More than just hummus and shawarma

It’s difficult to pinpoint just when and where things changed but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that, for me, it was in Manhattan on a late November early evening 2014, when I met the pioneering Lebanese restaurateur Philippe Massoud at his plush 5th Avenue Lebanese restaurant Ilili (Tell Me). We sat at the bar, and he offered me a ‘Not so bloody Vodka martini’.

“It’s one of our bestsellers,” he enthused.  I could see why. Garnished with a giant radish it was the love child of a Bloody Mary and Vodka Martini. I wasn’t alone in my appreciation. The bar area was two-deep with noisy Manhattanites enjoying happy hour after a day’s slog at the office. When did going to a Lebanese restaurant and sitting at the bar for early evening drinks ever become a thing?

Another landmark is arguably more significant. In 2020, the Palestinian American chef and restaurateur, Michael Rafidi, opened Albi (My Heart), in Washington DC. One year later it was the first Lebanese restaurant to be awarded a Michelin star.

Em Sherif’s hummus bar in Harrods, perhaps the most famous department store on the planet, is another contender and I guess we also, albeit begrudgingly, have to recognise the efforts of the Israeli chef, Yotam Ottolenghi, although, in this case, I’m giving all the credit to his Palestinian collaborator Sami Tamimi.

We’ve come a long way. Lebanese restaurants have always been substance over style. Phoenicia in London’s Kensington, one of the first to make a name for itself in the early 70s. It was always packed, but, if we are being honest the décor looked like a cross between your teta’s sitting room and a branch of the Lebanese Tourist Board.

There was no ‘haute cuisine’ identity. The food was often lumped under the more general ‘Middle Eastern’ or Persian And even today, in London’s most sought-after neighbourhoods, the finest Lebanese restaurants are unlikely to win any interior design awards. But customers don’t care because they know, like Indian restaurants, the food is going to be outstanding.

But propelled by a new generation of chefs, hummus, falafel and the humble shawarma are no longer just street food, they are the springboard for a global movement based on healthy eating; plant-based diets and ‘plate sharing’ menus. Lebanese food has emerged from the ethnic ghetto and now genuinely demands to be taken seriously. Dubai, Abu Dhabi and Doha are leading the charge. The Gulf states have, in the last 60 years, gone from colonial backwaters to arguably the most vibrant and exciting tourist destinations and sporting venues on the planet and Lebanese restaurants, like adopted children, have flourished.

Another milestone in the last 20 years is the elevation of tabkh (home cooking) as an alternative to the more celebrated (and formulaic) mezze spread, which let’s face is not what we eat every day. This ‘back to our roots’ approach was pioneered by slow-food champion, Kamal Mozzawak and his partner Christine Coidsi, who founded Tawleh in the 2000s and ignited a local food movement that insisted we explore our culinary roots from a rural and regional perspective. Take the super-chic freekeh, the roasted and smoked durum, that until 20 years ago was practically unknown outside the kitchens of Bekaa. Now it’s everywhere.

Back on board the mothership, Beirut, even after all the trials and tribulations of the past seven years, has, in terms of quality, service and design, arguably the finest crop of restaurants anywhere in the world. I’m deadly serious. Not only is this simply driven by a historic entrepreneurial energy that refuses to be browbeaten, it is also underpinned by a genuine love of food and a generational attitude that will not settle for anything but the best.

Finally, my own cri de cœur. Arak deserves its day in the sun, but it doesn’t appear to ‘travel well’. Few outside Lebanon have heard of it, let alone know that it is one of the oldest spirits in the world and the correct accompaniment with mezze. Maybe it’s the anise, the high alcohol content or ignorance of the ritual. What is for certain is that it is the missing part of the jigsaw.

I guess we can’t have it all.