Ever driven down the wrong side of a three-lane motorway in the wrong direction? You almost certainly will if you use any of the main routes into central Beirut. It would seem that a population used to the daily threats of local violence or aerial bombardment couldn't care less about risky driving. The Lebanese claim to be able to communicate with each other just using their car horns, and with rock and electronica thumping out of the bars that play host to a new and vibrant underground music scene – as well as traditional songs being belted out in cafés – the city is very, very noisy.
The buildings range from the occasional pretty Arabian apartment block with French-style ironwork to hundreds of ugly white and pastel concrete buildings and spectacular modern developments, while gold mosques and big churches poke out wherever they can. The concrete is the result of the rapid rebuilding undertaken since 1990, when the long Lebanese civil war ended; the more sculptural modern architecture comes from recent attempts to rebuild the badly damaged downtown area. Neither style does much for Beirut's declared desire to reclaim its status as the Paris of the Middle East, which it held before 1975, when the city stopped being the financial centre of the region and a major tourist destination because of the protracted conflict which began that year.
Now no fewer than 18 different communities live here, and these can be subdivided along further political and religious lines; and, unlike many Middle Eastern cities, the dress code varies as much as the architecture – from tight and skimpy to fully veiled.
Perhaps because of this huge mixture of cultures and communities, Beirut has always excelled at food, and now some Lebanese activists are trying to overcome the open wounds among its many factions by cooking and eating together (there has been little in the way of a large-scale formal reconciliation process since the conflict officially ended). Kamal Mouzawak, a one-time TV chef and former board member of the international Slow Food Movement, founded Beirut's first farmers' market in 2004, a radical place where producers from all communities – Palestinian, Muslim, Christian, Druze – come together once a week to sell their produce. Now Mouzawak has opened a co-operative-style restaurant, Tawlet, with the aim of promoting and preserving Lebanese food traditions, where a roster of producers from the market come and cook their community's food for a day.
Mouzawak's friend Henry Dimbleby, a chef and restaurateur from London, has come to Beirut to see Tawlet, and to pinch as many recipes as possible for his third cookbook and his UK chain of healthy fast-food restaurants, Leon. The nine Leon outlets are radical in their own way; unlike with other fast-food joints, you can be in and out with something wholesome, seasonal and ethically sourced in moments. With menus based on hummus, flatbreads, fresh herbs and bold flavours, much of his food is rooted in Lebanese traditions.
"This is rather coals to Newcastle," he laughs as he stands at the counter and chops the ingredients for a mezze dish of his own devising – Mouzawak has insisted Dimbleby serve something as today's guest chef. His last recipe-hunting trip to Lebanon was in 2006 with his reluctant wife Jemima, who was six months pregnant and had read that there was a risk of kidnapping. But Dimbleby was desperate to attend Mouzawak's newest community outreach idea – a mezze festival in the Bekaa valley, which also happens to be a Hezbollah stronghold.
Lebanon has strong claims to being the birthplace of mezze: the practice of serving small dishes to soak up the local aniseed-flavoured liquor, arak, began here in the 1920s when two small cafés started giving away seeds, nuts, olives and cheese with drinks.
"2006 was the first year of Kamal's festivals celebrating regional foodstuffs," says Dimbleby. "He roped me into being a judge, and I had to try eight different kinds of raw kebbeh [finely ground goat meat mixed with onions and spices] with a load of eminent local foodies and the mayor. The woman who won wasn't even from the area, so in spite of trying to bring people together, we were on the brink of a gastro war," he grins.
Even three years ago Beirut was still very different. "The Israeli bombardment was very recent and there were still Hezbollah fighters camped out in central Beirut," explains Dimbleby. "There were often power cuts, and many of the main roads or bridges had been hit by shelling. Now there are Costa Coffees and shopping malls." He doesn't look as if he thinks this is entirely a good thing. He points towards a Costa in a glitzy development where Mourad Mazouz, the man behind Sketch and Momo in London, Joël Robuchon of London's L'Atelier, Yannick Alleno of Le Meurice in Paris and Michelin-starred chefs Antoine Westermann and Davide Bisetto are all planning new openings. Swanky hotels, such as Le Grey Beirut, have already opened and more are being built as the city tries to lure back tourists.
"The rebuilding doesn't help at all," says Mouzawak. "It makes the situation worse, because if social differences are a reason for conflict, this is maximised with the rebuilding." He does, however, believe things can improve. "In Lebanon there is no 'other'. There are three main languages, so we greet each other saying: 'Hi! Kifak! Ça va?' There are so many different traditions that we certainly don't have a monoculture – and we eat from each other's traditions. As such, Tawlet isn't a restaurant and isn't about tourists – it's a development project. It's built around the idea of coexistence through sharing food and sharing tables. When you eat something from a certain neighbourhood, you eat a bite of the history of that neighbourhood."
Dimbleby agrees. "In Lebanon," he says, "peace is the continual process of talking to people you could be at war with."
Today, MouzawAk is taking Dimbleby to try mezze from different Beiruti communities that he could serve at Leon. So while preparing the carrots and beetroot roast for his salad, Dimbleby and Mouzawak get down to the serious business of breakfast. Big circular flatbreads called mankouche (pronounced man-oosh) are covered in tomato and red-pepper paste, chard or sorrel, salty cheese or za'atar, and fired in a scorching wood oven until they bubble and blacken.
Next it's ice cream. Hanna Mitri in Achrafieh district is Mouzawak's favourite, which means a short, chaotic journey in his black Land Rover through charming narrow streets strung with bougainvillea, and wider roads flanked by building sites, shops and handcarts selling broad beans in their pods, whiteberries or lemons. We arrive at a white-painted, one-room shop in a battered old building, where a whole family has been dedicated to making ice cream for the past 60 years. Today, Orthodox Hanna and his wife are serving ices made with rose water, pistachios, apricot, lemon or gum arabic – which makes for an unusual, almost chewy, perfumed sorbet. Their son washes up in the kitchen – really just a sink behind a lace curtain – and the couple dole out dollops of ice cream from their single freezer. That and an ancient oven make up their whole enterprise, but their ice cream has an international reputation.
Mouzawak also insists we try knefeh, a Sunni treat originally from Nablus in Palestine that is generally only eaten on Sundays for breakfast or as a dessert. This is fortunate, as they are teeth-shatteringly sweet, cheese-filled pastries made with butter and ground vermicelli, baked, turned over and served sliced and tucked inside a small flatbread. The small modern patisserie that sells them is next to a huge pock-marked building. "That is being turned into a museum of memory," says Mouzawak casually. It turns out this road was the wartime green line that marked the border between Christian east Beirut and Muslim west Beirut – the 1920s building was used for years as a snipers' nest. In the past couple of years local architects fought the authorities to stop it being torn down, and now it's slowly being restored as a memorial called Bait Al-Madina.
The next stop is for Dimbleby to try foul, a soupy broad-bean dip made by Sunni men and served in the souks in cafés as part of a mezze – not something people make at home, but also not considered as on-the-go as street food. Here it's served in plastic bowls alongside hummus, labneh – a creamy cheese made from strained yogurt – as well as piles of cucumber, mint leaves, sliced white onions, rocket, tomatoes, olives and turnip pickled with beetroot.
It's also important Dimbleby gets a taste of Armenian mezze in what used to be the Armenian ghetto – standout dishes are a crunchy filled pasta with meat and tomato baked in labneh, and muhammara, a spicy dip. At this point Dimbleby gets a telling-off from Mouzawak. "Don't put your bread back into the bowl!" he says. "Either you put what you want on your plate – using your knife or a spoon, not a fork – or you tear off enough bread for one mouthful and dip that into the bowl." Although eating mezze looks incredibly convivial and relaxed, there are still manners to be observed. "You should eat the salads first, then the cooked vegetables, finally the meat dishes," says Kamal. "And there is no hurry. Mezze is all about abundance and generosity, so it won't run out."
We drive on to Batroun, a seaside town about 50km from Beirut. Chez Maggie, a seafood restaurant, sits on rocks overlooking the sea, and the eponymous Maggie frequently dives off them to collect sea urchins in season. She serves up a fish mezze, something you only get right on the coast, a whole squid and a delicacy for Dimbleby: raw liver and chunks of white fat, diced, with sea salt, slivers of onion and mint leaves. It tastes much as you'd expect – of offal and onion. Dimbleby leans back in his chair. "Of everything we've tried," he says, "that's the one not making it on to the menu back in London."
The next day, at lunchtime, we're back at Tawlet. Suzanne Doueihy, a Christian Maronite from Zgharta in Ehden, northern Lebanon, is taking her turn at the stoves and, along with Dimbleby's roasted vegetables, there are dozens of salads. She is also serving that famous raw kebbeh made with puréed goat meat. It's not unlike pâté in texture and steak tartare in flavour.
Tawlet is not in the trendiest or most attractive part of Beirut, but that doesn't stop foodies from journeying to sit with the locals, artists and writers speaking French, Arabic and English who congregate here for lunch. It's hard to believe that only two years ago violence bubbled up nearby, with sectarian clashes in west Beirut. But as Mouzawak says, watching everyone tuck in: "If not religion or politics… at least tabbouleh, kebbeh, labneh and mankouche are what Lebanese unanimously share."
HOW TO GET THERE
BMI (flybmi.com; 0844 8484 888) has daily return flights to Beirut. Prices start at £383 WHERE TO STAY
Budget hotel The recently renovated Mayflower Hotel, where many international correspondents stayed during the war, is good value, with single rooms starting at $110 a night. (Yafet Street, Hamra, +961 0 1 340 680; mayflowerbeirut.com) Luxury hotel The Albergo is one of the city's best. Each room has its own Lebanese theme, and the eccentrically over-the-top yellow building is stuffed with antiques and Lebanese art. Rooms start at $280 per night (137 Abdel Wahad El Inglizi Street, +961 0 1 339 797; albergobeirut.com)
WHERE TO GO, AND WHAT TO EAT
Mezze Tawlet Sector 79, 12 Naher Street (soukeltayeb.com/tawlet.php) Souk el Tayeb food market Every Saturday in Saifi Village (9am to 2pm) and every Wednesday in ABC Achrafieh (4-8pm)
Mankouche There are many outlets, but try the one round the corner from Tawlet, on the right of Rue d'Arménie
Ice-cream: Hanna Mitri, Mar Mitr Street, Eshrafieh district (+961 0 1 322 723). Knefeh Rashidi, Monot Street, Eshrafieh district (+961 0 1 398 800)
Foul: Le Professeur, Mar Elias Street, Elias district
Armenian: Varouj, Alfred Nobel Street, Hamra (+961 0 1 520 637)
Fish mezze: Chez Maggie (or Maguy), on the bluff at the north end of Batroun beach, Makaad el Mir, Batroun (+961 0 3 439 147)
