Elias in front of his father Abu Elias’s oven, proud to carry on his traditions and expertise. (Credit: Rayanne Tawil/L’Orient-Le Jour)
The paths leading to Abu Elias' oven carry a poetic fragrance, something almost unreal. To calm your impatience, you must weave through the narrow alleys of old Zahle, squeezing between stone houses, trees, small staircases, and walls weathered by years of sun. Then, at the turn of a street, you will come upon a modest white and red sign that says it all: "Forn Abu Elias." Inside, nothing is really surprising — time seems to have stopped in 1962. Here, there is no grand entrance or sophisticated storefront to hint that such an old and precious place is hidden behind these walls. The decor is simple, almost outdated, betraying its age: an old wooden ceiling, wrinkled walls, and a small opening that serves as a window to the street, through which bread and mana'eesh fresh from the oven pass from the hands of the family to...
The paths leading to Abu Elias' oven carry a poetic fragrance, something almost unreal. To calm your impatience, you must weave through the narrow alleys of old Zahle, squeezing between stone houses, trees, small staircases, and walls weathered by years of sun. Then, at the turn of a street, you will come upon a modest white and red sign that says it all: "Forn Abu Elias." Inside, nothing is really surprising — time seems to have stopped in 1962. Here, there is no grand entrance or sophisticated storefront to hint that such an old and precious place is hidden behind these walls. The decor is simple, almost outdated, betraying its age: an old wooden ceiling, wrinkled walls, and a small opening that serves as a window to the street, through which bread and mana'eesh fresh from the oven pass from the hands of the family...
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