Manouche Memoirs

Zaatar wa khaddara. Every day during my morning shift of work I hit a wall of hunger at around 10.30am. I leave the office and walk along the obstacle course that is Gemmayzeh Street, with its pavement parked cars, never ending construction and dawdling pedestrians. ‘Welcome to Lebanon!’ shouts the owner of the Le Chef restaurant, even though I’ve been here for five months. It takes me all of about five minutes to start sweating profusely as I weave amongst the morning activity. Luckily this is all the time I need to reach Snack Na Geo. I walk in and with either a nod or a gruff ‘Kifak’, the baker puts tomato, cucumber and mint on the round bread base with its oily layer of the salty crunchy local spice zaatar, and slides it into the oven on a long wooden stick with a metal plate to hold the flat dough. I pay one dollar and receive the rolled up manouche, biting into its freshly baked deliciousness as I leave, not to be bothered by hunger again for several hours.

Lebanon is a country of contradiction and incongruity, but manouche is everywhere. The zaatar and salad version is only one of a number of options which also include melted cheese; meat; and kishek, a paste cooked from labneh (a creamy milk product) and tomato. Manouche stands are a feature of streets in Hamra, Achrafieh, Bourj el-Barajneh, Saida, Sour, Tripoli, Bcharre, Baalbek and any other small town or village you can name. Taxi drivers, construction workers and housewives can be seen eating them while going about their business.

Lebanon is famous for its mezze, a selection of tasty small dishes like hummus, fried potatoes and the kibbeh meatballs, designed to be shared in a social setting. Manouche, on the other hand, is like a loyal companion. You don’t need anyone else to be around to eat it and it will always be there.

I no longer need to speak when I go to Snack Na Geo, as I’ve ordered the same thing so many times. The three bakers, two of them brothers, are always ready, working away at the big open oven. ‘Ahlan’ comes the reply as I thank them for another zaatar wa khaddara. I even saw them at Souq al-Ahad once, saying hello as they passed, still wearing the matching green polo shirts they have on at work, presumably stocking up on zaatar for a new week at the best manouche joint in town.