Five years ago, I took a sip of scotch. It was an old one: delicate and complex, with notes of summer hay, tropical fruits, fennel, petrichor – the scent of grass after rain – and a distinctly rich smell of charentais melon.

The combination was a time machine. Suddenly I was ten years younger, holding my baby son in our garden on a warm summer evening in Texas.

Like many Americans, I began enjoying whiskey slightly before I was legally permitted to do so. But it was that moment five years ago – a sip of the stuff at a new job in a distillery, where part of my training was tasting and learning about different spirits – that plunged me into that world.

I needed to understand that scent memory. I needed to know what caused those chemicals to form such that they could transport someone in that way. I still don’t quite know the answer but I’m getting closer. Working as a distiller for the past five years, I’ve been on a deep dive into still shape, climate, grain, yeast, barrels, and every other element that influences whiskey. This strange journey has also taken me back to the early days of spirit production, when an esoterically minded friar was on a much different distillation quest.

Friar John of Rupescissa was arrested and jailed in 1344. The charges against him were similar to those leveled against other radical Franciscans of the period. His criticism of ecclesial abuses and his call for a return to the poverty exemplified by Francis of Assisi had rubbed many superiors the wrong way. But in addition to the standard disagreements over church politics, Friar John had also been rebuked for his rather unorthodox prophecies that the end times were imminent and that the church needed to arm herself with a new weapon: alchemy. John explained his reasoning in this way:

I considered the coming times predicted by Christ in the Gospels, namely, of the tribulations in the time of the Antichrist, under which the Roman Church shall be tormented and have all her worldly riches despoiled by tyrants…. Thus, for the sake of liberating the chosen people of God, to whom it is granted to know the ministry of God and the magisterium of truth, I wish to speak of the work of the great Philosopher’s Stone without lofty speech. My intention is to be helpful to the good of the holy Roman Church and briefly to explain the whole truth about the Stone.

For hundreds of years, the Philosopher’s Stone was the principal goal sought by thousands of alchemists across Europe and the Middle East. In theory, an alchemist who could combine the attributes of the four elements would be able to create an object that could transmute other metals into gold and grant longevity, if not eternal life. The search for this object was enmeshed in mythology, as various thinkers traced the origin of the Stone through Solomon’s temple and back to the Garden of Eden. The Stone even became woven into the theologies of Christian and Muslim theologians. But its mystical nature belies the fact that the search for the Stone was grounded in real academic pursuits: any alchemist worth his salt was well versed in geology, metallurgy, mathematics, astronomy, and distillation.

It was in the field of distillation that Friar John of Rupescissa made important contributions that quickly spread across Europe. Even after his arrest, Friar John continued to work diligently under the supervision of authorities who probably wanted to keep an eye on the rabble-rousing friar and be the first to benefit from his discoveries. Distillation is simply the separation of a liquid by boiling it, allowing the vapor to recondense, and then selecting the part of the recondensed liquid to be saved. This all takes place in a still which is a glass or metal vessel that can be heated and allows vapor to be directed to a cooling element. Water can be distilled so that any minerals or impurities are left behind in the still. Herbs or flowers steeped in water can be distilled to make a concentrated perfume. Various chemicals can be distilled to separate them into their constituent elements – something crucial for alchemists. But Friar John was concerned specifically with the distillation of one of the most delightful of all chemicals: alcohol.

Exactly who first distilled alcohol is a mystery. Like everything else to do with alchemy, the origins of distillation in general are shrouded in the mists of history. Aristotle knew that boiled sea water would leave its salt behind. The ancient Indians and Chinese used primitive clay retorts to distill; the product of their efforts is not precisely known, although perfume has been suggested. Our first written records of distillation appear in the fourth century AD with the works of Zosimos of Panopolis, an alchemist from Roman Egypt who wrote prolifically on the alchemical arts as well as gnostic mysticism. Aside from some practical tips on sulfur and other elements, Zosimos also filled his writing with obscure visions, including one in which a voice from above tells a dreamer, “I have completed the descent of the fifteen steps and the ascent of the steps of light. And it is the sacrificing priest who renews me, casting off the body’s coarseness, and, consecrated by necessity, I have become a spirit.”

The idea of “casting off the body’s coarseness” is an obvious reference to a gnostic obsession but this strange vision can also be seen as a precursor to the vague and esoteric symbolism that became a constant of alchemical writings and practice for the next 1500 years. In the early days of the mystical arts, proto-alchemists needed to hide their work from authorities who associated them with charlatans who claimed to be able to transmute metals but in actuality performed mere parlor tricks. The true devotees of the Philosopher’s Stone began to hide their work behind symbolism of red lions, green dragons, golden suns, kings, queens, hermaphrodites, serpents, and phoenixes.

For Zosimos, the “sacrificing priest who renews” was likely an early alchemist’s retort which did, in fact, help remove the coarseness of a substance, a necessary step when gathering the ingredients necessary to craft the Philosopher’s Stone. For someone working in a world of four elements, it must have been a wonder to move from a substance presumably made up of earth and water such as wine, and to end with clear alcohol, free of color but concentrated, apparently containing the essence of the original liquid but without earthly “coarseness.”

Over the centuries, alchemists began to connect the concentrated alcohols they produced with the aether or celestial element of earlier Greek philosophers. Plato first mentioned aether but it was Aristotle who described this substance as a “first element,” something separate from the earthly four. This first element was not changeable like the terrestrial elements. As this concept developed in the world of alchemy, aether became not the first but a “fifth element,” the quintessential “quinta essencia.”

For medieval distilling pioneers such as Friar John of Rupescissa, this quintessence was eternal, free of decay, and held the secrets of long life and good health. Indeed, it’s easy to see how he came to this conclusion. Unlike wine, which may turn sour, distilled wine will remain unchanged, apparently, forever. What’s more, this “spirit” seems to impart its qualities to other things. Fruit which spoils quickly will stay preserved indefinitely in alcohol. Medically minded alchemists, seeing this, began to infuse herbs in alcohol, seemingly drawing out the beneficial aspects of plants and roots to serve as cures for many maladies. Other alchemists began to believe the preservative quality of spirits might simply be imparted to man himself.

Of course, today’s scientific medical community generally believes alcohol is not a cure in and of itself. And we can look back with relative confidence that Friar John’s Antichrist didn’t materialize in the manner predicted. Yet not all of the Friar’s prophecies came to naught, even if, like the predictions of ancient oracles, they didn’t come to fruition as imagined. The Philosopher’s Stone still eludes us, but the aqua vitae promoted by John has resulted in massive amounts of wealth. Scandinavian aquavit, Eastern European vodka, French eau-de-vie, and whiskey (from Gaelic uisge beatha) can all trace their name back to the alchemist’s “water of life.” Today, the spirits industry is an international behemoth that brings in so much ungodly wealth that it would make a mendicant friar’s head spin.

The journey of whiskey from tiny bottles in an apothecary to a global, economic powerhouse began in an abbey in Scotland. At least this is one of the first records we have of the industry. In 1493, Friar John Cor, a Dominican, was allotted eight bolls of grain by King James IV to make aqua vitae. Eight bolls of grain would produce quite a lot of the water of life so it’s safe to assume the consumption of uisge beatha was already common across the lowlands and highlands.

But it was the technological developments of the coming two centuries that would see spirits production explode across the globe. In the days of the early alchemists, distillation was done primarily in glass alembics: small, glass spheres with one protruding tube that would guide vapor away from the heating element where it would then recondense. This changed with developments in metallurgy that allowed for inexpensive copper production. Copper stills can be built much larger than glass alembics and can be more easily transported. Plus, the copper binds with sulfur molecules during distillation, resulting in a much better tasting spirit.

By the eighteenth century, distilling was a crucial technology for farmers across Europe and the New World and small copper stills were popping up like shiny toadstools every place farmers tilled the earth. Just as milk was turned into cheese and meat smoked for preservation, grain, potatoes, grapes, and other fruits were fermented and then distilled. These spirits allowed people to preserve their harvest and provided them with medicine. But perhaps more importantly, spirits became an integral part of culture. Even today, in many parts of the world, weddings, funerals, baptisms, meetings, and partings can hardly take place without the appropriate spirit to toast.

But as this cottage industry grew, the government took interest and conflict was inevitable. Much of whiskey history for the next few hundred years can be seen as a study in tax policy. In America, the smoke from the Revolution had barely settled when the Whiskey Rebellion exploded in opposition to onerous taxes. In Scotland, low-level war between highland distillers and excise men was a constant feature of rural life. Whether moonshiners in the foothills of the Appalachians or highlanders hidden away in secret glens, illicit distillation continued for generations.

Meanwhile, distillation technology took another leap forward with the invention of continuous stills. These massive columns bear almost no resemblance to alembics or copper pot stills but they allow industrial scale distilleries to pour out rivers of high-proof spirits constantly. It was the combination of tax policy and heavy investing in continuous stills that drove many cottage industry distillers out of business. In 1777 there were an estimated 400 distilleries in Edinburgh, but by the 1820s there were a mere handful. Even in places where the initial wave of capitalist investing hadn’t taken place, conglomeration eventually occurred. Denmark, for instance, was home to literally thousands of farmhouse distilleries, each preserving the harvest of individual farmsteads as schnapps. After state-sponsored monopolization post–World War II, that number shrank to five.

Gone were the days of the monk deep in contemplation as he watched his alembic bubble. Gone too were the days of the humble farmer warming himself next to his copper pot, distilling the fruits of his own labor. Many whiskey connoisseurs objected to this change in the state of things even a hundred years ago. One of the first books, appropriately titled Whisky, was written as a celebration of true single malt scotch over the mass-produced and often heavily doctored blended malts of the 1930s. Attributed to Aeneas MacDonald, the book was actually written by George Malcolm Thomas, who didn’t want his teetotaling Presbyterian mother to know that he wrote a book about whiskey. In this groundbreaking work, MacDonald traces the history of the spirit and notes that today, “Whisky emerges from the shadows of the hermetic arts into the harsh limelight of the age of trusts and cartels and mass-production.”

At the time of MacDonald’s writing, a hundred or so single malt distilleries continued to produce whiskey in their old copper pot stills, but their spirit was bought and blended with cheaper and poorer quality grain whiskey produced at huge scale on continuous column stills. Or, worse, men known as rectifiers would sell “whiskey” that was actually neutral spirit flavored and colored with questionable, sometimes even poisonous, ingredients. Speaking on the modern state of affairs, MacDonald lamented, “It was nothing short of a sin against the light to lump malt whisky with neutral industrial spirit as if it too were something to burn in lamps, to drive engines or to clean clothes.” This sin against the light was committed across the globe but repented of by a remnant of the faithful. A few Scots still sought out the pure single malt whiskey of yesteryear. Here and there, true believers found bottles of rum or cognac made in the old ways. But it was too late for the hundreds of distilleries that were shuttered during the dark days.

Fittingly, small scale distillation continued in the laboratories of chemists who still used glass alembics nearly identical to those of medieval alchemists. One such chemist was Primo Levi. Perhaps better known as a poet and Holocaust survivor, Levi wrote an autobiography of sorts called The Periodic Table which takes the form of vignettes based on various chemical elements. In one chapter he describes his early days in the lab, sitting with his small alembic:

Distilling is beautiful. First of all, because it is a slow, philosophic, and silent occupation, which keeps you busy but gives you time to think about other things, a little like riding a bike. Then, because it involves a metamorphosis from liquid to vapor (invisible), and from this once again to liquid, but in this double journey, up and down, purity is attained, an ambiguous and fascinating condition, which starts with chemistry and goes very far. And finally, when you set about distilling, you acquire the consciousness of repeating a ritual consecrated by the centuries, almost a religious act, in which from imperfect material you obtain the essence, the usia, the spirit, and in the first place alcohol, which gladdens the spirit and warms the heart.

My own experience as a distiller is of course quite different from that of Primo Levi. I jumped into the world of distillation by working on several gigantic copper pot stills, far from any chemist’s lab. On those stills, the hypotheses we tested were not for the sake of knowledge but for the pursuit of whiskey. Yet the basic process remains the same, and I often found myself thinking of Levi’s words, especially during the calm hours before the spirit began to flow. Distilling can still be beautiful and quiet. It can also allow for time to think despite requiring careful sensory attention. As the spirit flows it changes from moment to moment so the distiller must be attentive. We smell and taste constantly, trying to put words to the notes we catch.

This experience would have been much more uncommon just thirty years ago, but in the past few decades the craft distilling movement has grown enormously. Instead of simply recreating industrial scale spirits on smaller equipment, many of these new producers are seeking unique flavors. Some distillers today are reviving nearly forgotten traditions while others are inventing entirely new techniques. Ancient grains and strangely shaped stills are being revived and invented as the curious pursue flavor in every direction. The Oxford Artisan Distillery in England, for instance, makes whiskey from grain that was found in old, thatched roofs and grown using medieval farming practices. Waterford Distillery in Ireland produces dozens of different distillates to compare whiskey made not just from unique grain varieties but from different farms. Westland Distillery utilizes not just local grain but local peat and native oak as well. At my own distillery, I incorporate eighteenth-century Barbados rum recipes while also using yeasts that, to my knowledge, have never been used for rum.

In some cases, the destination of these paths of exploration won’t be reached for a decade or more. But distillers still pursue these flavors with the fervor of the most devoted of the mystical arts. This passion may seem strange to the uninitiated, but there is something beautiful about being able to take grain, fruit, or sugar cane and completely transform it into something else while also finding the heart of those ingredients in the process. We distillers no longer seek the Philosopher’s Stone but we do still pursue one common goal with ancient alchemists: the essence of everything.