This Brother-Owned Haven is Bringing a Piece of Beirut to Fouad Street

Moving to Alexandria- or honestly Egypt in general- felt like being dropped into a movie where I didn’t know the plot, the genre, or where to buy coffee. The streets were loud, beautiful, and a little too chaotic, and I often found myself unsure whether I was sightseeing or just lost.

The truth is, I didn’t land here with a grand plan. I came with overpacked bags and a Google Maps folder full of pins labeled “Food.” It was my digital scavenger hunt- screenshotting menus, zooming in on blurry interiors, and trying to triangulate whether the lighting suggested a place had soul or just good editing. Alexandria didn’t come with instructions, but I figured if I could find my hidden food gems here, I’d feel a bit more at ease. That’s how I stumbled upon Dabke Aljabal: a small, cosy restaurant tucked away on Fouad Street.

It started like most modern-day love stories: a photo online. A chalkboard menu. A whisper of warm manakish. I saved it instantly. Then I waited- not for a sign from the universe, but for the right conditions: hungry, slightly emotional, and wearing something with an elastic waistband.

Eventually, the day came. I brought a friend- someone who, like me, believes in ordering too much food and pretending it’s for the table. We wandered down Fouad Street, which carries that faded Mediterranean charm that makes you feel like you’re walking through an old photograph, slightly smudged at the edges.

As we approached the restaurant, our stomachs were rumbling and our hopes were high. From the outside, Dabke Aljabal is easy to miss if you’re not looking. But inside, it’s soft and unpretentious—white stone walls, simple tables, and photos of two smiling brothers who run the place. You can feel it in the food, in the space: it’s run like a family kitchen, not a restaurant trying to go viral.

The menu is handwritten on a blackboard. No frills, no QR codes, no confusion. It reads like a tightly edited mixtape of Lebanese comfort food: mezze, manakish, tea.

We started with mezze: hummus bil lahme, tabbouleh, and warak enab. They arrived quickly, as if the kitchen had been expecting us. The bread came fresh out of the oven- warm, soft in the middle, and slightly crisp on the edges.

The hummus was rich and silky, topped with minced meat that added just enough bite. The warak enab - my absolute favourite - were tightly rolled and drizzled with pomegranate molasses, tangy and sweet in the way that makes you do a little dance when you bite. Even the tabbouleh, which people often treat as a side character, had real presence: fresh, zingy, and chopped like someone actually cared.

Then came the manakish. We ordered two: muhammara and Akkawi cheese. They arrived on thin flatbreads, baked just right in a clay oven we could see from our table. The muhammara had that spicy-sweet depth that keeps pulling you back for “just one more bite,” even after you’ve declared yourself full. The cheese was simple, melty, and slightly salty-exactly what it needed to be. No theatrics, just flavour. Of course, we didn’t resist the urge to slap a slice of each together and turn it into a flavour bomb.

By the time we were done, we were full in the way that makes you sit back and re-evaluate your life choices- in a good way. We ordered Lebanese tea, leaned back in our chairs, and let the meal settle the way good meals do: slowly, without ceremony.

For me, it became a landmark- not a famous one, not even a big one. But a personal one. A place that reminded me, in those early, uncertain days in Alexandria, that feeling at home can start with warm bread and a quiet table.