grilled anchovies, eggplant salads, and slow-cooked offal. Proper service uses slender glasses, cool water, and measured sips rather than shots. The raki sofrası (raki table) is about pacing and respect for the meal, with seafood-heavy menus in summer and heartier fare in colder months. Distillation typically follows the autumn grape harvest, linking the drink’s calendar to the rhythm of Anatolian viticulture.

In Iraq, arak often begins with dates—an abundant crop along the Tigris and in Basra’s groves—fermented into a wash and distilled in copper pot stills. The base spirit is then flavored with aniseed, aligning it with the Levantine tradition while retaining a rounder, caramel-tinged core from the fruit. Bottled around 40–50% ABV, Iraqi date arak opens with licorice and mint, underpinned by dried-fruit sweetness and a soft, oily texture that lingers with spice. Historically poured in Baghdad cafés and at family tables among diverse communities, it’s commonly diluted with cool water and served alongside grilled lamb, pickled vegetables, and flatbreads. Production tends to shadow the date season and cooler months, when fermentation is easier to manage without modern climate control. Urban drinkers in Baghdad and workers in Basra have long prized it as an evening sipper after the heat subsides, a glass misting over as water hits, turning the spirit cloud-white and perfumed—an old river-city habit that ties distilling to the rhythms of agriculture.

Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley, at roughly 900–1,200 meters with limestone soils and sharp diurnal shifts, is a cradle of Eastern Mediterranean wine. Phoenicians spread vine and amphora trade millennia ago; today, estates craft reds from Cinsault, Carignan, Syrah, and Cabernet, plus floral whites and bright rosés. Alcohol levels sit around 12.5–14.5% ABV. Expect reds with dried cherry, cedar, and spice; whites of stone fruit, fennel, and saline lift. Harvest runs late summer into early autumn, after which cellars in Zahle and beyond begin fermentations in stainless steel or concrete before selective oak aging. In Beirut, bottles accompany everything from chargrilled meats to Levantine seafood, and rosé is a summertime fixture. Well-known names include Château Ksara, Massaya, and the age-worthy, wild-yeasted wines of Château Musar. The valley’s mountain flanks funnel cool night air that preserves acidity, yielding wines that feel both sun-drenched and structured—a climatic balancing act that defines the region’s modern style as much as its ancient past.

Zivania is Cyprus’s clear pomace brandy, traditionally distilled after the grape harvest from the leftover skins and stems of indigenous Mavro and Xynisteri varieties. Copper cauldrons—kazani—heat the fermented marc in village courtyards, producing a spirit typically 45–50% ABV with a grapey nose, white pepper, and a brisk, clean finish. In the Troodos foothills and wine villages like Omodos, zivania binds community: autumn distilling doubles as a neighborhood gathering, with trays of olives, halloumi, and soutzoukos (grape must sweets) passed around. It’s sipped neat as an aperitif or digestif, lightly chilled in summer and sometimes warmed with cinnamon in winter. Beyond the table, families long used it as a cupboard remedy—rubbed on sore muscles or dabbed on cuts. In Nicosia bars you’ll also find citrus-macerated versions. Zivania’s character mirrors the island’s climate: sun-baked vineyards, cool nights at elevation, and a tradition of thrift that turns winemaking by-products into a spirited, crystalline snapshot of place.

Armenia’s oghi—often tuti oghi when made from white mulberries—is a fragrant fruit brandy distilled in copper alembics from fermented mulberry juice. Double distillation concentrates honeyed florals and orchard fruit, with many village producers bottling at 50–60% ABV. In Syunik and the highlands toward Artsakh, some age oghi briefly in mulberry-wood casks, gaining a straw-gold tint and whispers of vanilla and dried apricot. The aroma is delicate yet vivid; the palate is dry, with a silky entry and peppery, warm finish. Oghi accompanies khorovats (barbecue) and festive toasts—kenats’t—where a host proposes blessings before each glass. In Yerevan’s taverns, it’s poured neat at room temperature with dried fruits and nuts, especially in the cooler seasons after the mulberry harvest. The drink’s persistence owes as much to rugged geography as to craft: mountain orchards, short summers, and a tradition of preserving fleeting fruit into spirits that last through the snow.