The 24 Best AriZona Iced Tea Flavors, Ranked

It’s smooth. It’s sweet. It’s refreshing. It’s cheap. It’s everywhere. While Arnold Palmer is not the singular most iconic beverage in the AriZona portfolio, it sure is close, and there’s not a single doubt that it deserves admission to the Mount Rushmore of soft drinks. It wasn’t until a few years after I lived off cans of these from the Shell station next to my college apartment that I realized mixing lemonade and iced tea was a very cool and normal thing society found acceptable: I just figured everyone would rather be drinking a can of AriZona’s Arnold Palmer.

On its own, this drink has everything you need, and we can stop right there with the descriptors and superlatives. But let me tell you, you have not lived until you sipped a third of the liquid off the top, filled the empty space with vodka, and ran around town on a hot summer night with a big-ass can of liquid bliss in your hands. If it weren’t for the incredibly subtle “diet” flavor on the aftertaste (the can says “LITE” and is not emblazoned with the “No artificial flavors” stamp), this would be a perfect 10, no questions asked.

Score: 9.1

As a Northerner, there’s a whole slew of things from the South that will always feel overrated to me. Sweet tea lands on this list right between Nascar and Bojangles, though I wouldn’t shy away from either if I had a rack of Busch Light in me. It’s absolutely everywhere south of the Mason-Dixon line, and the disparity between brews at fast-food joints, diners, and gas stations is truly staggering. It’s arguable that Chick-fil-A offers the platonic ideal of sweet tea, but the drive-thru line at your average CFA in Georgia is prohibitive when all you want is a frosty cool glass of the sweet brown stuff.

AriZona’s spin on the drink is a close second, and I was shocked to realize how much I liked it in spite of it basically being Arnold Palmer with one flavor instead of two. The absence of lemon lets the earthy notes of the tea punch through the mix, and the sugary finish is just a click below being the syrupy, saccharine mess you’ll find at lesser Southern fast food chains like Zaxby’s or Cookout. I pray the robot mower I’m testing out for this publication makes my real lawnmower obsolete, but if it doesn’t, you can find me shirtless all summer long with a pair of UGA Croakies on my head and a can of this in my non-mowing hand.

Score: 8.7

To quote the great painter Salvador Dalí: “The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: It is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant.” I remember nothing about the sociopolitical climate of the summer of 1997, but I remember exactly what I consumed on a daily basis in vivid detail. Between bouts of skateboarding, pick-up baseball, and hours-long multiplayer games of Magic: the Gathering, I quenched my soul with the music of Third Eye Blind, and I quenched my thirst with Lipton Brisk Raspberry Iced Tea. I probably drank 2 liters of the stuff every day. Inspired by a recent trip down memory lane when “Jumper” played on my local “modern” rock station, I sought out a can and was immediately appalled by how sugary and fake it tasted, which had me wondering which other memories from that summer were false.

Third Eye Blind is still a no-skips masterpiece, and I’m happy to report that AriZona’s offering is a supremely crushable, future-proof replacement that hits just like my memory of Lipton’s. The raspberry flavor is gentle, and it commingles perfectly with the black tea base. If a time machine could take me back to that hot Walgreens parking lot where I loitered so often in those halcyon days of the late ’90s, I would hand my 12-year-old self a can of this, along with a recommendation to buy that Black Lotus he’d been eyeing at the card shop before its price shot up to the moon.

Score: 7.8

Though it’s not taken quite as seriously by very online people, preference for lemon iced tea can feel a bit like that of New York pizza. Everyone has a very strong opinion about it, and with a few small exceptions, no one is more right or wrong than the next person.

If you prefer a sweeter, stickier iteration of the most common adjunct-infused black iced tea, then Lipton Brisk is probably what you want, but AriZona’s entry in this genre is still outstanding, albeit a tad less sweet. The tart lemon flavor really pops here, and although it does use high-fructose corn syrup, it would be easy to mistake this for a classier cane sugar beverage one would find in pretty much any country outside of the USA.

Score: 7.5

AriZona recently collaborated with Bethesda Studios on a series of Fallout-inspired energy drinks, presumably because more relevant IPs like Minecraft and Roblox were out of budget. The trio of flavors starts with a green tea base rather than the cocktail of artificial sweeteners and chemicals used by competing products, resulting in a smooth, not-so-sweet alternative to energy drinks that hits like a lightly carbonated can of yerba mate.

Apple is usually a repugnant adjunct in carbonated drinks, but it only shows up at the top of the sip with a small hit of brightness before the bubbles pop and the green tea flavor takes over. These are damn near impossible to find in the wild, but the mixed cases offered directly by AriZona are worth the time and money if you want a chill energy drink that doesn’t taste like artificial sweeteners first and a mad scientists concept of fruit flavors second.

Score: 7.2

It’s heartening to know AriZona actually can pull off a decent watermelon beverage, and this one has a little smack of caffeine in it to boot. The acidic notes I sorely missed in Watermelon Fruit Juice Cocktail are a touch more present in this offshoot of the original RX Energy blend, resulting in a crushable treat that’s not too sour and not too sweet.

Score: 6.8

This is a respectable, straightforward beverage. The sum of its parts is less sweet than AriZona’s regular sweet tea, with just a brief nudge of peach at the top of the sip. Any more peach flavor would teeter dangerously into artificial fruit flavor purgatory, so the lack of overwhelming peachiness is something I can get down with on a hot day when all I really want is a cold, smooth liquid that’s not loaded with weird off-notes and aftertastes.

Score: 6.4

While the can alleges this chichi update on the classic contains honey and ginseng, both flavors are muted and indistinguishable from the herbal tea flavor that buoys this brew. I chugged half a can wondering what it actually tasted like, and spent the second half taking slow slips, pondering the very nature of flavor itself. If the La Croix craze of the mid-2010s taught us anything, it was that flavor can take a backseat to vibes, and those are incredibly strong with this somewhat rare entry in AriZona’s expansive catalog.

Black & White Tea is the Khruangbin of their catalog. It is sophisticated, restrained, and mysterious, like that cute regular at your local coffee shop who wears the same thing every day and you’re very into it even though you have no clue if it’s because they’re lazy and broke or because they’re too intelligent and self-assured to bother with fashion.

Score: 6.3

Peach Iced Tea taught us that Arizona can play it cool when it comes to adding peach to a classic that’s already good on its own, but I wanted a bit more peachy panache with this one. The base flavor of their entry in the energy drink space proves that light carbonation on a green tea canvas could accept a variety of complementary flavors that may suck on their own, but the lack of juicy tang that steals the show in its iced tea cousin makes this one feel like somewhat of a missed opportunity. It’s a good drink, but I know in my heart it could be a great drink if they ratcheted up the peach flavor.

Score: 6.1

Adding strawberry flavor to a beverage is a slippery slope. In cocktails it runs the risk of tasting like stomach acid or a hangover in a cup, though it has a bit more latitude in soft drinks where it can hide under several layers of sweetness and only poke its head out when needed. If OG Arnold Palmer never existed this would be a no-brainer on a hot, sticky day, but the dull strawberry flavor is no competition for the lemony tang that makes the original flavor the GOAT.

Score: 5.9

Anyone who’s loitered in the lobby of a resort in Las Vegas knows that cucumber-infused “spa water” is unbeatable on a hot day in the desert. I had high hopes for this hybrid between bougie hotel water and one of the greatest soft drinks ever made, and I was let down by this underwhelming and directionless riff on green tea. The tangy honey flavor is eschewed for what can only be described as a vague gesture toward the cool and calming flavor of cucumber one would expect in this drink. It’s still a totally fine beverage at the end of the day, but not AriZona’s best work. I’m not mad at them, just disappointed.

Score: 5.8

Well before the energy drink boom of the early aughts, AriZona staked claim to its own tiny corner of the beverage industry with RX Energy. This tangy blend of ginseng, green tea, and “citrus” flavor never got anyone jacked for day-long Diablo 2 or Warhammer sessions, but it went down smooth, and the discontinued glass bottle was a much cooler object to schlep around a gaming tournament than, say, a 2-liter of Mountain Dew or a jumbo canister of Jolt Cola.

Time has since passed this flavor by, and the explosion of crunchy health elixirs and proper caffeine bombs leaves this relic of the Clinton era in the dust. Nothing about the mellow orange and lemon flavors that punctuate RX Energy is offensive; they’re just hard to find impressive or memorable in any way.

Score: 5.7

Mango is one of the few drink flavors out there that can get by without tasting even remotely like the actual fruit it’s based on. If you’ve ever had a smoothie containing mangoes that are a day or two before their prime, you’ll know exactly what I mean. Just open your mouth the next time you crack a pine-scented Little Tree and you’re pretty close. This bizarre phenomenon works in the favor of AriZona’s Mucho Mango, which utilizes a rough idea of mango flavor in one of the most drinkable entries in their underwhelming “fruit juice cocktail” series. It’s refreshing, fruity, lightly sweetened, and would taste even better with a mini bottle of coconut rum that the bodega you’re buying this from probably has on sale at the counter.

Score: 3.1

Watermelon is a divisive flavor in the junk food world. Jolly Rancher devoted entire bags to it after fans bemoaned having to fight for the good stuff when it’s presented alongside total clunkers in their mixed bags, and real heads know Watermelon Sour Patch Kids are the best flavor. AriZona could do worse with this one, but the watermelon notes get buried in a syrupy slurry of hot-pink goop that slithers across your palate in a very strange way. The Jolly Rancher family probably considers this flavor an unkempt cousin who’s always late and one missed shower away from looking presentable at the function.

Score: 3.0

As the saying goes, if you remember all the Kiwi-Strawberry Snapple you drank in the ’90s, you probably weren’t there. It feels like just yesterday when Clinton was in office and everything was low-fat and chock-full of sugar, and Snapple’s insanely popular bottled beverage sent shockwaves through the snack and beverage industry. No upper-middle-class family’s pantry was safe. Society has since moved on to yassified probiotic soda and chemically fortified energy drinks, but the fuzzy memories of the ’90s live on within communities that were gutted by NAFTA, oblong Ford Tauruses that refuse to die, and whatever the hell this offering from AriZona is supposed to be. The kiwi strawberry flavor is discernible if you focus hard enough, but it’s quickly engulfed by the underwhelming pineapple flavor that clouds the taste of most entrants in the Fruit Juice Cocktail series. Grunge and West Coast gangsta rap will always be cool, but it turns out everything else from the ’90s actually sucked.

Score: 2.8

If the first sip of this noxious purple liquid doesn’t smack you in the face with memories of your childhood, then you had a shitty childhood and your parents didn’t love you. When I say “your parents didn’t love you,” what I mean is that they actually loved you so much they wouldn’t let you run around the neighborhood jacked on corn syrup with the neighborhood kid with the divorced parents whose mom called whatever the hell this is “juice,” leaving a trail of sticky slime and whiffs of syrup in your wake. Sadly, the novelty wears off after two swigs, and you’re left with an unremarkable middle ground between Welch’s concord grape juice (the cheap kind that comes in cans from the freezer aisle) and “purple drink” as we all know it.

Score: 2.6

True story: Back in high school (Akron, Ohio, circa 2001), I knew this dude who would show up to beer-soaked suburban house parties rocking fake hillbilly teeth, a mullet, orthopedic shoes, and a satin windbreaker. To complete this ironic look, he always had a case of Tahitian Treat under one arm and usually a very hot private school girl under the other. When “The Treat” ran dry one evening, he dispatched some toady to fetch him more from the Citgo down the road, and the poor kid returned with four cans of AriZona Fruit Punch. He was promptly removed from the party, and I’m pretty sure he went to prom alone because of this. I can’t remember what this disappointing take on fruit punch tastes like while it’s in my mouth, but I will never forget this anecdote.

Score: 2.5

It’s hard to mess up lemonade. Add lemons and sugar to water, and voilà! Instant summer classic. AriZona’s riff on the essential summertime sipper is watery and has plenty of sugar—63 grams per can—but that acidic, lemony punch you crave on a hot summer day is nonexistent. On my first sip my brain immediately remembered a recent jam session with some friends at which I accidentally rolled down the tone knob on my guitar, then spent the majority of the evening wondering why every note I played sounded limp and boring. This is that, but in beverage form.

Score: 2.3

There’s a short arc in Succession where Tom is convinced he’s going to prison. He primes his taste buds for a lifetime of underwhelming prison food during a rendezvous at a diner in which he orders pancakes with no syrup and dry toast. I have it on good authority that the orange liquid they served him during this scene was actually AriZona Orangeade rather than reconstituted orange juice that comes from a giant plastic bag. If you’re considering a can of this while browsing the wares at a convenience store you're better off getting actual orange juice, like Simply Orange or Tropicana, or a bottle of Sunny D if you’re feeling trashy, hungover, or both.

Score: 2.2

The can of the OG Arnold Palmer flavor—notably billed as “Lite,” clocking in at 140 calories per can—features a photo of the American golf legend in the latter half of his career, looking quizzical and esteemed. The “Diet” version portrays Palmer as a young trad-hunk; the kind of suburban twerp who listens to stoicism podcasts and eats bananas the “straight” way while en route to the country club in his massive SUV. The kind of guy whose wife hoovered up anything that alleged to be “diet” in the ’90s—chemicals and sweeteners be damned—and is now involved in a yoga pants pyramid scheme. I get that people count calories, but the marginal advantage of shaving 125 calories off your daily allowance is very much not worth the abrasive sucralose slurp one must suffer through after cracking one of these. The occasional Diet Coke is acceptable and zeitgeist-y for most these days; Diet Arnold Palmer is not.

Score: 2.1

According to Reddit and 100-level marketing and logistics classes, Dum Dums’ “mystery flavor” is the product of the final drops of one flavor batch bleeding into the next as the wheel that injects the flavor is rotated. It always ends up tasting like pineapple, and that seems to be the trend with AriZona’s “fruit juice cocktail” lineup as well.

There are many clunkers to be found here, and Tropical Chillzicle is at the bottom of the barrel due to how forgettable it is. It’s like the classmate you notice in your yearbook decades later who you’re not convinced is—or ever was—a real guy. I forgot what this tasted like halfway through my first sip, and I regret gulping down half a can to figure out what to write here.

Score: 1.8

This tastes like the watered-down remnants of a “real fruit” popsicle you’d buy at a smelly health foods co-op that takes checks but not NFC payments. The can art features Bomb Pops prominently, yet the flavor is a limp and watery rendering of an all-American summer treat that’s very hard to fuck up this bad. Do not buy this.

Score: 0.8