The salad I ate from the buffet that day was the height of simplicity, but doesn’t everyone say that simple is not only the most difficult to finesse and the best when done right? Freekeh mixed with pomegranate seeds, heaps of fresh wild zaatar leaves, and a lemon olive oil dressing. I did ask the chef that day (again I’m presuming it was Zeinab, but can’t be sure) for her recipe, which she willingly shared. The freekeh was unlike any I’d eaten before and I spent a great deal of time in the kitchen doing all I could with this bright green grain. 

Five years later, on an early June day, Zeinab invited me to her family farm in the deep southern hills of Lebanon, deep in Hezbollah territory with its yellow flags hung from street lights and giant portraits of martyrs dotting the roadside.  Our car drove up winding roads through olive groves and citrus trees and the heaven that is the Lebanese countryside. The Mediterranean seemed to sparkle even more the further we drove from it. I had come to learn about how Zeinab’s family produced freekeh in the traditional way. We were too late to witness the harvest, she told me, and her cousin who had been doing it recently passed away, but she’d be happy to show me their farm and talk about it. She sent me photos on WhatsApp (see them below) of her cousin stoking a large fire and thrashing it with thick bunches of wheat. I was thrilled by her invitation.

Freekeh is essentially young green wheat, harvested before you would normally, usually in April. It is then burnt on an open fire, the high water content of the wheat enabling it to withstand the flames. The kernels are then ready to be separated by rubbing vigorously - the word freekeh comes from the Arabic word farak, “to rub.” It is the smokey flavour imbued into the grains that makes freekeh such a special ingredient. Zeinab told me that most commercial freekeh is no longer made  by burning over an open fire, more likely it’s laid in the hot sun to dry, and so it’s of course not as good. But in smaller shops around Beirut you can still find freekeh as it should be. Her top tip to those without an artisan Lebanese food shop in town? Get that strong smokey flavour that freekeh should have, by toasting the sub-par varieties in in a dry pan for a few minutes before you add the liquid to cook it in. 

We arrived at Zeinab’s home and she popped out onto the street, her smile as big as always. Zeinab is a very well-known cook from the Tawlet family, often featured in articles around the world about the Souk el Tayeb initiative. Her passion for cooking and Lebanese traditions is evident in how much she loves to share her knowledge. She’s from the Jnoub, the south, and there’s a very distinct cuisine there which she is a master of. The cooks of Tawlet have traveled to India and Denmark and France to share their unique perspective on Lebanese cuisine with the world.  I waved and she hopped in our car and directed us through the small village to her farm where we met up with her husband who had already been hard at work. We admired their livestock and the incredible views they had down the mountain to the sea.  She told me about her grown children and the work she’d done over the years for Souk el Tayeb. Seated in the shade Zeinab prepared coffee on the small gas burner in an outbuilding, they offered us yogurt made with their cow's milk and we talked…sort of. One of my biggest frustrations was that in the 5 years I’d spent in Lebanon my Arabic was still very rudimentary. I call it Kitchen Arabic because I’ve had to learn the names of ingredients, cooking processes, equipment while working with cooks in restaurants. I also know how to talk about the weather with taxi drivers and complain about traffic and the thieves running the Lebanese government. That’s about where it ends, unfortunately. My ever-patient husband was by my side translating for us, but it often felt like the film “Lost in Translation” because she’d go on and on and on about something and my husband would give me a distinctly short synopsis. 

After she described the freekeh production process (which is little more than I described above) and pointed out the area where they’d grown their wheat which had been harvested that April. Then I was offered a glass of milk. It was the colostrum (the first milk produced after pregnancy) from one of their cows whose calf had died that morning. Excellent for my health and immunity I was promised.  While I drank I asked Zeinab which part of Lebanon had the best food, fully expecting her to sing the praises of her region in the South. Instead she told me that each region had their own best. The apples in the North produced their own great specialties, the fish dishes of the coast were special in their own way, the Beiruti style unique in its ingredients and flair. Her traditionally southern kamouneh spice mix which she was famous for pounding into kibbeh nayeh (raw meat) was the best version of that dish. Each place was a reflection of what it produced and therefore those were its star recipes. 

Back up the winding roads to their house, Zeinab wanted to show me their zaatar (thyme) harvest. In their house, in a large screened in room, was piled high with dried zaatar. An older woman sat on the floor among the piles, picking the leaves off the stems by hand. Again and again I’m in awe of the amount of work that goes into making the food we eat. It soon became clear that we had been invited for a late brunch and Zeinab ushered me down the hall into her kitchen so we could finish up what needed to be prepared. Everything, she told me, was grown by them or by someone in their village. And it being June, it was a bounty of delicious fresh vegetables, gorgeous fresh bread, labneh from their cows, olives from their trees, and a large bowl of steaming foul. 

My favourite part of the day was working in the kitchen with Zeinab that morning. My husband was sitting with hers in the living room so there was no translator, but we managed to communicate with ease and there was a conviviality in that room that I think only people who love to cook will understand. She elegantly put together tabbouleh with mounds of parsley she’d spent a great deal of time chopping earlier. She decorated the hummus platter and delicately arranged a plate of chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, and mint. She was the very embodiment of Lebanese hospitality in her actions.