Est. 2023 · Weekend Only
Mezze
Lebanese pop-up dinners
in hidden courtyards
Scroll to enter
One evening, start to finish
A meal that starts at the market
and ends when the candles go out
The market, before the crowds
It starts at dawn. Hands moving through piles of eggplant, testing the weight of pomegranates, filling baskets with mint so fresh it leaves green on your palms. Nothing from a distributor. Everything chosen by touch.
Sourced same-day, every Saturday
Dough stretched, coals lit
The kitchen is borrowed but the hands are not. Flour dusts a forearm. A vertical spit is assembled. Labneh hangs in cloth from a hook, dripping slowly into a bowl. The coals take forty minutes to reach the right color.
No shortcuts. No shortcuts.
The courtyard becomes something else
Linen goes down. Edison bulbs come on one by one. Mismatched ceramics are stacked at each place — no two the same. The arak goes into ice. The smell of charcoal and za'atar drifts into the street and stops people mid-stride.
Location revealed 48 hours before
Dishes that don't stop arriving
Motion blur. Steam. Arms crossing over the table. Lamb carved tableside onto flatbread. Fattoush scattered with pomegranate seeds that catch the candlelight. The arak goes cloudy when the water hits it. Nobody checks their phone.
Communal table. Dishes for the whole table.
Crumbs, wax, and a seat with your name on it
The candles are low. The table is a map of the evening — crumbs, wax drips, a pomegranate half gone to seed. Somebody orders a second round of knafeh. The next pop-up date has already been set.
The next one is already filling.
Nobody wanted it to end. That's the only review that matters.
— Nour Khalil, attended March 2025
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Reserve Your Seat
Three dates. 48 seats each. Locations revealed 48 hours before. We'll confirm by text.
Never miss a date
Tell Me First
New dates drop without warning. Get a text the moment the next evening is announced — before it goes anywhere else.
No newsletters. No spam. Only a text when a new date is set.