Food

Grilled kibbah (a bulgur croquette) stuffed with labneh. Garnished with a thyme sprig.

A real eye-opener, but it shouldn’t have been. What do you think is going to happen when Mediterranean, Arab and French cuisines collide? You eat a lot is what you do.

Labneh: versatile, addictive. There's a goat variety, too, that isn't to be missed.

I’m partial to the pocket foods, and the Lebanese are, too. Folded sandwiches called manouche (cheese or thyme — or both!) are everywhere. No, seriously, they’re being made within 100 meters of wherever you are in Beirut. They're the only thing more ubiquitous than soldiers and beat-up Mercedes-Benzes. If you've had a Turkish kusbasili (or any small thin pizza, really) you know what I'm talking about.

Chicken shwarma. These won't slow down your touristin'. Nor dent your wallet; they're $3 everywhere.

When I do go to a sit-down place, I'll order three or four mezze, or small plates of snacks. Typically a helping of potatoes with walnuts and coriander (kebbet batata), or mashed with scallions and olive oil (this version is called mahrousseh). Also in my rotation are baba ganoush, hummus, green beans in tomato sauce, cheese rolls with smoked meats inside, and some little triangular-shaped pastries I never learned the name of. I detect cinammon and allspice in them but can’t tell if they contain meat or something else. That’s how far away I am from home. Strawberries and apricots are big right now.

Lebanon has a small but acclaimed wine industry. A peppery white from the Bekaa.

The biggest revelation for me here has been the moudardara, a lentil dish with fried onions and what looks like vermicelli. I suspect the Palestinians might have brought this here. It’s the first thing I’m going to try to make when I get home.

From pain au chocolate to croissants amandes — anything you can get in Paris
you can get here. The snooty service is thrown in for free.

Every corner store has a cooler filled with labneh, a salty, creamy yogurt. I like dipping biscotti or other pain grilles in it, or frying it up with onions and eggs.

Moudardara, left, and warak enab (vine leaves stuffed with rice and tomato).

Some of the super-traditional stuff, like the raw meats and pan-fried songbirds, I never got around to. I don’t think I’ve eaten any meat in the past week — it just never crossed my mind.

Guys walk around with these samovars on their backs selling coffee on the street. It doesn’t taste like coffee to me; someone told me it’s spiced with cardamom. A shop owner gave me a “welcoming coffee” like this when I popped in for an ethernet cable.

Beirut's beloved Barbar, renowned for staying open even after being hit by a rocket-propelled grenade in 1979.

Shaved mutton and two kinds of hummus at Barbar. Served on a prison-style metal tray.

Thyme (za’atar) comes with everything here, and it doesn’t resemble the meager, woody crap you get in North America. Every part of it, including the stalk, is tender and edible and explosiony in your mouth. Yes, “explosiony.” I picked up some seeds and pray I don’t get any grief about them at immigration. The packets do say “product of Syria,” and there’s nothing more capricious than a guy with a badge at the airport.