• Facebook Clean Grey
  • Instagram Clean Grey
  • Tumblr Clean Grey
Have tea with me

Aristotle at Afternoon Tea participates in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for sites to earn commissions by linking to Amazon. This means that whenever you buy a book on Amazon from a link on here, I get a small percentage of its price. That helps support my writing in a small way, so thank you. Happy reading!

© 2014-2018 Yara Zgheib All Rights Reserved


These essays are a work of love; they are and will always be free.

However, if you would like to like to show your appreciation and support, you can do so with a monthly donation of the amount of your choice:

  • $3     A cup of tea

  • $5     Tea and a scone

  • $10   A good book

  • $25   A charming little                   dinner

  • $40   White roses and                     red wine

You may also make a one time donation of the amount of your choice:

Your donation will help me keep doing what I love. Thank you very much.

To cancel a recurring payment, simply

On Sunday Lunch, Wednesday

July 27, 2017

This post was written for the summer issue of HOME for Lebanon Magazine, a gorgeous publication about the Lebanon I believe in. It brings Lebanese culture, heritage, and talent to the world, and it brings those of us abroad home.


Patricia, it is an honor to write for HOME for Lebanon. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of such an inspiring project.


And you, dear reader, wherever in the world you are, pick up an issue. It is worth it.



Sunday Family Lunch, Wednesday


We have our Sunday Family Lunch on Wednesday, because Sunday is laundry day. Also Skype day with Mamy, Papi, Teta, Geddo, and the siblings and pets back home. Sundays are for cleaning the sparse, IKEA furnished living rooms, changing the sheets and watering the little cactus, piling up on groceries for the week. Sunday mornings are for sleeping in, Sunday evenings for Sunday blues. In between two of those, there are six days of five thirty a.m. alarms. So, to break them up, the four of us get together for a Sunday Family Lunch … every Wednesday night.


There are more than twelve million Lebanese around the world living away from their families, returning to empty apartments from work shifts, classes, long days of expat life. A small price to pay for the future we seek, but since everyone, at some point, must eat, we pause our quest for opportunity long enough to have dinner together once a week.


My makeshift family knocks at my door at seven p.m. sharp. Four foreigners, four Lebanese in Missouri. Our country’s biggest export.


Rita brings the hummus; she makes the best west of the Atlantic, from scratch. She makes sfouf on special occasions too, one of my favorite desserts. On the days when she does, she smells of yansoun. On others, Marc Jacobs: Daisy Dream. She works day shifts, night shifts, running around the hospital, white coat and stethoscope fluttering behind, making sharp, intuitive judgments, but on Wednesday nights she shares ekhir nikte and her mother’s famous recipe.


Elias brings some wine, his oud or a playlist of Fairuziyyet. By day he is a scientist, well written, published, read. By night his music transports us all to summers in Bishmizzine. He plays and sings songs I know, songs I do not, songs he teaches me to love. The words and tunes have more meaning and beauty the further you are from home.


Naji uncorks the bottle, pours, and launches the debate of the night. The conversation hops from world and national politics, this country’s and Lebanon’s, to neuroscience, economics, philosophy, history, social commentary, art. He pauses to take a first bite of fasoulia, his and Elias’s favorite dish. For a moment each of them is at the kitchen table in the home where he grew up.


And from the fridge, I pull out the labne I learned to make myself; homesickness breeds innovation. And apartment-made fatte and manakish. I offer more food, drink, and join the conversation in Arabic, English, and French. Sometimes no words translate the emotion right; then I speak with my hands.


I have been as far East and as far West as an airplane ticket will allow; green tea ceremonies in a Tokyo bonsai garden, fortune cookies in San Francisco’s Chinatown. Part Phoenician merchant, part New World pilgrim, I learn and share with the other three. They each bring their own stories to the table for our family dinner each week.


For two hours every Wednesday we look back on our roots of kteb el tarbiye wil qira’a, eid el ‘isti’lel, Bonjus pyramide and Ghandour w raha. T’ish w tekol ghayra, tabboule w frites. Grounded, we then look around and forward at the world we are discovering: the places, events, and people molding us, experiences making our lives rich.


Our ancestors were ambitious merchants and explorers. To be Lebanese is to go and seek. Often, it is lonesome, but it does not have to be lonely; the Lebanese also value family. Missouri is eight time zones away from Beirut, but at seven p.m. on Wednesday nights, home does not seem so far away when we sit down for our Sunday Family Lunch.


Please reload

By theme
More tea?
Follow me
  • Facebook - Grey Circle
  • Tumblr - Grey Circle
  • Instagram - Grey Circle
Please reload

May 9, 2019

May 2, 2019

April 18, 2019

April 11, 2019

April 4, 2019

March 28, 2019

Please reload