Zahlé Arak Nights | ليالي العرق بزحلة
"She runs her family's arak distillery in the Beqaa. He's the sommelier who wants to introduce Lebanese spirits to the world. Between tastings, they intoxicate each other. 'Inti btiski aktar min el arak' (أنتِ بتسكي أكتر من العرق)."
Zahlé Arak Nights
ليالي العرق بزحلة
The Beqaa sun ripens anise.
It ripens everything here—grapes, ambitions, desires. I've distilled arak since I was old enough to hold a copper pot.
Then he arrives, tasting notes in hand.
I'm Ghada.
Forty-four, shaped by good food and better arak. My distillery produces five thousand bottles a year—small, perfect, mine.
François Demers thinks he can make it world-famous.
"Sixty percent?"
"That's the traditional strength." I pour his tasting glass. "You'll dilute it yourself."
He sniffs, swirls, adds water. Watches it louche—cloud—transform.
"Extraordinary."
"I know."
He's French-Lebanese.
Beirut-born, Paris-raised, now working with the world's best restaurants. His mission: put Lebanese wine and spirits on the global map.
"Your arak is better than any I've tasted in Europe."
"Tab'an. We've been making it for three hundred years."
"Then why isn't it famous?"
"Because we don't want it famous." I sit across from him. "We want it ours."
"Gatekeeping?"
"Preserving. There's a difference."
He stays a week.
Learns our process—the triple distillation, the clay aging, the anise selection. Gets dirt under his nails. Burns his hand on a still.
"Careful—"
"It's fine—"
"Give me."
I tend his burn in my kitchen.
Cold water, arak compress (sterilizes and numbs), gentle bandaging. He watches my hands.
"You're very capable."
"I run a distillery. Competence is required."
"It's more than competence." His good hand covers mine. "Inti extraordinary, Ghada."
"Flattery won't change my mind about distribution."
"This isn't flattery." He turns my hand over. "This is a man who's spent his life seeking perfection finally finding it."
"In my arak?"
"In you."
The first kiss burns like high-proof spirits.
Goes straight to my head. I should pull away—I'm his host, his potential business partner—
"Ghada—"
"This is a terrible idea."
"The best ones usually are."
We make love in the distillery.
Surrounded by copper pots and clay vessels, the smell of anise heavy in the air. He lays me on grain sacks like I'm precious.
"Mashallah." He kneels before me. "Inti btiski aktar min el arak."
"Prove it."
His mouth between my thighs—
Ya Allah. French men learn things other men don't.
"François—"
"Relax. Let me taste."
He tastes me like arak.
Slowly, analytically, then greedily. My hands grip burlap. My hips rise to meet his tongue.
"Bikaffi—baddik—"
"Not yet."
He brings me to the edge twice.
Backs off. Returns. A sommelier's patience, a distiller's precision.
"PLEASE—"
"Shu baddik?"
"INTA—"
He rises over me.
Enters in one smooth thrust. I cry out—relief, pleasure, completion.
"Ghada—"
"Aktar—"
We move with the rhythm of distillation.
Heat building, essence concentrating, transforming into something pure. His thrusts deepen. My legs wrap around him.
"Ana jayyi—"
"Ma'aya—"
The climax strips us to essence.
Pure sensation, pure connection. I scream into the rafters. He groans into my neck. The arak ages around us, indifferent and eternal.
Afterward, we lie sticky and spent.
"I have a new proposal," he says.
"Shu?"
"I stay. Learn properly. We decide together what's worth sharing with the world."
"You'd give up Paris?"
"Paris doesn't have you."
Four years later
Zahlé Arak appears in exactly twelve restaurants worldwide.
Each chosen by us. Each understanding the honor. François handles distribution. I handle production. Together we handle everything else.
"Worth giving up fame?" I ask.
"I found something better than fame."
"Shu?"
"Inti. W hay el hayat."
Alhamdulillah.
For anise that clouds into clarity.
For sommeliers who learn to savor.
For distillers who discover what's truly intoxicating.
The End.