The Lebanese Chef | الشيف اللبنانية
"Her restaurant is Beirut's best-kept secret. He's the food writer who discovers it—and her. Between courses, they serve each other something unexpected."
The Lebanese Chef
الشيف اللبنانية
Sumaya's Kitchen has twelve seats.
Hidden in Gemmayzeh, no website, reservations through word of mouth. I've been cooking here for fifteen years.
Then the food writer found me.
I'm Sumaya.
Forty-five, Lebanese, trained in Paris but cooking like my grandmother. My food tells stories.
Pierre wants to write mine.
He's forty-eight.
French-Lebanese, writes for Le Monde. His reviews make and break careers.
"Why are you hiding here?" he asks.
"I'm not hiding. I'm focused."
"Your tabbouleh made me cry."
"That's the lemon. Too much makes people emotional."
"It wasn't the lemon." He sets down his fork. "It was memory. You cook memory."
"I cook food."
"Same thing."
He comes back every night.
Different dishes each time. I watch him eat—the way his eyes close, the sounds he makes.
"You're studying me," I observe.
"I'm experiencing you."
"That's forward."
"I'm French. We're all forward about pleasure."
"I'm Lebanese. We pretend we're not."
"Then stop pretending. What would you cook if no one was judging?"
I cook for him alone.
After closing, the doors locked. Food I've never served anyone—too personal, too revealing.
"This is..." He can't finish.
"Too much?"
"Not enough. Keep feeding me."
"Why do you really keep coming?"
"Because you're the most interesting person I've met in years."
"You've met presidents. Movie stars."
"None of them cook like you."
The first kiss tastes like za'atar.
We've been cooking together, hip to hip. One moment it was about food. The next—
"This is inappropriate," I say. "I'm your subject."
"The article's already written. You're just Sumaya now."
We make love in my kitchen.
Where I've spent fifteen years feeding everyone but myself.
"Beautiful," he says.
"I'm covered in flour—"
"You're perfect."
He worships my body like food.
Every curve a dish. Every sound a compliment to the chef.
"Ya Allah—Pierre—"
"Right there?"
"Aiwa—don't stop—"
He enters me on the prep counter.
Where I've kneaded bread and rolled kibbeh. Now I'm being prepared.
"Sumaya—"
"Feed me. The way I've fed you."
One year later
The article made me famous.
Michelin noticed. Offers poured in. I turned them all down.
"Why?" Pierre asked.
"Because twelve seats is enough. And you're all I need."
We married in the kitchen.
Twelve guests. The same twelve seats. My food at the reception.
"Best meal?" he asks.
"Every meal I cook with you watching."
"And the bedroom meals?"
"Those too."
Alhamdulillah.
For kitchens that feed souls.
For writers who taste deeply.
For chefs who learn to receive.
The End.