The Unwanted Cultural Appropriation of Lebanese Cuisine

Growing up Lebanese, we become accustomed to a little friendly rivalry over whose Teta makes the best tabbouleh, whose Tante the smoothest hummus, and in which village the most flavourful za’atar grows. We take these as fun moments of social interaction. Mere cheek-squeezing pit stops along the path of growing up. And, anyway, no one could have seriously believed anyone’s tabbouleh was better than my granny’s, because others’ were always more or less lemony, salty, or tasty. But that was alright as long as the pretentious discussion remained confined within the 10,452 km².

However, a different level of controversial competition ratchets the temperature up several notches when we read about entire civilisations hijacking highlights of Lebanese cuisine as their own.

We’re as fascinated by the cultural history of the Levant as anyone, and we’re open to learning new facets surrounding the genesis of our tabbouleh, hummus, and za’atar staples (although, to be clear, they’re all 100% Lebanese).

The further our cuisine travels from Beirut, and the easier it seems to stretch its cultural connections. By the time our fattoush arrives in London, it would appear to have originated in any one of many of Lebanon’s neighbouring states.

By New York, you could easily believe that the first mouth-watering manakish were baked as far north as Antakya or as far south as Haifa. They weren’t. Even the United Nations (through UNESCO) has acknowledged man’ousheh as an ‘emblematic Lebanese cultural practice.’ So, sometimes, we like the UN.

The good (and refreshingly uncontroversial) news is that all the Lebanese items we make and serve at The High Llama bakery in London’s Fitzrovia are lovingly created in contemporary homage to their traditional Lebanese culinary roots.

Fatayer is from Damascus, and kafta is from Aleppo?

It’s about as wild a thought as an ‘English curry.’

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