BritinBeirut

New Site, Same Old Tripe

2015-08-23T13:58:00.002+03:00

In an effort to get back on track, I've created a new Wordpress site.

Sadly, some git has reserved BritinBeirut, so showing minimal imagination, here's the new site:

www.thebritinbeirut.com

The first post's a bit grimmer than my usual utterings, but hey, my girlfriend got teargassed yesterday.

Circles of Birds

2014-12-12T11:28:00.000+02:00

In British English there's a term for the strange love some people, mainly men, have for flying rodents: pigeon fancying.

It's normally a hobby confined to older people and it's seen as a little odd and, perhaps old-fashioned.

Maybe that's also the case in Lebanon, I don't know any pigeon fanciers here, but it's common enough to see clouds of pigeons circling above Beirut of an evening.

Birds, in a circle

If that's not amusing enough, the accompanying whistles and claps coming from the fancier create a sort of soundtrack to a lazy evening. The kick of it is that Lebanese pigeon fancying is a competitive sport. Yep. I called it a sport.

Fanciers compete, clashing their bird clouds together and attempting to trick birds from another coop to join their pack of flying rats. Yes, the competition revolves around "stealing" your neighbour's birds. I'm sure that the average bird probably changes teams on a regular basis.

Pigeon fancying, in a city. In a country that is notorious for shooting and eating anything that flies. Odd. But fun.

The Digital Hobo: Urbanista, Hamra

2014-12-08T11:38:00.000+02:00

This is the first entry in my new Digital Hobo series.

After a delay, mostly down to work, visa visits and all sorts of fun and games, I recently visited Urbanista, in Hamra, for a spot of digital squatting.

Firstly, I was amazed to discover that the password for the Wi-Fi in Hamra was the same as that in the Gemmayze branch. So simple, so clever.

I’m a fan of the original Urbanista, I love it, it’s a little pricey, but the coffee’s great and I’d recommend the baked chicken rolls.

Anyway, enough of the food, I was more interested in discovering if I could watch Zoella’s latest offering without having to wait 45 minutes for the stream to buffer.

Here are the results:

Wait….

Uhhhh….

Well, after waiting two minutes for the page to load, I actually got a pretty good result.

Taaa Daaa!

Fast, clearly it’s never going to be as fast as Ookla says (0.94 Internets), but it was fast enough to learn about Zoella’s latest skin regimen.

As this is the first Digital Hobo review, I’m unsure as to what rating to give Urbanista, Hamra.

I’ll plump for a good 4/5 WiFis.

The Digital Hobo

2014-11-20T09:00:00.000+02:00

I'm introducing a new series to BritinBeirut: The Digital Hobo.

Let's start with a definition ... actually, to be more accurate, let's wait for Chrome to load the relevant page on Merriam Webster.

To pass the time, here's a joke I recently heard. "An Irishman, an Englishman and a Scotsman walk into the bar, the Irishman's holding an enormous ... "

Oh, it's loaded.

Hobo: ho.bo

noun \ 'ho-(,)bo \

: a person who has no place to live and no money and who travels to many different places

: a migratory worker

: a homeless and usually penniless vagabond

plural hoboes also hobos

Adding "Digital" to the beginning of that describes my situation in Beirut perfectly. OK, I'm not penniless, nor a vagabond, but I do move around a lot for work and life, and I'm certainly a migrant worker.

As a freelance communications guy I spend a lot of time hopping from place to place, updating various online platforms and generally being the scourge of Beirut's bars and cafes as I relentlessly hunt for a decent Internet connection.

Having left the country for a year, I'm out of touch as to the best connections in town. I have a rule though, it's got to be free, none of this paying for 30 mins here, or an hour there.

So, Digital Hobo aims to give a relatively humorous look at Beirut's free Wi-Fi spots, I might even comment on the usual concerns, like the coffee, maybe. It depends how long I have to wait for Chrome to upload my latest ramblings on this or that...

This post was inspired by the fact I'm currently sitting somewhere waiting for 13MB PDF to download. It's been 10 minutes so far.

Oh, and here's a little tune for you to enjoy. I'll link to it, uploading it would just drain my will to live.

Pictures of Beirut

2014-11-17T11:03:00.000+02:00

BritinBeirut has been polluting the Instragrams this week.

A great name for a 24/7 in Hamra

Possibly the Worst Beer in the World

An excited equine in Downtown!

Glad to see that #Grammarfails still happen

in Beirut

Shopping by "candlelight" #Blackout

Finally, this scary little Wednesday Adams

in #Oslo in Mar Mikhael

If you'd like to follow along, click on the Instagram widget in the right hand column.

Some Things Never Change

2014-11-10T16:41:00.002+02:00

After a year or so out of the country I find myself back in Beirut for a few months before I (hopefully) head off to the UAE.

As a freelancer and a digital media guy, I’ve been rudely reminded of the state of the city’s Internet infrastructure, or the lack of it. It seems that merely updating your profiles and playing around on a few sites takes forever and I half expect to hear the clicking and beeping of an old dial up modem in the background.

I suppose I got lazy and complacent, living in London over the past year and enjoying Internet speeds so fast as to almost be redundant. I mean, if you’re getting in excess of 2 MB/s, who needs 3 or 4?

Case in point - when I shamelessly lifted the image above (from here) the website code popped up in Google and I had to reload.

So, I’m back, trying to (re?) adopt my old lifestyle of sticking the laptop in my bag and heading off to Hamra’s cafes to get a little work done like some sort of high tech hobo. I’m leery of endlessly paying to refill my generator at home, so it’s to Prague I head when the daily three-hour cut approaches.

Freelancing’s a pain in the ass at the best of times, but when you head into a place and get 56 KB coming down the pipe, you know you’re screwed, it's like listening to the endless dripping of a leaking tap. I was told time and again that the Internet plans in the country have improved, but it seems like the bars and cafes of Hamra have avoided the upgrade. Expensive coffee? Sure. Internet from 1995? Yep.

First world problems, as they say, but it is depressing when your 3G connection is faster than your wireless.

If anyone has any recommendations, I’d much appreciate them.

Time at the range

2013-03-07T00:26:00.000+02:00

After a long absence I’m restarting my blog, albeit slowly.

So, here goes…

I’m a fan of guns.

I’ll qualify that, within a controlled environment, and given that the users of said weapons know what they’re doing, I’m a fan of guns. I don’t believe in hunting, unless you’re actually going to eat what you shoot. I also don’t believe in gratuitous violence. I also believe that if you don’t know what you’re doing, you have no place owning a firearm.

In short, I enjoy shooting, or more accurately (pardon the pun), I enjoy target shooting.

So, with those qualifications in place, here goes…

I’ve been around guns all of my life. My dad was an officer in the British Army and, at least so I’ve been told, used to carry a sidearm with him all the time when I was knee-height to a grasshopper. After that I was surrounded by soldiers and eventually graduated to shooting empty Coke cans at the bottom of my garden with an air rife (BB gun). I went on to shoot at school during the time I toyed with joining the army. There was a time when I was the best shot with an SA-80 in my local age group. These days, I’m a reasonably good clay pigeon (skeet / tiro) shooter owing to too much time spent in freezing Irish fields in December.

SA 80

Ireland: Cold

So, it was with great delight that two friends used some form of wasta (influence exerted through personal connections for the non-Lebanese out there) to get us up to the Lebanese Army Shooting Range somewhere in the hills above Dora (the route seemed ridiculous and I couldn’t find my way back) for a morning of target shooting.

Now, and I’ll apologise in advance, I had assumed that the range wouldn’t be anything to write home about. However, what I discovered was quite something. Located in the basement of quite an impressive sporting complex was a modern, well-appointed range. It was certainly more impressive than the range I occasionally shoot at back home in Northern Ireland.

It’s administered by Josons, the best-known Lebanese gun dealers and, as I was about to discover, the distributors for Beretta in Lebanon.

So, we walk in and stroll around the waiting room, the walls of which are adorned with all sorts of pistols. I’m immediately drawn to the Sig Sauer range of handguns. Reputedly the most accurate and reliable handguns in the world (they used to be used by the men in black who guard the President of the US), a Sig is something I’ve always wanted to shoot.

After selecting my particular flavor of Sig, we set off to the range.

Sig

A trainer from Josons followed us in and gave us some tips. The pictures below might be some guide as to whether or not he succeeded:

After we’d shot around 50 rounds or so with the pistols we were sorely tempted to try out the Beretta Storm submachine gun.

Beretta Storm

After around 200 rounds giggling like a schoolgirl it was time to hit the road.

A great time, knowledgeable and enthusiastic staff in a modern setting, I’d recommend it to anyone.

And here's a little proof that I can actually hit a barn door at 50 metres:

Three guys walk into a bar

2012-05-30T11:25:00.000+03:00

The following pictures were taken by a good friend of mine, Ziad, while myself, Nadim and Chadi were having a very in-depth, serious conversation at Bricks, Hamra.

The captions are his own, I've arranged them as thought or speech bubbles. All the shots are unposed. He is a veritable photographic sniper. And I shall have my revenge.

Ladies, let this serve as an insight into the minds of bored ~~boys~~ men.

Never before has someone seen straight to the core of one of my Machiavellian schemes...

Any suggestions for the final speech bubble?

I remember what I was doing, it was quite vile.

On police and cars

2012-04-02T08:00:00.000+03:00

I'm about to state a Lebanese truism:

Where there is a traffic jam there is a policeman. Or four.

Seemingly without rhyme or reason Lebanese traffic police don't actually do much beyond taking the place of traffic lights, or marshaling cars around, or more accurately through, roundabouts.

I've come to the conclusion that the ISF (Internal Security Forces) have a deep, institutionalized fear of traffic lights.

Rather than allow these heinous machines to do their (incredibly complex) job of regulating traffic flow, they instead have decided that Charbel and Ali are much better suited to the job.

The results? At rush hour, roundabouts are no longer roundabouts, they're actually junctions where three incoming roads are closed off while one is freed to move. Traffic lights become designated iPod playlist management / radio tuning areas while your friendly policeman (having stopped traffic from one direction, more often than not counter to the color of the lights) chats with the kaak (local bread to the foreigners) guy on the corner. Once you're through one set, the next is so overloaded with traffic that you're often better going on foot.

I remember one day a few years ago when the then minister of the interior claimed that he was going to solve Beirut's traffic problems by increasing the numbers of police on the streets ... By the end of the week my journey home had doubled in length.

Rather than enforce laws concerning speeding, dangerous driving, or seatbelt and cellphone usage (and Lebanon has a truly appalling road safety record) the ISF has decided that they must meet the threat of the traffic light / roundabout head on.

The problem is, dysfunctional as the Lebanese approach to navigating traffic lights and roundabouts is (when the police aren’t present), it actually works. Yes, there are lines, but they move. No, you don’t give way to motorists on the roundabout, when you enter you shove your way on, and out the other side. However, it works, quixotic as it might seem, traffic does flow.

My question is this:

Do the ISF fear erosion of their powers through the insidious spread of the traffic light, or the devious machinations of the roundabout?

Or, is it a case of having too many men and no idea how to use them?

If it's the latter, as I strongly suspect, might I suggest they send the surplus to the back office and have them work on the endless piles of paperwork in evidence at every ISF office I've ever visited?

Though I must admit, they do look very pretty with their lovely white gloves.

(Today's rant was brought to you by "roundabouts" Mkalles and Habtoor.)

The Party of God, paintball and a genuine appreciation for Almaza

2012-03-26T11:19:00.001+03:00

Around two years ago I was sat with a group of friends in Gemmayze’s Le Rouge. It was an eclectic group, it usually is. One of us had flown in from out of town for a few days and was being unusually noncommittal when we invited him out for a few drinks the following night.

After some gentle persuasion he spilt the beans, he was in town for a story a friend was writing for GQ. Now, GQ’s a great magazine and everyone’s curiosity was peaked. Gradually, the story came out.

A friend of his had somehow managed to arrange a paintball match between a group of American journalists and a team of Hezbollah fighters, in the name of, a., the story, and b., the general furthering of American-Lebanese relations through sporting violence.

My friend was the key in arranging this little get together.

I first met Andrew Exum during the foreigner’s orientation sessions at AUB in 2004. He came across a little, read very, brash. We were asked to introduce ourselves and he stood up, “Hi, my name’s Andrew and I work for the C.I.A.” The Americans all laughed, the Arabs didn’t.

The next I heard of him was an interview with Maingate, AUB’s student rag. It was then that I, along with the rest of the school, learnt that he was an ex-US Army Ranger Captain, had served in Iraq and Afghanistan, that he had a gallantry award, and that he’d authored a book. Oh, and he was attending CAMES, the centre for all the strange foreigners who come to AUB to learn about Middle Eastern politics, as was I.

Despite the odd start, the CIA joke wasn’t well received, Andrew soon became a close friend of mine. He favored public humiliation for anyone who failed to correctly conjugate their verbs in Monday morning’s Arabic flagellation class; he got into a heated argument with the head of AUB’s history department over small unit tactics; he called out Robert Fisk during a brown bag session over a typically unsupportable statement. I’ve lost count of the number of nights spent drinking Maker’s Mark, debating the qualities of Almaza or commiserating with him after Scotland got annihilated at the rugby. Again.

Exum (left) and some other drunken fool on my

balcony, Hamra, 2004, Almaza present and correct

In any case, he’s one of the good guys. A sharp, critical thinker when it comes to his day job, working on policy recommendations, a great, funny writer when it comes to his blog and above all, a lover of all things Lebanese. And one of my best men at my wedding.

Oh, and a great paintballer by all accounts.

Obviously, the article isn't to be taken too seriously.

Thanks to Joe for the heads up.

(GQ initially commissioned the piece.)

Cabin fever

2012-01-23T09:00:00.000+02:00

So it finally happened to me …

After seven-ish years in Lebanon, I got stuck in an elevator during a power cut. It was coming; I’d ridden my luck for too long.

It was a couple of nights ago as I was coming home after dinner with my friends and a few après-food drinks (digestifs certainly isn’t the right word, far too sophisticated).

I’d timed it to perfection, I had ten minutes until the cut, or so I thought.

Now, my apartment block is (much to my shame, as it looks like some sort of festive bordello) the only one on the street yet to take down our Christmas lights, so a twinkling Santa assured me that there was power as I hurriedly hit the button for the second floor. Two seconds later, “Thump”. No. No. This doesn’t happen to me. OK. Damn. Wait. Beseech anyone who’ll listen. Hit the button again. No. Santa’s dead. There’s no kahraba.

And I wonder why my generator bills are so high...

Pic from here.

So, after I had reflected on my stupidity at ignoring my own rules (No.’s 2 and 29), and wishing I hadn’t had that final cigarette, I soon wondered how to entertain myself. After contemplating the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything (contrary to what Douglas Adams will tell you, the answer’s cabbage and not 42), I was at a loss as to what to do.

But, I had my phone and thus 3G. While going through Google Reader I rapidly discovered that web comics, even the brilliant Happle Tea, get a tad tiresome when you’re sitting on your bag on the floor of an elevator underneath a shadowy effigy of the supposedly jolliest man on the planet. It occurred to me at that point how similar the names Santa and Satan are.

"Now, what have I got in my sack for you little Timmy?"

Pic from here.

After flicking through any number of websites and listening to Britney’s greatest hits (… Baby One More Time stands the test of time), I resorted to having a chat with Siri, Apple’s much-maligned personal assistant. Now, Siri’s a wonderful thing, can do all sorts of useful tasks, but a brilliant conversationalist, she, or in my case, he, isn’t. Asked what he thought of Google, he just said he “Thought different”. He wouldn’t comment on Katy Perry’s divorce (yes, my time on the Internet had been well spent). When I asked him to “open the pod bay doors”, he became somewhat depressed and first bemoaned the fate of electronic personal assistants post-HAL 9000 and then threatened to report me to his union. When I told him I hated him he apologized and said he’d endeavour to do better in the future, before darkly promising to remember what I’d said. I gave up when he became confused, and somewhat defensive, over the issue of his gender. I expect to be found dead shortly, my iPhone having wedged itself in my brain.

The mark of the Devil.

Pic from here.

After several drawn games of noughts and crosses (tic-tac-toe to the heathens) I finally felt myself drifting off to sleep. No sooner had my chin hit my chest than the power came on. Springing gazelle-like (*ahem*) to the buttons and slamming my hand onto the nearest one, I muttered a quick prayer to whichever deity happened to be awake at the time, and finally arrived at my floor.

In bed I lay reflecting on a lucky escape. For some reason the power had only cut for around an hour. Not bad. Mental note: must remember Rule No.’s 2 and 29 in future. Falling asleep, the power cut again, the UPS went off, resulting in incessant, demonic wailing. Getting up to turn it off I released that my media centre was turned on. But I couldn’t turn on the TV to shut it down as I have a budget UPS that’d keel over dead at the thought of powering my old plasma screen. Sleepless in Beirut. Again.

Électricité du Liban, I hate you.

On beer bellies, vampires and dreams

2012-01-17T09:00:00.000+02:00

My grandmother always told me that if you haven’t anything interesting to say, then it’s better to keep quiet. Accordingly, BritinBeirut has been dormant for a while.

However, something rather bizarre happened to me the other day.

Now, at this point it’s important to note the tone of this post from here on out – it’s written with my tongue very much in my cheek. Take it as read that this isn’t to be taken too seriously, I certainly didn’t at the time.

So…

The other night I was at Dany’s, celebrating, firstly the presence of a friend from out of town, and secondly, having eaten the best steak I’ve found in Beirut to date, at Cru.

I was looking forward to having three margaritas too many and was hanging up my coat when two women approached me.

To cut to the chase, they were shooting a commercial to be aired on Russian TV and asked me if I was interested in modeling. Remember, this is all tongue in cheek.

Now, let me preface this … I’ve done a few shoots, but never on a commercial basis. My time in front of the camera has always been a favor to a friend who needs to flesh out (pardon the expression) their portfolio, or an informal shoot for my university department’s prospectus, that kind of thing. All very fun, not too serious, paid for in beer. I’ve always felt I had a face for radio. In any case, I’ve never really been in front of the camera before.

Also, there’s the issue of my body. Technically I am member of a gym. Technically. The head instructor stated that I must lead “a very sedentary lifestyle” when I first joined. He was right too... I’m writer by trade after all, too many glasses of wine and packs of cigarettes in front of my laptop. Suffice it to say that I frequently receive the old ‘pat on the stomach and “ahhh” routine’ from my female friends.

Wimp. Real men have kegs.

Image from here.

Plus, Russian TV? Really?

Anyway, the prospect of making a little extra margarita money is always welcome and, let’s face it, it was flattering… at least it would be so long as I didn’t have to get down to my imitation CK briefs... So I signed up and exchanged numbers.

The following evening I received an SMS telling me where they were. Not a problem, I knew the area and got there in good time, allowing for the fact I anticipated walking around in circles for a while.

What I found that night looked like the digs for local squatters. Broken windows, the door swinging in the wind and water running in rivers due to the driving rain. After convincing myself that the building was in fact empty, all the lights are off, I stuck my head into the nearest dukan (corner shop to the Brits out there) and asked for directions. Sure enough that’s the place, the guy even told me the right floor.

Step inside my lovely...

Photo from here.

Right, OK. Out comes the phone, on goes the torch and in I go. It’s at this point out an observation is necessary for the non-Lebanese reading this: Time and again you’ll get invited to someone’s house or to an office and you’ll often walk through a rundown neighborhood, electricity wires hanging off buildings, litter on the streets, ripped up roads, overflowing skips, etc., only to walk into said office or home to find a beautifully appointed / decorated interior; So at this point I wasn’t overly concerned… well, sort of… this was an upmarket part of Beirut and this was the only building of its kind…

I head up a few flights of stairs, get to the right floor and there’s nothing, it’s absolutely pitch black. Guided by my trusty phone light I head off down a long corridor, doors on each side, no signs anywhere and all a bit post-apocalyptic.

At this point I was reminded of those clichéd horror films the Scary Movie franchise made fun of. You know … the one where some girl (probably wearing next to nothing) gets lured to a deserted building and is found the following day in a plastic sack on the side of the road? Yeah. Well. I’m a big guy, but that just means they’d need a bigger sack… Given that I’d recently watched Let the Right One In, a Swedish movie about the undead, disembodiment and, strangely, the growing love between a weird little boy and his vampire girlfriend, I was beginning to think that I really shouldn’t have kicked the cat that morning.

Uh, yeah, you missed a bit.

No, a little to the right...

Photo from here.

Anyway, finally I reach the right door and lo and behold, there’s the name of the production company! I might actually get the chance to start that ridiculously convoluted Japanese novel that’s been on my shelf for a while… Then “bang!” on come the lights and I’m blinking frantically, half expecting to hear shouts of “Achtung! Achtung!” followed by sporadic bursts of gunfire.

Eventually I can see again and five minutes later, as I’m still stood knocking on the door and my phone calls go unanswered, fears of twelve-year-old vampires flood back into my mind.

Finally the door opens and I’m led (through a very nicely decorated office I might add) to the audition room. There are the two women from the previous night. Perhaps my mother won’t be receiving a phone call after all.

Yes, we were going for minimalist

chic, we rather like it.

Picture taken from here (somewhere).

Now, a friend has subsequently told me that this is completely normal, but I stood there talking about myself (which despite having a blog is something I rarely do at length) to camera. And being told to smile. Hard. All the time. For around ten minutes. I’m a surly bastard from time to time and obviously the muscles weren’t in order as I was soon in pain.

Eventually we get to the meat of the casting: the “acting” part. Heh. Right. So here’s what they got me to “do”… Keep in mind that I’m the only one there … Imagination is required…

So, I walk into a city full of people, I’m carrying a Chinese lantern in front of me, the type you light and float into the sky. This lantern represents all my hopes and dreams. I look around, all the people have such a lantern and are carrying them like they are the most precious things in the world. Hesitantly, I have to float my lantern into the sky, following my dreams wherever they may go. Of course, I have to grin like an idiot at the same time. Oh, and there’s a little boy. And his lantern is bigger than mine, because apparently as you age, your dreams wither on the stalk and die (OK, that’s my interpretation of her fraught lantern-dream analogy, but still). He releases his lantern, we both stare as they float away, yadda, yadda, yadda, roll credits.

Chinese lanterns: Environmentally unfriendly and

the vehicle of bizarre analogies, all round evil.

Picture taken from here.

Of course, I’m grinning all the way through. “Follow my hand with your eyes, it represents the lantern, I want to feel the love, the passion”, “Think of your dreams, you’re a successful businessman”, “The little boy is so happy, he’s not worried!”

And did I mention this was an advert for chocolate…? The mind boggles.

I very much doubt that I’ll be receiving a call as a result of my debut (I really was awful). But if there’s anyone out there who’s doing an advert for something like insurance, or the importance of checking yourself for lumps on a regular basis, I can do a really serious face. Just don’t ask me to grin like a lunatic for thirty minutes on cue. Especially if there are lanterns involved. Or small Swedish vampire girls. Or if I’m in my undies.

Up the road from Baalbek

2011-09-02T08:00:00.000+03:00

So, long time readers of BiB might well recall that I have a bit of a thing about Lebanon’s antiquities. Well, we all know about Baalbek, but I recently discovered something that, I’d imagine, all too few of us will have seen… all thanks to my parents’ wanderlust.

Just up the down the road from Baalbek lies a little village by the name of Niha. There’s absolutely nothing remarkable about the town, unless you happen to have a decent guidebook, or an out-of-date copy of The Lonely Planet. Suffice it to say, there’s something quite stunning about the village.

Niha: Point A

Drive through a labyrinthine set of back streets, aided occasionally by a brown tourist information sign, and you’ll come across two temples. Greek in origin if an inscription at the site is to be believed.

This is what you’ll be treated to:

A site few of us will have come across, I’m betting.

However, there’s more to come. A little bit of off-roading, aiming higher into the valley, through some apple orchards and vineyards and you’ll see something stunning. This is what awaits you in the hills above the town:

My only recommendations, drive something a little more robust than our rented Seat Ibiza, and don’t, as I did, go climbing in your sandals.

The hunt continues

2011-08-29T10:06:00.000+03:00

A while ago I wrote a piece about my efforts to find the best margarita in Hamra. At the time Colon ranked first by a distance, followed by Dany’s.

However, it’s time I posted a brief update.

Over the last couple of weeks I have retested the offerings at both Dany’s and Bricks (all in the name of social research, I assure you) and have to alter my findings.

Dany’s – At Dany’s there is a certain bartender by the name of Jean. Beyond being an all-round good guy, Jean also mixes a mean margarita. Pretty much spot-on. Provided that Jean is on the bar, Dany’s margarita’s are almost a match for those of Colon.

Bricks – A margarita appears to be a very personal experience. As with Dany’s a certain talented individual can make all the difference. Appalled at my description of the Bricks margarita in my previous post the manager, Jose, took up the challenge. The result? A unique take on the traditional margarita, made with a touch of lemon and a refreshingly different approach to the old classic. Definitely worth a try. Again, ask for Jose.

And now an out-of-Hamra (shock horror) margarita joins the mix:

Carlito’s (Antelias) - Now, I must admit to a certain bias here as my brother-in-law was the bartender in question.

However, Carlito’s (part-owned by the guy who managed Monet’s Pacifico back in the day when it did the best mixed drinks in town – as an aside, a few of the bartenders at Kayan are graduates of the Pacifico school overseen by this guy) margarita was quite exceptional. Simply blended, a mix of sweet and sour, not too much salt, it was a great example of what an extraordinarily simple mixed drink can be if done well.

As Carlito’s isn’t a Hamra bar, the league table stands as follows:

Colon – Nadim still rules the roost

Dany’s – Provided Jean’s on the bar (Carlito’s would slot in at joint second place)

Bricks – Try out Jose’s alternative blend

Ferdinand / Neighbours – This blog is not responsible for any injuries that occur while sampling margaritas at either establishment

The verdict so far – If you’re looking for a margarita in Hamra, speak to Nadim, an easy-going guy and a talented mixer.

The Brit goes to Maameltein

2011-08-26T05:00:00.000+03:00

So, on Wednesday night I had my first Maameltein experience.

A good friend of mine is getting married today, so on Wednesday night a group of around 10 guys all met in a Hamra bar before heading up the highway to the red light district of Lebanon.

Now, I’d heard a lot about Maameltein, usually in hushed tones or as the subject of a ribald joke and was looking forward to seeing what all the fuss was about.

At this point I’d like to point out that I’m not a strip club kind of guy. However, I’ve been to a few as a result of stag parties in the UK and the rare drunken decision while out with the boys. But, aside from a light-hearted introduction to the Lebanese club scene at Hamra’s Tiko Tiko (two rounds of 20 USD Almaza, a platter of watermelon – bizarre – and a Russian woman doing the robot dance around a stripper pole), I hadn’t ventured through the doors of a “super nightclub” before.

Boy, was I about to be disappointed.

Now I’ve always been of the opinion that, in the vast majority of cases, strip clubs are profoundly depressing places. The women gyrate away in varying states of undress as older men, as likely as not smoking cigars, salivate freely. The dimly-lit, smoky bar creates an atmosphere that altogether clashes with the pulsating, optimistic beats of the latest chart toppers. The glazed eyes of the women hint that far from being aroused by their companion, they’re actually composing tomorrow’s shopping list as they grind up against the pole or have their thigh stroked.

Maameltein was no different…

We walked through the door and the average age of the clientele dropped by around 20 years. Sitting at tables surrounded by couches were older men, the obligatory cigar and Johnny Walker in hand, while a table of younger, mainly Eastern European, women sat sipping on soft drinks in the center of the room. From time to time one of the women would be beckoned into the presence of a patron whereupon she’d sit down and allow herself to be pawed.

The scene of the crime

We’d been told there was no show on that night but, given the drive from Hamra, we decided to have a drink before deciding on what to do. Several drinks later an impromptu performance started up, with several (clothed, or at least covered) girls heading over to the poles and beginning to dance.

Now, I’m a red-blooded male, but there’s something about a pole dance that really doesn’t do it for me. What was interesting however was the immense strength demonstrated by these tiny women as they reached the top of a 2.5 meter pole, flipped upside and then hung horizontally while moving in vague time with the music. Looking around the table and deciding that the majority of guys in our group would struggle to get over ten pull-ups, it was something of an eye-opener.

However, perhaps the oddest moment of the evening was watching a girl high-kicking away to this. Strange … and not very sexy…

By this stage most of us were getting twitchy. The drinks were weak, the show uninspiring, our fellow club-goers geriatric, the whole environment seedy beyond compare. After offering to pay for the groom-to-be to sit with a girl for half-an-hour and seeing him frantically shake his head we decided to make a move.

We decamped to White where the girls of the group had been ripping it up for around three hours … Needless to say, the “What Happens in Maameltein” rule lasted all of about 30 seconds as our unofficial omerta dissolved in the face of our relief at the end of this almost Tarrentino-esque experience. By far the better part of the night was spent at White … minus the eye-watering bar bill.

Rules of the road

2011-08-22T00:00:00.000+03:00

The prospect of driving in Lebanon evokes a keen sense of panic among visitors to the country. It’s loud, chaotic and generally an intimidating experience for the first few days. However, when you get used to it, it’s actually a straightforward exercise, case in point: the roundabout (rondpoint) I drive through every day was initially christened by my father as the “Roundabout of Death”. My wife tells me it’s a form of organised chaos … I fail to see the organization part…

However, there are some cardinal principals to remember and rules to follow:

1. Indicator lights are for the weak. Do not expect your fellow drivers to use them. If they do, it’s done to lull you into a false sense of security whereupon they’ll promptly turn in the opposite direction to which they’re indicting.

2. While driving at night, lights are optional. Consider yourself lucky if the service coming up behind you has a single operational light.

3. Lane markers operate on along similar principles to those in the rest of the world, however instead of driving between the two lines, in Lebanon you should aim to drive along the lines.

4. Learn to change a tire / wheel.

5. Speed bumps are myriad in all residential areas. The optimal distance between speed bumps is about five meters.

6. The local residents will ignore rule 5 in order to practice their off-road talents.

7. Cars with red plates are not cruising for hookers, they’re trying to pick passengers … preferably stupid foreigners.

8. It is considered the ultimate courtesy to roll down your window and play your music as loud as possible, especially in a residential area after 10 PM.

9. Holes in the road breed overnight. You might well be familiar with the potholes on any given road however, come morning there will, without fail, be another. Refer to rule number 4.

10. Learn to drive in the dark (because of this), training with a blindfold might help.

11. Forget all rules of personal courtesy, it’s a jungle out there. It’s cut-up, or be cut-up. Abide by common decency and you’ll never make it to your destination.

12. Grow a set of eyes in the back of your head. That way you’ll have time to brace for the hit.

13. Scooter / mobilette riders are the Devil. Their favorite game is to ride along on your blind spot and then overtake on the wrong side while cursing at you. Remember, you are bigger than they are.

14. When in a confrontation with another car, judge the value of each vehicle. The person with the more expensive motor has more to lose.

15. Beiruti traffic police are the most ineffectual people I have ever met. Where there’s a long queue of cars, there will be a policeman at the end of it.

*This rant was brought about through losing two tires in the last two months after losing only one in the previous 7 years of driving here.

Roma

2011-08-20T11:59:00.000+03:00

The wife and I recently took a short break to the wonderful city of Rome.

Now, I’m not a travel writer by trade, so I’ll skip the recommended itinerary and avoid a list of things to see. The only suggestion I’ll make is to pick up the Lonely Planet, everything else will take care of itself.

However, I will offer some cultural observations, none to serious.

From now on I shall judge every city by the glamour of their municipal workers. Walking along the street one day we came across what could only be described as the most attractive garbage collectors I’ve ever seen in my life - Sukleen in Gucci.

Across from our hotel we saw something that caused me no end of amusement. Condom machines attached to the outside (streetside) wall of pharmacies… Inspired.

Never get caught short again..

Water fountains – Rome was always traditionally blessed with an abundant water supply, which resulted in fountains being built all over the city. People drink from these all the time and one of the most entertaining aspects of people watching is to sit next to a fountain and see who or what turns up…

Let's face it, it's better than the toilet bowl

I thoroughly recommend Rome. It’s a wonderful city. We did a whole host cultural activities beyond dog spotting, checking out municipal workers and laughing over condom machines like twelve-year-olds. Hopefully this shot of the light cast by the oculus in the Pantheon will suffice:

Yes, I can occasionally take a proper photo

Dinner with Momo

2011-08-05T10:53:00.000+03:00

I recently had the pleasure of dining at Downtown’s Momo at the Souks. A friend and I had dinner there earlier in the week. Thankfully, she’s one these vegematarians so, despite being a committed carnivore I was able to “enjoy” some herbivorous items from the menu.

The terrace, overlooking the souk

I’d been before but was a little reluctant to post about it for two reasons, firstly, it was during my hiatus from Brit in Beirut, secondly, the experience wasn’t all that (it was just after it opened, so I was willing to cut them a little slack).

This time however, everything was great.

Pastilla, essentially a pigeon pie, is one of my favourite dishes and Momo’s was second only to La Mamounia in Marrakech and possibly the Momo’s in London, so I was off to a good start. I followed that with a lamb tagine. I figure that the best baseline test for any Moroccan restaurant has to be their tagine and I wasn’t disappointed. This isn’t to say that it was the best, my wife’s tagine approximation is better, but it was pretty damn close.

Pastilla...

My poor little veggie friend, when she found the energy to express emotion, claimed that her aubergine starter and veggie tagine were both good. I can’t claim to the veracity of her statement regarding the aubergine dish, but the tagine certainly tasted vegetablely and thus, I presume, was satisfying enough to one unused to the taste of proper food.

And now we get to the real reason why Momo’s got a reprieve the first time around … they serve port. Port, for the uninitiated among you, is God’s drink. It’s a fortified wine originally from Portugal but also consumed in vast quantities by certain types of Brit. I am of that type. The list at Momo’s isn’t extensive, but it’s serviceable. I went out of my way to sample several varieties and was pleasantly pleased, and slightly inebriated.

Mmmmmm...... port........

All-in-all, a good night, good ambiance, good food and great staff. It was pretty reasonably priced, and without my port indulgence would have come to around 45 USD per head without wine, which is OK in my book. Plus, as my friend said, the wallpaper’s pretty.

My, look at the pretty pink walls

(Disclaimer: I am not a meat Fascist. I believe there’s a time and place for vegetarian options, when you’re too old to chew for example, or when you’re dead.)

Margarita Hunt

2011-08-01T08:51:00.001+03:00

This Friday I descended on Hamra with a couple of close friends. One of them was leaving to go back to work in the Gulf (my commiserations, Hesham) and we soon ended up on what I’ll term “a margarita hunt”.

Now, a margarita isn’t difficult to make. Let’s face it, it’s the first rung on the cocktail / mixed ladder. Lime juice, tequila, salt, ice and a little triple sec and you're done.

The liver is evil and

must be punished

However, it never fails to amaze me how badly people can screw up the simple margarita.

In any case, we headed to a small handful of bars and, in the interest of community service, here are the findings:

Dany’s – Too strong. I like my generous bartender as much as the next guy, but margaritas are supposed to be either a little sour, or a little sweet, you pay your money, you take your choice. Regardless of your personal preference, you’re not supposed to taste the tequila … or rather… you’re not supposed to scrunch up your face like a grandmother sucking on a Werther’s Original.

OK, you win, we should have

started him on gin...

Bricks – So, we arrived in Bricks, took up our usual spot and were about to get started when one of us called for a bathroom break. I wandered over to find that the men’s room was taken so I stepped into the ladies, whereupon I was shocked to discover that the girls have different comic strips on the walls than the guys … What the Hell? I’ve been going to Bricks since it opened and I’ve gone over every inch of the strips on the wall … I’m bored out of my mind. Now I find the women have different ones? Lord. I’m going to have to spend more time in the ladies. Anyway, back to the margarita … Not too strong, this time, far, far too bitter. Seriously, it was like someone had taken a lime and pulped the entire bloody thing in there… Not good. On to the next bar…

No Chadi*, I swear, they'll never

notice, go for it.

Neighbours – OK, the music, at least on Friday, was by far the best of the bars in our little test. I’m not normally one for reminiscing, but Karma was playing a collection of mid-to-late 90’s tunes that were really hitting the spot … Granted, the José Cuervo had kicked in by then (we only left Neighbours after trying to sample their lychee Bellini and having to settle for some watermelon / vodka abomination), but there were some real blasts from the past there. There was Charbel*, singing along to “What’s Going On?” by The 4 Non-Blondes, only to have his night ruined when some bitter old soak turned to him and said, “You know she killed herself, right?” Talk about a downer. Anyway … the drink … There’s triple sec and there’s triple sec… And then there’s Neighbours… Sweet doesn’t describe it. It was saccharinesque torture on the palate… hence the watermelon / vodka thing…

Ahh, Toploader ... where did it

all go wrong?

Colon – (Disclaimer: OK, I know the name’s pronounced Cuhlon, I get it … but, as a Brit, I can’t help but think of a part of the gut. Which doesn’t really work when you’re talking about a bar.) That said, their margarita was, by far the finest tasted on the night, perfect, right on the ball. A bit of sweet and sour, a little hint that the demon tequila is lying in wait … Yes, the bar is named after a piece of the intestinal tract, but they mix a good drink.

Great name guys, great name

So, there’s the first set of testing done… Rabbit Hole, Ferdinand and anywhere else that doesn’t think Vodka-Redbull’s a cocktail are next…

*Some names have been changed to protect the dignity of those involved.

Beirut nights and the (aging?) Brit…

2011-07-24T02:34:00.001+03:00

There was once a time when I’d cut through the crowds, empty glass and cigarette in hand, oblivious to the music, heading for the bar, to my friends, or a girl I liked the look of. It didn’t much matter where I was, what music filled the air, the music, the drink, the vibe, that’s all that mattered.

New York, Orlando, Miami, the UK, Beirut, New Zealand, the beachside clubs of the South Pacific, it was all the same. Whatever city it was, whatever the scene was, past midnight meant after hours drinks, music, knifing through the crowd in search of someone and that endless struggle to last till dawn.

As a young man I spent the most formative year of my life in New York. It made me realise what I wanted to do with my life, how I saw myself and how I could present that to others. It was an introduction as to what was possible, should you choose to grasp it. Added to that being “an Englishman in New York” made life that much sweeter.

Ahhh, Sting ... The hair's quirky, but I do

question the scarf though...

Grasp it I did, that year passed by quickly, long hours at the office doing something I loved (publishing), longer nights at some of the most incredible bars and clubs and night spots on the planet. Or, if they weren't the best, they were certainly interesting:

DO: Arrive on your Harley

DON'T: Wear a suit... you will end up hosed

in tequila ... trust me... what can I say? It

was immediately after work, I had a meeting...

plus, she had a six pack and wielded a syphon

like it was some sort of frickin' whip...

That all passed and I headed back to the UK for my bachelors. Armed with a self-confidence that now seems incredible, three years passed in a blur of ale, student discount nights, trips with the rugby team to distant cities and the weekly “social”*.

Eventually I ended up in Beirut to attend AUB. My introduction to the city was intense, I ended up living with a group of American students, they’d been in town for a year and were not the type to let an opportunity pass them by. Week 1: Centrale (Flaming Lamborghini’s on the bar), BO18 (too many single men sweating and on acid), Club Sociale (back in the day when it was little more than a long bar), Crystal (sparklers et al), Pacifico (when the food was still good), Element (Pink Floyd at 02.00 anyone?). Week 2: Oblivion. Can’t remember. Women (including my future wife) dancing on bars, boozy dinners at our penthouse apartment opposite Bank Audi on Hamra, it was endless. Somehow I ended with an M.A. … God knows how. My abiding memory is of a bottle of a substance known as Slwibowitz, a plum brandy that would be put to better use removing rust from your outdoor grill… Almost a potent as a certain South African brandy named Klipdrift where you’d bleed from the eyeballs after one glass.

The things we do to fit in...

Satan's drink

Fast forward five years …

It’s gone. The desire to continue to the end, the need to see that vanilla sky at dawn simply isn’t there anymore.

Last night I visited the kind of bar I craved when younger. Achingly cool, concrete floors, chains linking seating areas to the ceiling, bartenders who ignored you until the urge to reach over the bar and grab them by the throat was almost overwhelming. And the music, the music was as painfully chic as could be. The drink flowed, the women swayed … but it just wasn’t doing it.

As I sat nursing a 961 (lager, thanks) I reflected on it all. Actually, I didn’t, I just realised that this was the last place in the world that I wanted to be.

You might not look like much, but

you're safe and I love you

Don’t get me wrong, I was there with some of my closest friends, one of whom will be leaving Beirut shortly. I was more than happy to be there. At least I was. As the night wore on and the drink flowed something dawned on me: This no longer interests me.

It’s a little sad to realise that you’re no longer interested in clubs. A city like Beirut has it all, Sky Bar, the myriad rooftop bars, BO18, etc., etc., etc.. It’s all academic…

Dragonfly, that’s more like it. God help me, but surround me with Frenchies complaining about everything under the sun and I’m a happy man... plus ... they serve those little wheat puff things that are so addictive after one beer...

*Social: Something akin to an initiation ritual at a US college, but on a weekly basis for members of sports clubs, the one hosted by the rugby club was the most brutal.

961 image shamelessly pilfered from here.

---

I've been gone for a while, but am, I hope, back for good.

Change?

2011-01-31T14:44:00.000+02:00

Blogging about politics can be an incredibly depressing pastime. Anyone who’s resignedly thrown a newspaper down on the table in disgust can understand that.

Lebanon is going through the mill once again, with the coalition government falling apart, threats of mass protest, indictments for murder / complicity in murder hanging over one party and the usual screams of outside interference. For a while last week bubbling just under the surface was the possibility of violence. Thankfully and, perhaps predictably, the threatened confrontation didn’t occur.

Nevertheless, the country sits on tenterhooks and the most optimistic of outlooks seems to be ‘It’ll pass.’ ‘It’ll pass’ isn’t exactly a clarion call for confidence …

In the meantime the economy continues to be in the pan, with investors (understandably) twitchy about the prospects over the coming months.

While it’s true that this is democracy in action, it’s a clear reminder, to me at least, that people, leaders and voters alike, can be somewhat blind and continue to be ruled by self-interest. But that’s just me, and I’ve never thought that ‘democracy’ or ‘democratic values’ are the great panacea they’re held up to be. Yes, I’m aware that last statement will stick in the craw of many, but there it is.

And here I am, so far ignoring the great silent elephant in the corner … Egypt … or more specifically, Egypt and Tunisia, Yemen and, to a lesser extent, Jordan.

The Middle East is certainly a fascinating place. As a student of international relations and security I grew up being taught that the region is a place of strongmen, religious zealots (of all creeds) and a hotheaded tendency toward conflict. While the last two are still very much alive and well, the first pillar seems to be under attack.

Since moving to the region in 2004 I’ve witnessed the ‘peaceful’ ejection of the Syrian military from Lebanon (I say ‘peaceful’ as the protests were sparked by killings, or rather one killing in particular); Public protests in Iran which were initially quashed, before the government got cold feet and applied softer pressure to restore the situation; The potential split of Yemen; The ejection of the Tunisian leadership amid hordes of people on the street and, finally, the ongoing protests in Egypt.

It’ll be nine years this summer since I first came here for more than a family holiday and around a decade that I’ve been (politically) interested in the region.

I am by no means claiming that the region stands on the cusp of a revolutionary wave (my feelings of disappointment following the Cedar Revolution and the continuation of the old client-patronage system and the quashing of protests in Iran have led me to be cynical), but there’s certainly something in the air.

Iran and Syria are certainly as strong as they ever where when it comes to the maintenance of their particular governments, but then, who would have honestly claimed to have seen the situation in Egypt coming? Precious few, I’m willing to bet.

And that’s the point - this region is prone to flux like no other in the world. The 2006 war between Israel and Lebanon, in terms of the speed of which events can spiral out of control and more recently the Iranian, Tunisian and Egyptian movements, highlighted the inherently unstable nature of regional politics.

But then we come to the fear, the fear that, while ‘democracy’, or some form of change for the better, is within arm’s reach for the people of these various countries, that different hard men, or the religious fundamentalists will end up holding the reigns. The fear is this – that they will end up exchanging one master for another, maybe not tomorrow, but in the near future.

Nevertheless, the events of the past few years remind me of a recurring theme that I first came across during my reading on security and politics, that real political change is achieved through conflict.

Back from my hiatus

2011-01-11T08:00:00.001+02:00

2010 did not end all that well. Various events conspired to keep me away from BritinBeirut, much to my displeasure.

Toward the end of the year my Mac gave up the ghost after around four years of use and abuse. The scratched, dented, chipped and rattling old machine finally went off to the orchard in the sky the motherboard having died.

While I was scrabbling around finding the motivation to post frequently having lost all the various apps and other services that make blogging (for me) a straightforward process, I lost my job.

At present I am about to embark on the torturous road to renewing my residency papers.

In any case, I sit here typing away on a new Mac with a variety of irons in the fire on the job front all within the publishing industry.

2011 is looking up; Thanks to friends and contacts gained during the last few years the job front is looking frighteningly promising, touch wood. Dubai might well beckon, though staying in Beirut could well prove to be an option.

Best wishes for 2011.

One side of the story

2010-12-10T11:07:00.000+02:00

Frances Guy, Britain’s woman in Beirut, has written about the passing on of nationality to coincide with International Human Rights Day:

Nationality: an issue of human rights

Today, 10 December is International Human Rights Day. The Lebanese League for Women's Rights will be demonstrating downtown. Why? For a change in the Nationality Law. Think about it. The right to pass on your nationality to your child is a basic human right. In a world governed by states and state governments you need to have an identifiable nationality otherwise you are a paperless, stateless person without rights. Nearly 200,000 people in Lebanon today have no nationality. That's a lot in a country of about 4 million people. A Lebanese woman does not have the right to pass on her nationality to her children. That is simple discrimination and in contravention of a number of international conventions.

On those grounds alone we should all be fighting for change. But this position of principle hides the human facts. Imagine the situation: you are the child of a Lebanese mother, but a foreign father and that father has since left or died. You were born in Lebanon. You have never lived anywhere else. Your father can't renew your nationality anymore. You have to re-register every year as a foreigner. You have problems getting into school, problems getting health insurance. Later in life, getting into university is complicated. Some jobs are forbidden to you. But in your heart you are Lebanese. You don't want to live anywhere else. You can't live anywhere else. But you are not recognised as Lebanese. You are effectively stateless. You have no rights.

The UNDP tried to raise a campaign for change in 2009. In Lebanon, changes in nationality get tied up with Palestinian issues. But the statistics show that relatively few Lebanese women marry Palestinians and Lebanese men who marry Palestinian women can pass on their nationality.

So come on.... Let's do it. Let's change this discriminatory law. Other Arab countries have. Why can't Lebanon?

Only XY's need apply

Now, that’s all well and good. I wholeheartedly support the idea of equality between men and women. My wife would beat me if I didn’t.

But… to write a piece like the above and to not mention why the nationality law hasn’t been reformed is a little weak.

Perhaps she’s trying to avoid placing her foot in her mouth, again.

It's a man's world

2010-12-06T15:25:00.000+02:00

So, the wife forwarded me this link.

My response to her: “It sucks to be you.”

Seriously.

-----

Women cannot pass on citizenship.

Women cannot leave the country if their father or husband bars them.

There are no provisions made for domestic violence.

Marital rape does not exist.

Women cannot be the aggressors in a rape case.

Women cannot conduct an ‘honour killing’. That is to say, if they kill someone to avenge a crime, for example rape, these are not counted as mitigating circumstances.

Women can be jailed for up to three years if they chose to have an abortion.

However, they will benefit from mitigating circumstances if they are having an abortion as a result of an ‘honour crime’… which directly contradicts a previous point. – According to the article, it hasn’t happened yet.

Women can be jailed for up to three years for adultery. Note, the male equivalent has to take place in the marital home and carries a sentence of 1-13 months.

If she happens to be sleeping with another woman, the potential sentence is longer (this is same for both sexes).

-----

There are others, but those are the stand outs to me. It also gets more complex when you add in religious law.

And to think, I thought it was 2010. Apparently not.

It’s when reading articles like this that I am profoundly thankful my wife and I are married by British law. The darker side of me also reflects upon the fact that, were my children able to hold Lebanese citizenship, my (potential) daughters might at some point be subjected to the above. And, the darker side of me, in our case, is quite grateful that the first rule exists.

Cucina casalinga

2010-12-03T09:00:00.008+02:00

I recently had the pleasure of spending an evening with friends taking in a lesson on Italian home cooking. Hidden in the tangle of side streets that make up Jaitehwey, Italian Nina Betori invites you into the privacy of her own home to pass on the secrets of Italian food.

Nina Betori

Having bounced around Italy, including stints in Rome, Milan and Sicily, and having worked in restaurants in Italy and the UK, Betori’s a mine of information when it comes to doughs, pasta, breads and everything else in Italian cuisine. Full of culinary knowhow – for example, I discovered a new (to me) way of checking if an egg is fresh, you crack it and pour it into a bowl, if there’s a relatively thick area in the white, it’s fresh, if all of the white’s a little watery, it’s gone off – Betori passes on hints and tips while answering your questions with a smile.

Pasta, or at least it will be...

In our two hour session we sat and watched as pollo panna e funghi, focaccia with tomatoes, red peppers and mozzarella, Pan Molle, frittata and dolce supreme were prepared. Obviously, we did all the hard work by wolfing it all down as soon as it hit the table.

You can help as much, or as little, as you like, the only limiting factor appeared to be the size of the group. Sitting around the table was a wonderful experience, to be honest, any thought of rolling up my sleeves and kneading dough disappeared after ten minutes, it’s simply great fun to sit, drink, eat and chat as someone who’s genuinely enthusiastic about food cooks for you.

Dinner by candlelight

While we learnt about Italian fast food (essentially because my friends and I are a lazy lot), Betori offers courses on traditional Italian meals and a specialised session in which she teaches you to make your own pasta.

As if all this isn’t enough, Betori donates a proportion of her earnings to Alpha, a Lebanese NGO aiming to implement psychosocial and educational activities for children affected by war in Tibnine.

So, you’re eating and drinking for a good cause.

And, finally, some shameless

product placement...

Give it a try, I strongly recommend it. The ingredients are included in the price and aprons are provided. Though, if you’re soaks, like us, you’ll have to bring your own booze.

Email Nina at italiancookingworkshop@gmail.com or call her at 7 121 1891 to register for a class. Courses take placeTuesdays & Thursdays from 19:30 to 21:30 (“Italian Fast Food”) and Saturdays from 16:30 to 18:30 (“The ItalianTraditional Twist”). Upon request catering for dinners for up to 15 people and children’s cooking classes can be organized.

You’ll soon have a chance to check out her skills in person when she performs a live cooking event at Zico House.