From Beirut to Brooklyn, Edy Massih Has Carried His Grandmothers' Recipes

21.05.2024 - 14:45 / cntraveler.com

Lebanon, a country that combines the traditional spirit of the Arab world with the Western charm of Beirut, is aptly known as the Paris of the Middle East. I was born and raised in Anfeh, a small Greek Orthodox fishing village about an hour north of Beirut, on the shore of the Mediterranean Sea. It’s a place and a culture I lost when I moved to America and never expected to appreciate. But the aromatic food, pristine beaches with shimmering blue water, heart-lifting church services, and carefree laughter of its beautiful, resilient people pull me back home and make me proud to be Lebanese.

Anfeh’s population is a little over six thousand people, a small stretch of village under two square miles. The village consists of small family-owned businesses, housewives gossiping over coffee and cigarettes, and the most stunning beaches in Lebanon. Growing up, I was surrounded by food day and night, and my world revolved around what we were eating next. Entertaining was a way of life, and my earliest family memories include cooking, feasting, dancing, and laughing around a big table of food. In Anfeh, we were all about sharing, so everything from mezze to mains to dessert was always served family style.

Green olives from Souk el Tayeb in Beirut, as featured in the book

A family photo of the author Edy, his sister Natacha (left), and grandfather Afif (right)

My paternal grandmother, Odette, was an elegant and proud Lebanese woman, housewife, and mother of four. I’d follow her around, admiring her gorgeous blown-out hair, shoulder-padded suit jacket, and confident, ladylike walk. Every Sunday, she’d come home from church, change into stretchy clothes, turn the stove on low, and swirl two tablespoons of Najjar coffee grounds in a silver Turkish coffee pot. Then she’d dig into her secret stash of British McVitie’s Digestive biscuits, kept in a locked drawer in the dining room. She’d arrange the coffee and cookies on a tray and retreat to the balcony with a cigarette, where she’d gossip with whomever was near—her sister, her daughter, or a neighbor.

During her post-church coffee break, I’d cling to my Teita (grandmother in Arabic) as she implored me to join the other kids on the beach. “I will be right there,” she’d say. “Go swim, go play with your friends.” But I wouldn’t move. Instead, I’d ask her to warm me up some kibbeh balls with her homemade garlic labneh. She’d serve it to me with a smile as I sat on the kitchen counter to watch her bring our meal to life. Once she got cooking, she was tireless and unstoppable.

My love for food grew every summer, as I spent less time in the classroom and more time in the kitchen with Teita. Summer lunches at her beach house were the highlight of my day. There was something