On a weekday at 6 you can usually find parking for Open Sesame a few blocks east on Beverly, across from the inexplicable and indefatigable El Coyote1. It’s a nice walk from there to the restaurant, past one of the last proper stereo shops in the city and a few chic boutiques. From the facade promising “Authentic Lebanese Mediterranean”, it’s a short but steep flight of stairs up to the semi-enclosed patio that surrounds their indoors space.
I prefer to be seated in their narrow side patio. This alleyway tries to exaggerate its size through liberal use of mirrors and a light-absorbing paint job, but it need not be insecure! It’s a genuinely cozy space. I’m not sure how much of an evaporative cooling effect there is from the knee-high fountain in the back, but it certainly adds visual interest.
My senses are being transported to Beirut, but my mortal body is still very much on Beverly Boulevard. Two tables away, a tipsy woman is attempting to explain microneedling to her fully sloshed date. Toward the front of the patio a gaggle of young men are bemoaning the rising cost of omakase as if it were a proxy for the consumer price index. Yet, the ambience persists. The staff are friendly, the drinks are quite good, and there’s much to look forward to.
While this menu has more meat-based options than not, the vegan dishes that are present are helpfully labeled with a “vn” and are all incidentally plant-based – – no uncanny flesh mimicry here. This is as good a place as any to convert a plant-curious omnivore.
In spite of the fact that lentil soup is my go-to workday lunch and therefore foolish to order when dining out, I often split a cup with my wife to start. It’s light and incredibly fragrant, and like the opening song of any good playlist it reels you into the mood without overcommitting.
Foul medames is a beloved breakfast in Egypt, Lebanon and many other countries, and it deserves a platform to challenge our depressing and uninspired stateside breakfast tradition of eggs plus whatever. A simple fava bean stew with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil2, it can really take off when well-dressed and accompanied by quality produce. This one comes with fresh sprigs of mint, rustic-cut cornichons, ripe tomato wedges, and snappy persian cucumbers cut lengthwise on a bias like little palate-cleansing surfboards. It’s a wonderful dish in and of itself, but the pro move is to pair it with the vegan plate so that you can add the cucumber and mint to the larger spread for your grazing pleasure and sop up the stew with your extra pita trimmings.
The vegan plate comes with hummus, baba ghannouj, tabouleh, two falafel and a stuffed grape leaf (warak enab). I typically like a pulpy baba ghannouj with a bite; this one is silky and not overly punchy, but like a good session beer it goes down easy and rewards prolonged enjoyment. The tabouleh is subtle and not overly astringent, and the warak enab is tender and aromatic. The falafel has a firm and crackly crust that gives way to a soft, crumbly and herbaceous filling. Throughout all elements of the platter the deep garlic notes deftly offset the piquant lemon, and in turn the lemon resolutely tempers the bite of the garlic – – there’s a distinct focus on balance above boldness which makes for an incredibly smooth and self-assured plate.
How ought we interpret a restaurant self-identifying as authentic? A claim that their interpretation is the definitive one, or an act of humility, an acknowledgement that they are simply a link in the chain of a time-honored tradition? Whatever one’s reflexive reading of such a claim is, I think it’s fair to say that having something greater than themselves guiding their principles is how some of the best restaurants make the leap from humble transcribers to lauded writers of their cuisine. Wherever Open Sesame is on their journey, they’re doing a fine service to the mid-city area with their brilliant middle eastern fare.
- I’ll never understand how the most overrated LA dining landmark outside of Pink’s, a joint that does little well except for ambience, survived the takeout-only era of the pandemic. ↩︎
- I refuse to use the acronym EVOO. Extra-virgin is the only type of olive oil I would consider for a finishing oil, and every time I come across this acronym I still stare at it slackjawed for ten seconds or so before it hits me. The true sickos who recognize this acronym on sight in less time than it would take for them to just read “extra-virgin olive oil” are certainly not the people who need a reminder to use extra-virgin. Who then is this for? ↩︎
