I’ve been following Hisham Assaad, the Palestinian-Lebanese food writer, actor and activist, for nearly a decade now: at first no doubt because of his smile and enthusiasm, but later moreso because of his books on Lebanese food and his photography. While in the UK we can get a bit fretful and cancel plans if it’s a bit windy or if the rain’s a little too cold, I can’t properly digest how you work and write recipes in Beirut with the harrowing sounds of relentless airstrikes, with explosions shattering windows and the constant hum of drones overhead.
It was a good time to finally speak with Hisham as his latest book, ‘Taboon – Sweet and Savoury Delights from the Lebanese Bakery’ is out with Melbourne’s Smith Street Books. It’s a really beautiful book to read but also to hold, with its embossed cover and unvarnished paper that especially suits the street photography that Hisham shot, with the food-recipe images photographed by Haarala Hamilton, and designed by Georgie Hewitt (who also designed Hisham’s book ‘Bayrūt’). He’s done well at weaving Lebanon’s history and current political situation, and his reality as a childhood Palestinian refugee, with a very affectionate exploration on the baking traditions of the region with recipes filled with know-how from the people he’s met.
Dan: In front of me here, I have your book, Taboon, all about Lebanese baking – sweet things, savoury things – and it’s beautiful. Congratulations.
Hisham: Thank you so much. It’s been a lot of hard work to get here with the first book and the second book, especially in such horrible times.
Dan: I love that it contains so many different types of recipes, and in particular, family recipes. I imagine you grew up with many different recipes within your family. Were there any particular ones from your childhood that you felt needed to be recorded?
Hisham: Yes, I wanted to record the recipes that are not well-known, or that I’m afraid will be lost to history. There are a few recipes that are less known, and those are the ones I wanted to focus on more, whether in Bayrūt or Taboon.
One recipe I connect dearly to is Maamoul, and another is Kaak Asfar. These two recipes are usually made for Easter. Maamoul is a semolina cookie with butter or ghee, filled with pistachios, dates, or walnuts. It’s made in Christian communities for Easter, and in Muslim communities during Eid, whether it’s Eid al-Fitr or Eid al-Adha.
Kaak Asfar, though, is something I inherited from my grandparents. It’s a yellow bread leavened with turmeric, nigella seeds, sesame seeds, and mahlab. It’s usually savoury, and we spread it with labneh or eat it with boiled eggs on Easter morning. The whole neighbourhood where I grew up would make it in the week leading up to Easter, and the smell of turmeric, bread, sesame, and nigella would be fragrant in the air.
Dan: That sounds so amazing. You mentioned at the beginning this awful time you’re living through now — with the war, these terror attacks, and so much brutality — but you also went through that time with the Beirut blast. I was thinking about what you said about its impact on the city. Were there specific ingredients, makers, or traditions affected by the blast?
Hisham: Maybe not specifically by the blast itself, but it accelerated what was already happening. Since 2019, the country has gone through a horrible economic collapse, and everything has become 100 times more expensive. So, people started using local ingredients that could be sourced more easily and affordably. The more expensive things were off-limits, unless you were paid in foreign currency and didn’t care about the exchange rate.
Meats, for example, became more expensive, so people started using them sparingly, similar to how our ancestors would stretch meat with vegetables and grains. One ingredient we’ve always had in abundance is pine nuts. They’re used in garnishes, fillings, or mixed with meat for things like kibbeh. But they became so expensive that people stopped using them. Instead, they started substituting almonds cut into the shape of pine nuts—or just leaving them out entirely.
Another big shift is that people started using every bit of whatever they had. For example, if you bought a watermelon, people would ask, How can I use the rinds? Or with oranges, What can I do with the peels? Nothing could go to waste because no one knew if they’d have food the next day or the next week. Although things have stabilized a bit now, there’s still a constant fear that something might go out of stock at any moment. It’s like we’ve all developed a survival instinct.
Dan: The ingenuity that comes out of these terribly difficult times. I wanted to talk a little about your method in documenting Lebanese baking and that heritage. When you were collecting recipes from your family or other people, how did you record them? Did you focus on exact measurements, or was it more about capturing the process and spirit of the recipe? Like, did you find yourself weighing your mother’s handfuls?
Hisham: Usually, when we cook and bake, we go by heart. People learn from each other by sharing approximate measurements – it’s not exact. But when documenting a recipe for a book, you have to assume the person reading it knows nothing. You have to break it down into the simplest, clearest steps possible.
For example, when I was cooking with my mom, I had to try her recipes myself because she never measured anything. She’d just say, a sprinkle of salt or a pinch of spice. So, I became a pain in the kitchen, measuring everything she did and testing it to make sure it worked.
For Taboon, I had to do the same thing with recipes my mom didn’t know or make at home. I relied on asking others, getting a sense of their measurements, and using my knowledge of baking to refine the process. My goal was to translate these intuitive, “handfuls and sprinkles” methods into recipes that anyone could follow.
Dan: Did you notice the role of gender in these culinary traditions in Lebanon? Were some of the recipes more in the domain of men or women, and how did you blend that in Taboon?
Hisham: That’s not something I noticed while making the book, but I think now I can see the kind of division between recipes. Usually – and I hate this division – recipes that are less labour-intensive tend to be made by women or housewives at home, while the more labour-intensive ones are often made by men. For example, baklava and fatteh, or manakish made in large ovens, are typically handled by men. But when it comes to saj bread, it’s traditional to see women making it.
It’s more of a visual stereotype or gender bias. Women are expected to make saj bread, even though in commercial saj bakeries, men are often the ones handling it. There’s also a general lack of women in professional food spaces.
Dan: Have you seen a change in the balance of gender in regard to cooking and food in your lifetime? Certainly in mine, women didn’t really have an easy entry into baking bread commercially. It tended to be done by men. But now, in 2024, nearly 2025, I can think of hundreds of bakeries around the world where women are baking all of the bread, almost without comment by others.
Hisham: Because of gender norms here, women are often expected to stay at home as mothers or home cooks. A few who want to work either pursue higher-paying fields if they have degrees, or take on local, low-profile work—small food production at home, saj bread making, or similar tasks tailored for easy preparation. It’s not fair; anything should be accessible to anyone who wants to pursue it.
Breaking the stereotype of a woman working in food instead of, say, banking or another higher-paying job wasn’t easy a couple of decades ago. Food production is essential, but it’s labour-intensive and less lucrative. Thankfully, people now feel freer to choose what they want to do.
For example, I mentioned in Taboon a bakery in Amchit, in northern Lebanon, called Furn El Sabaya. It’s run entirely by women – three women who decided to open and manage it themselves. It’s now very popular and well-known. They made it iconic by standing out in a male-dominated industry.
While many bakeries are owned by men and employ women, it’s rare to see a bakery entirely run and managed by women. This was different and part of a movement to empower women to work, be productive, and not just be housewives.
Dan: And I think this brings up a good point: it’s not just about who’s working on the bakery floor but also about who owns the bakery, who benefits from it. Where does the income go?
In certain villages, cultural norms dictate that women should work at home, not outside it. Some companies and NGOs try to fund initiatives that empower women, allowing them to earn income without leaving home full-time or sacrificing family responsibilities. Even in the most conservative places, there’s been a shift to enable women to work.
Dan: Are there any particular ingredients you struggled to substitute for or offer alternatives for in your recipes? For example, I remember suggesting in The Guardian that lemon juice could substitute for sumac, and I got quite a beating online for it. But it’s tricky, what do you say if people don’t have sumac, there isn’t really a substitute.
Hisham: I didn’t offer many alternatives because I can’t always know what’s available in every market. For sumac, lemon juice can work as a substitute for the flavour, but sumac has a specific zing that’s hard to replicate.
Other tricky ingredients include the root used for halawi, soapwort root. It’s primarily used for cleaning Persian rugs but is also used in small quantities for food. I tried using egg whites as a substitute but couldn’t get rid of the eggy smell, something we call zamkha. Eventually, I returned to soapwort root.
Another example is sahlep, made from an orchid root that used to be abundant in Turkey. Overharvesting has made it scarce, so now we often see manufactured replacements that aren’t the authentic orchid root. Global challenges like these force us to rethink some recipes or accept substitutes when necessary.
Dan: Something that’s changed, I think particularly with the wars at the moment, but also with environmental changes, is the availability of ingredients. Are there some ingredients that are becoming very difficult to find? For example, olive oil has become hugely expensive here, and I worry about recommending it in recipes.
Hisham: Olive oil is also a challenge here. This year, with the destruction of so many olive groves and even the poisoning of olive groves in the south, we’ve seen prices rise significantly. The increase started last year and has only gotten worse.
I wouldn’t necessarily suggest alternatives for olive oil, but I think people need to be wise and conscious about using local replacements that fit their budget. You don’t have to break the bank to drizzle olive oil on hummus. If there’s another type of oil available that you like, it’s okay to use it at home.
Dan: We often talk about baking as comfort food—it heals in some way. At a time like this, are there recipes in the book that you feel have a healing quality? For you, your family, or your friends, are there dishes that soothe you during such difficult times?
Hisham: For me, manakish is a staple. I could eat it any day, any time, any month—I don’t care. It’s just so comforting. A plain za’atar manoucheh, with that flatbread and za’atar on top, is perfect.
Another comforting dish is mamouniyeh, a sweet porridge that originates from Syria. It’s made with semolina, butter or ghee, and stringy cheese that contrasts beautifully with the sweetness of the porridge.
To make it, you toast the semolina in butter until it browns slightly, then add cinnamon, sugar, and water, letting it absorb until it forms a thick porridge. Half the cheese is mixed in to give it that stretchy, stringy texture, and the rest is added on top when serving. You can sprinkle more cinnamon and syrup for sweetness. It’s like knefeh in a bowl, with warm, spicy cinnamon and the salty cheese balancing the sweetness.
Dan: I’ve noticed, and we’ve all noticed from your Instagram and Threads posts, that you’re often woken at night by the noise of missiles and armaments. Does that drive you to eat? I can’t imagine what it’s like. When I get up at night, I’ll have toast and peanut butter — that’s my thing. But with stresses like these, do you find comfort in eating, or does it feel impossible?
Hisham: Sometimes, but it’s not something you turn to for comfort in the moment. Maybe you sip some water, try to go back to sleep, or lose yourself doom-scrolling until you pass out again. Eating doesn’t really come to mind in the middle of the night.
Dan: I would say, though, to me you’re also a social activist. In presenting this book, do you feel like you’re acting as a spokesperson for Lebanese food and cultural identity around the world?
Hisham: I’m probably not fully aware of the impact my books create. Every time someone tells me they saw my book somewhere, or they share a memory evoked by a recipe or story in it, I’m amazed. It surprises me how much of a ripple effect it can have.
I never consciously thought about creating something that represents my food. I just wanted to share stories, like I did when giving food tours in Beirut. I’d share everything—the history of the places, the food you’re eating, where it comes from, the people behind it. I wanted my books to reflect those same stories, like sitting with me while I tell you about it all.
Publishing the book felt like an act of defiance against the erasure we’re experiencing. So maybe, yes, it is a social act.
Dan: Do you think there are recipes or ingredients in the book that symbolize Lebanese or Beiruti resilience? Are there any that have survived through difficult times and reflect that spirit?
Hisham: I’d say there are two ways to answer that. Nationally, dishes like tabbouleh and hummus are representations of Lebanese cuisine. Maybe shawarma too. But in terms of resilience, I think of the preserves — the way people take an abundance from one season and find ways to preserve it for the rest of the year.
One example is kishk. It’s made from bulgur harvested in season and mixed with yogurt until fully absorbed. Then it’s left to dry completely in the sun, often on rooftops, where the air is less humid. Every day or so, it’s tossed to ensure no wet spots form mould. Once dried, it’s ground into a powder used for manakish or stews.
I included kishk in my manakish recipe because it doesn’t quite fit with Beiruti cuisine — it’s more of a mountain or highland tradition. But in future books, I might include it in more ways.
Dan: The photographs in the book are beautiful – absolutely beautiful. How did you, for the location photos, and the photographer, for the recipe photography, approach it? Did you have a specific style in mind before you began, or did it evolve naturally?
Hisham: For the recipe photos, I have to give credit to the team who worked on them. They did an amazing job replicating the way I cook and present food, with that rustic feel—newspaper on the table, nothing overly styled. They captured the spirit of it perfectly.
For the lifestyle photos, I just went around taking pictures of what I see every day. To me, it’s normal, but I’ve been told that what’s ordinary to me is fascinating to others. Every time I took people on food tours, they were amazed by how things worked here—bakeries and markets that are more rustic, with people in casual clothes, even flip-flops, making delicious food. It’s not about appearances; it’s about the quality of the food.
Dan: I think there’s always this challenge with readers’ romanticism about cities and countries. They want the story to fit their fantasy.
Hisham: Exactly. Sometimes places aren’t photogenic in the way people expect, but the food and the culture they represent are incredible.
Dan: Did you find it difficult to translate into English while keeping the lyrical quality of the Lebanese recipe names?
Hisham: It was a tough exercise because so much gets lost in translation. In Arabic, we often have a single word that captures everything, but in English, you need five or six words to explain it. For example, arousa literally means “bride,” but in food, it refers to a wrapped sandwich made with flatbread. Similarly, msakhan is just one word to us, but in English, you’d need to describe it as “sumac, chicken, and caramelized onions.”
Finding a balance between staying true to the original meaning and making it accessible in English was challenging, but I tried my best.
Dan: Some of your dishes could be described as fusion. Do you worry this approach dilutes the essence of traditional Lebanese baking and cooking?
Hisham: As I said earlier about authenticity and modernity, I think it’s okay to improvise and create new dishes as long as you’re not presenting them as the authentic or original versions.
For example, in the book, I included some recipes that blend traditional methods with less common ingredients. One is raat, or cheese rolls, which I made with a mix of artichoke, spinach, and cheese, inspired by the artichoke dip you’d find in diners. Another example is rice kibbeh, which I adapted into trendy rice bites. I cooked the rice, froze it, fried it, and topped it with salmon or tuna. It’s a blend of current trends and traditional recipes, but always with acknowledgment of both.
You should try ma’arouk, the yellow bread. It’s like a bun filled with dates, walnuts, or coconut. When it’s warm, it’s such a comforting treat. Perhaps I should open a bakery in London to introduce it to a wider audience!
Dan: That sounds amazing. Sometimes, though, we can get so used to these dishes that we don’t realize how special they are.
Hisham: Exactly. Writing the book helped me see how incredible some of these recipes are. They’re things we take for granted here, but to others, they’re entirely new and exciting. It sparked so many ideas for me—how to highlight what we have and share it with the world.
Dan: Where do you see Lebanese cuisine going in the next 25 years? Are there practices you’d like to see disappear, or others you hope will survive?
Hisham: I think Lebanese food is at a bit of a stagnant phase because we’re so attached to traditional ways of making things. We could benefit from more elaboration on dishes, modern presentations, and refining the cuisine to attract more people.
Lebanese food is often associated with mezze, but there’s potential for small, well-presented dishes that offer a more elevated dining experience. Some chefs have tried, but it hasn’t fully caught on yet. Hopefully, in the coming years, it will.
In Lebanon, we like either very classical food or trying something entirely new when we go out. That middle ground—our food presented differently but still recognizable—feels strange to many here. But outside Lebanon, especially in places like the U.S., there’s more openness. For example, I know a restaurant making Lebanese-inspired bar food, which is really creative and appealing.
We often stick to comfort and familiarity, and that limits us. It’s not about making the food better—our cuisine is already great—but finding ways to present it differently without losing its essence.
