Category Archives: The Tidbit Confessions

The Tidbit Confessions: Finiquia restaurant in Jbeil

Jbeil, Lebanon.
It’s a beautiful weather to eat, windy but not uncomfortable. One restaurant you absolutely have to visit if you pass by Lebanon is Finiquia in Jbeil. The food is so creatively presented and traditionally tasty, it surprised me from a middle-eastern spin on “Another brick in the wall” playing in the background to the lamb pieces that hung on my plate instead if plainly lying there.
They gave us little buns with Labneh and Zaatar with a few green olives to start with until the food arrived on pretty brown and white plates with all their dressings in tiny teapots on the side. All the dishes that involve chicken or beef were presented very nicely on plates you’re not used to looking at, sided with baked potatoes, hummus, mixed greens and pickles.
The juices are given to you in little jars of goodness, I was jealous of my neighbor’s yellow and red jar topped with a slice of pineapple and strawberry.
Trying the place is a must.



It’s exquisite *said with a lifted pinky finger* it’s delish, tender and wonderful.

Its dark yellow outside and vibrant yellow inside makes this slice of sunshine hands down the best tidbit confession I’ve written so far. I’ve been wanting to do this review for months but never really got down to it.

My spring break vacation was spent in the lovely Dubai, where I had the privilege to dine in a great Italian restaurant called “Carluccios” in Marina. Everything, from starter to main dish was an absolute 10 star. It’s the kind of restaurant where you get jealous from what your neighbors are gobbling down even though you’ve already ordered the best dish on the menu.

Let’s jump in right to where we need to shall we?

For dessert, I usually order something with chocolate or fruit: “unavailable”. So I settle with something a little more down to earth: a nice little slice of lemon cake. I read the description: Lemon Cake: Sweet pastry and lemon cream covered by soft madeira cake.

We order two, and a Ricotta and Apricot Tart (which will most definitely be featured in another lovely segment of the T.C). They arrive like love on a clean white plate. LOVE I tell you, the real kind your grandmother has for you. It cuts so easily with the tip of your fork, and hugs your tongue the second it’s in your mouth. The taste is absolutely divine, I can’t describe it real enough for you, you are obligated to try it at Carluccio’s!

When you chew, little sparkles I would say, of some kind of sugar break under your teeth, and you feel them exploding with utter joy as you watch the moist drip down the tan back of your attractive cake slice.

P.S There’s a thin layer of something delicious in between the sponge, maybe a lemon custard. I wouldn’t want to know anyways it will ruin the sweet illusion.

I’ve tried to come back to Carluccio’s many times with my friends to make them taste that slice but I always fail miserably. There’s so much demand on it that I’ve only experienced its joy once, which in no doubt is definitely not enough times. Disappointment begins to build up every time I hear the almost too-frequent response “Sorry We’re out of Lemon Cake, would you like to try our Tiramisú instead?”





Opened up my taste buds in a bright new way. Each little colored bundle of joy lifts you up and carefully cushions your fall. Each one has a distinctive vibe of its own.

The Pistachio: light and nutty, although I hate the taste of pistachio.

The Rosée: reminding you of the rosé water your grandmother used with the traditional meghlé servings.

The Chocolate: sweet and divine, glorious on its own, an overdose of heavy brown.

The Framboise: you can feel the péppines tickling your tongue through three layers of love.

The Vanilla *oh the vanilla* you see it extracted, whisked, flavored, seasoned, topped, finished, served, tasted, gobbled down, filling you with passion you’re too ashamed to accept you have.

So much joy fills me and drips down my glass of desire when I get these. OH MY.




Two words:


Now I’m not a big fan of the fluffy white squares but the biggest exception waltzed in a couple of months ago: I was at a campfire with some friends where they couldn’t resist the urge to get roastin’. So I tried it, and thanked the heavens I did.

ITS SQUICHINESS IS IRRESISTIBLE when you plunge it through the thin wood stick and start sunbathing it over the fire like a tanning bed on a twig, leaving it there for about 10 to 15 seconds until it blushes at you with golden brown cheeks, that kinky little thing. I DARE YOU TO BITE INTO IT, and immediately feel a very thin layer of crunch from the hardened outside, as your teeth slash into the inside, bubble-gummy sticky and a little liquidy make the absolute best tidbit, even the smell is gorgeous. It’s settled I’m stuffing my nose in them from now on.


Tidbit Confessions: a slice of the Icebox Cake

The tidbit confessions: Small personal ongoing confessions about late night cravings.

Bloomingdales is absolutely beautiful.

Yeah whether it’s their clothing line or cute Little Brown Bags, stepping into their stores is an experience by itself.

I was with my good friend when I literally pressured her into going in that part of Bloomingdales where they sold cupcakes and displayed them so perfectly on white plates it was just too good to pass. My eyes practically glowing when I saw THAT ICEBOX CAKE.

I can already feel the cream and chocolate blend melt in my mouth. The taste didn’t change at all, from the last time we got some. This could gladly become a ritual of ours, because my good friend actually introduced me to that cake and I just can’t thank her enough.

Bad breakup? Bring me a slice will you, and some napkins.

Fight with family? Don’t talk to me while I’m eating it.

Meeting with a friend you haven’t seen in a long time? Let me take you to the best place in town, and the best taste.

But for now, the routine will be: Bloomingdales- Touch the window- spot the Icebox Cake in the crowd of sugary goodness- beg the guy for the biggest slice he’s ever given- mooore, just a little more to the left, and when the guy starts looking at you weird-“perfect! ”

“Sure you can eat that all by yourself?”

“Don’t doubt me man.”

Because every bite I took was one from the past, and the near-past felt a little sweet. Not that sour kind of past you don’t want to make your tastebuds go through anymore, but more of the near-past where everything was okay, and where you still remember what perfume you liked and what music was playing in Bloomingdales. That near-past where you can still remember what it felt like when your friend dragged you in to taste what you’ve been craving for a couple of months.