In Beacon, New York, a small city about two hours north of Manhattan, Kamel and Lena Jamal are akin to unofficial mayors. With multiple restaurants up and down Main Street and a marijuana dispensary opening soon in an old police station (which happened to be the set for Seinfeld’s series finale), it would be hard not to know the Jamals—by name or the keffiyehs they proudly wear. In turn, they seem to know everyone in Beacon by name and by order at their Palestinian restaurant, Ziatün.
The Jamals, like many Palestinian chefs and restaurant owners, feel a sense of duty to honor their culture through their recipes, especially as national protests for Palestine continue to grow amidst the humanitarian crisis in Gaza and broader Palestine. For this couple, getting asked by customers about their Palestinian identity and relationship to their homeland is an opportunity to own and share their history, heritage, and culture.
For more than 75 years, Palestinians’ existence has been politicized and even debated—which extends to its food. Against this political and cultural backdrop, many Palestinian chefs express that branding their dishes as such in America has come with challenges. Historically, whether to attract more diners or to avoid politically charged conversations, some Palestinian chefs have gone so far as to label their establishments as Lebanese or Middle Eastern to make their restaurants more palatable for American patrons. In today’s climate, with anti-Arab sentiments and Islamophobia on the rise, some chefs say it’s especially difficult and, at times, fraught, to run a clearly Palestinian business. Still, Palestinian restaurants across the US, like Ziatün, are thriving. Palestinian food offers something for everyone: it caters to carnivores and vegans alike; it’s sometimes tangy, sometimes warm and nutty, depending on the region and the season; and its depth and unique flavor profiles have shaped the Levantine food scene and beyond—even if that influence has sometimes gone unnamed.
Today’s Palestinian culinary leaders want to celebrate their hospitality-rich traditions and showcase their love for their communities in the best way they know how: by cooking delicious food and welcoming people into their restaurants. As Kamal Kamal, part-owner of the Palestinian deli Baba’s Pantry in Kansas City, Miss., shared: “I was conditioned that the moment I say I’m Palestinian, I’ll be associated with violence… But that’s not true… Food is my nonviolent protest.” Palestinian restaurant owners are ready, perhaps even galvanized, to share their traditions and take credit where credit is due.
Here, in their own words, five Palestinian chefs across the US speak of their homeland and their experience cooking in the diaspora.
The following interviews have been edited for length and clarity.
A fast-casual restaurant, opened in May 2015
I was born in a refugee camp in Jordan and grew up in a very small apartment that was basically a large room with a kitchen. I go back to that refugee camp every year and volunteer. One year I was having so much fun, putting all this passion on the plate, and I realized that I’m over here selling tacos (Jamal previously owned Tito Santana Taqueria in Beacon), but I’m not highlighting my heritage. In 2014, there was a different strike on Gaza, and it drove me to open up a Palestinian restaurant—not just a Middle Eastern restaurant, a Palestinian restaurant. I needed to let people know that it was Palestinian, and we’ve been embraced.
We are getting people asking not just about the food but about the culture and about who we are as people. Folks are coming in just to say that they are thinking of us; they want us to know we are supported. Yes, business is fine, but having a line out the door doesn’t give me joy when it took these innocent lives for people to open their eyes.
My wife and I wear our keffiyehs on the street, and we’ll be stopped and people will ask how we’re coping. For me and my family, our restaurants are an opportunity to educate people. Ziatün was opened with Palestinian liberation in mind. It was never just about the food. I needed people to know that Palestine existed and that they could walk by and say, ‘Here’s a Palestinian restaurant.’
A bakery specializing in manoushe, opened in October 2021
In a culture that is famous for its hospitality, my Palestinian family in Rockville, Maryland practiced extreme hospitality. Opening this bakery was a way to bring back our memories from childhood. With restaurants from many other cultures, stating the country of origin is not a political stance. But for us, this simple statement becomes politicized. This is largely unique to our experience. Our bakery just focuses on manoushe (flatbread often cooked with olive oil and za’atar), but it’s important that we call out that our za’atar is Palestinian and specifically from Jenin. People say that it is the most savory za’atar in the world, and that’s what we try to focus on: the food.
We made our own version of manoushe inspired by the hot honey craze. We use our ackawi cheese blend, a salty white cheese from Palestine, and then instead of pepperoni we use sujuk (a dry, spicy, fermented sausage), and to make the hot honey we use Aleppo peppers. We get a lot of Israeli regulars, and we’ve formed a friendship because they love the same food we love. People from all over are really stepping up and starting to care for each other. It’s just a reminder of the difference between the internet and our reality.
Community is more important than ever during these times. And the role that food plays in that is huge. These past few months the response has been incredible. People have been coming in nonstop. The hospitality in Palestine is something we will never forget. That is what we want to leave our customers with here. If they start associating that hospitality with our Palestinian bakery then we’ve done our job.
A pop-up concept, opened in January 2021
In 2020, when COVID hit, I was working at a Michelin-starred restaurant, but I wanted to connect to my roots and share my experience in the diaspora. My grandparents lived through the Nakba and it felt important to honor them. Shababi is a nod to the street vendors that would sell charcoal-roasted chickens in Ramallah, Bethlehem, and Jerusalem. My grandfather used to have a tour bus service based in Bethlehem before being displaced in 1948, and the chicken vendors were one of his favorite stops on his tours. I opened Shababi as a pop-up in 2021, in my friend’s deli in Virginia, with no expectations, but the response was amazing.
I’m very Palestinian and I’m very American—but I’m also not much of either because we’re all in the diaspora. I’ve tried to find myself in food while respecting the flavors of the homeland. My goal is to uplift us as a people, and I will never shy away from labeling my food as Palestinian. There are always people who think that my identity is negotiable because of how Palestine is debated in politics, especially today. But I believe food is a bridge to help people understand who I am and where I come from. Right now, my community, we are crying. We are suffering. But I feel lucky: because of Shababi, I am an accidental activist. I’m involved in a Palestinian-led coalition, Hospitality for Humanity, which is composed of chefs, farmers, food media creators, beverage and hospitality professionals, all uniting from diverse backgrounds to urge our politicians to call for a ceasefire and an end to the Gaza genocide.
Shababi means “my youthful people” and it comes from my childhood when I was surrounded by cousins. When the food was ready my grandma would say “yalla shababi” meaning “come all you kids.” My grandmothers put everything into their food when they cooked for 50 and I try to do the same. We’re telling our customers to take their fill. We don’t take the responsibility lightly.
One of Bon Appétit’s Best New Restaurants of 2022
My father was one of the first people to introduce hummus to Kansas City. In all of his food endeavors, he always described his food as “Middle Eastern.” When COVID hit he decided he wanted to open another restaurant, but I knew it needed to be different. It had to be Palestinian. We need to claim our identity and tell our story. I saw my dad conform for safety. But I thought that enough was enough.
Our goal was to honor the fact that many Palestinians live outside of Palestine. At Baba’s Pantry, we are open to new ideas. Baba’s always cooking in the kitchen and he always wants others to cook alongside him and sometimes these magical fusions happen. We have this dish called Bambi’s Nachos which are made with homemade tortillas and covered in salata Arabi (Arabic salad), torshi (pickled vegetables), olives, tahini, hummus, yogurt sauce, shawarma chicken, sumac onions, pickled turnips, and olive oil. We are Palestinian, but we don’t always make things the traditional way because of our circumstances.
I was conditioned to think that the moment I say I’m Palestinian, I’ll be associated with violence—and therefore invite violence into my space. But that’s not true. Food is my nonviolent protest. I want people to feel the joy of what it means to connect to Palestinians outside of what others say. At the core it is about sharing and exchanging the pleasures of food and nourishment—if that remains the same, then it’s all Palestinian. Let’s focus on who we are: loving people who have a lot of joy to offer.
A contemporary casual restaurant, opened in August 2021
My decision to open a Palestinian restaurant and stand by my identity comes from passion.
Sometimes people describe their Palestinian restaurants as “Mediterranean” to be neutral, but I know who I am and I am proud of where I come from. My dad is from Gaza and my mother is from Jordan and I wanted to use our home recipes at Freekeh. I had been in the restaurant business for over 25 years but had never opened a Palestinian restaurant. It was time.
There’s been a shift in clientele over the years. We’re getting more clients who want to support us because we’re Palestinian. With that, it’s my priority to share our culture here in our food. But it will never be enough to fully represent what’s happening in Gaza, where about 70 percent of my family still lives. Being from Gaza means there is an expectation to talk and to educate, and that’s not hard because our cause is a just one. People are coming in to ask questions and I am telling them the truth of my experience.
When people sit down in my restaurant we put some dips on the table, and we tell our patrons we are from Gaza and these are some of the flavors of our home. Some may feel uncomfortable when they hear that, but we know who we are and why we share. Whether it is the hospitality, the food, or the ambiance, everything we do represents who we are.
The most surprising part about opening this restaurant has been seeing how much people love the food. Cooking these recipes lets me share who I am and where I am from. Gaza represents honor, bravery, unity, and perseverance. Throughout the years it stood alone in the face of oppression and never bowed down. I am from Gaza, till the day I die.