That restaurant is the origin of our love story
The first of an on-going series, these are the stories of food and love between myself and my husband, Stefano. When thinking about our own contributions for the blog, there were simply too many to choose from! Somehow much of our relationship has circulated between a common appreciation of food, travel and music, and many of our stories involve one or all of those passions.
Starting at the beginning, this is the story of when Sarah met Stefano. As I began writing the piece, I realized it nearly became as much about an unrequited love of a particular brunch dish, as it did a recollection of meeting my husband. Maybe that’s the way it is suppose to be?
Menu from Happy Prince, a wedding gift as it is part of the love story
It’s interesting what we remember about certain events. The most seemingly banal of circumstances can become imprinted in your mind as they become life shifting (or shaping, depending how you look at it). I remember being in a taxi. I remember wearing my jean shorts and red plaid button down top, because even though summer had just ended it was still comfortably warm. I remember the street in Mar Mikhael, and the taxi stopping just shy of one of our usual late-night music and bar haunts, Radio Beirut. I was on the phone with my friend Lisa, a fellow Canuck, who was running late with our friend Juliet, a charming Irish woman. We were convening at one of our favourite places in Beirut, and the best brunch that side of the Levant, the Happy Prince. The menu was small and niche, between brunch and gastro lunch items. It never changed my two and a half years in Lebanon, but I wouldn’t have wanted it to (though for one small item, but more on that later). Nearly every Sunday without fail, a usual crew would gather for spicy green bloody Mary’s, frothy caffeine laced cappuccinos, sweet fluffy pancakes and their infamous (more explained below) Monte Cristo’s dusted with icing sugar and served with golden roasted potatoes. The wonderful and kind staff would keep a large table right at the front for us, or sometimes a large round table tucked at the back, a clean and classic décor flanked with white walls, interesting lighting, greenery and blue and white linens. It was the perfect antidote to the recovery from the night before, and beating the Sunday blues before starting the week.
Back to Lisa, she told me to look out for a friend of Juliet’s, Stefano, an Italian who might already be there waiting. Sure enough, I walk in and see a single guy sitting at our usual large table. ‘’Are you Stefano?’’, it was, and may I say almost ten years knowing him this was one of the only times I’ve known him to be early for anything. I introduce myself, we shake hands, and I go in to my usual series of questions because I am just that kind of curious person – How long have you been here? Where were you working before? Where do you live in Beirut? Eventually we are joined by the others, and we settle into our usual ordering. To make this easy for the staff, we used the highly effective grade school method of raising our hands during the ordering. Who wants a red bloody Mary, who wants the green? Who wants French toast, who’s for pancakes? Who’s for the eggs benedict, whose for the Monte Cristo? Depending on the remedy needed from the night before, we may have also ordered a creamy artichoke dip or two for a starter.
Over the course of many Sundays, I would rotate on the vegetarian options, but the one dish I would never get to try – the Monte Cristo. I would routinely sit envious, eyeing those who ordered the scaled-up sandwich, wanting a taste of fancy cheese fried goodness for myself. The menu describes the dish as a ‘Triple decker toast with turn or ham and gouda cheese battered and grilled served with grilled potatoes and red berry jam’. The plate would come dusted with icing sugar, and the sweet and savoury combination which my palette routinely chases would simply water. I remember the first time I asked if I could have a Monte Cristo, just without the meat. I might as well have asked for it to be served on a golden plate, as the mere suggestion of having the item changed at all was out of the question. The chef said it wouldn’t be a Monte Cristo. Another time, someone at our table asked if they could just ‘forget’ to put the meat in, again, a shy smile and a reminder from the waitstaff, no, because then it would not be a Monte Cristo. I am not aware of the parameters on copyrighting foods (aside from special origins), but it became nearly comical how the one item I was desperate to try was unattainable all because of a slim piece of meat that just had to be in the sandwich. I did keep up my weekly requests, I think more for tradition than actually expecting to have convinced the chef.
Malesh – never mind, as they say in Arabic. If anything, the running comedy about Sarah and her fight for her right to Monte just added to what the Happy Prince meant for myself, and my friends. Bonds were made there. It was a comforting routine, in a warm setting, with the guarantee of a great meal and sincere laughs. That restaurant is the origin of our love story. When Stefano and I met, we were both dating other people, and it would take another nine months before we would become a couple. But we both remember that morning, and since then brunch has become a staple meal in our relationship. So much so that Stefano proposed over brunch, and the promise of routine Sunday pancakes made it into our wedding vows – but more on what happened after that fateful brunch next time.
I walked past it one evening in August 2017 when I was back for a work trip. I had been tempted to revisit a brunch, but without the usual crew and my husband, it just didn’t seem right. They were just closing up for the night, and one of the usual waiters looked out and smiled at me. I smiled back, did a small wave, and while she was probably just being kind to this random woman staring with affectionate eyes through the window, I like to think she remembers who I was. When the horrific blast of August 2020 shattered parts of Beirut, through tearful eyes Stefano and I asked each other what must have been affected, including Happy Prince. A photo on their Facebook page suggests that they were. Something feels not right about writing them to ask, as I don’t want to be seen sensationalizing an incredibly tragic event.
It was a privilege to have made such memories, friendships, and quite a significant relationship there. Maybe its time I try out a veggie Monte Cristo version for myself – though somehow that feels sacrilegious now. Talk about imprinting.
Monte Cristo Recipe - COMING SOON!
