I used to think myths were just bedtime stories—until I read the tablets from Lagash, where Inanna rides a pair of lions like she’s late for a glam-rock sound-check. Turns out, the goddess of love and war never traveled light; she carried passion and danger in equal measure, same way a bartender carries bitters and sugar.

When I host my Alchemy After Dark pop-ups, I tell guests that lions still roam Baghdad’s collective memory. We may not hear their paws on the marble of Al-Mustansiriya University, but the roar lingers in street poetry and the way oud players strike that low, growling C-string. My cocktails? They shimmer ultraviolet—pomegranate, date molasses, a hint of dried lime—because a lioness deserves a drink that glows under blacklight.

Fun fact: in Akkadian, one of the words for lion is labbu, which also meant a fierce protector. My grandma called me binti labbu (daughter of the lion) whenever I got sassy about curfew. She said Baghdad needed more protectors who sparkle, not just soldiers with rifles. I took the hint: I protect flavor, memory, and the right to dance even when the power cuts out.

Inanna’s temple priests brewed sacred beer laced with honey and coriander. I can’t legally slip honey-beer to every guest, but I lace conversation with the same ingredients—sweet reminiscence, peppery jokes, coriander-fresh curiosity. People drink stories faster than booze, trust me. By paragraph four, you’ve downed two imaginary goblets already.

The lioness myth also reminds me to flip gender scripts. Inanna wasn’t waiting for permission; she flipped the cosmic barstool and said, “My throne now.” Modern Baghdad women still do that, whether coding apps in Karrada or mashing zaatar in a Karbala kitchen. My arm cuff—bronze with cuneiform swirls—is my small tribute: part accessory, part manifesto.

So next time you picture Iraq, don’t only picture sand and news headlines. Picture ultraviolet pomegranate gleaming in a cut-crystal glass while a DJ blends maqam scales with lo-fi beats. Picture Inanna high-fiving you across 5,500 years. And if you taste fig-leaf smoke in the after-sip, that’s just the lioness purring, asking what kind of legend you’ll write tonight.