Almaza in 2026, a local beer that has been part of Lebanese life since 1933. (Credit: Jad Abou Jaoude/ L'Orient-Le Jour)
Close your eyes. Imagine a Lebanese summer. The smell of iodine, salt drying on your skin, sunscreen, the feeling of the sun on your shoulders, peanuts, carrot sticks dipped in lemon. Then that sharp, familiar sound: the pop of a bottle cap. The first sip of an almost ice-cold Almaza. Some flavors eventually come to belong to a country as much as they do to a season. In Lebanon, Almaza's has become one of them. To the point that, everywhere — in cafés, restaurants, bars, beaches and nightclubs — ordering “a beer” often means ordering an Almaza. Few brands cross that threshold where a name ceases to designate a product and enters everyday language. That’s how this inimitable green bottle, dressed in its white and red label topped with a diamond recognizable anywhere, stopped being just another product and became a familiar marker of...
Close your eyes. Imagine a Lebanese summer. The smell of iodine, salt drying on your skin, sunscreen, the feeling of the sun on your shoulders, peanuts, carrot sticks dipped in lemon. Then that sharp, familiar sound: the pop of a bottle cap. The first sip of an almost ice-cold Almaza. Some flavors eventually come to belong to a country as much as they do to a season. In Lebanon, Almaza's has become one of them. To the point that, everywhere — in cafés, restaurants, bars, beaches and nightclubs — ordering “a beer” often means ordering an Almaza. Few brands cross that threshold where a name ceases to designate a product and enters everyday language. That’s how this inimitable green bottle, dressed in its white and red label topped with a diamond recognizable anywhere, stopped being just another product and became a familiar...
