It seems a world away now, but from 1955 until the outbreak of civil war in 1975, Lebanon was experiencing a period of glamour and optimism known as the 

. As with St. Tropez and Gstaad, Beirut and its environs attracted the European and American jet set, with hotels, restaurants, and clubs built for the purpose of entertaining the foreigners and an emerging middle-class. While St. Tropez and Gstaad were immortalised by the likes of Slim Aarons and Gunter Sachs, the Lebanese moment has been largely forgotten — blighted by the state’s ensuing war and sectarian strife.

Most of these establishments are gone forever. Others, by the will of those who own them or have inherited them, have continued to survive. Amidst a feeling of revolution and instability, I spent time visiting these places on a trip to Lebanon before the pandemic, and there remains a lot of pride attached to them. Even now, as the nation finishes celebrating its hundredth birthday, struggling with the political fallout from last year’s explosion, the pandemic, and an unemployment crisis, the 

 survives in some peoples’ minds as a searing 

. The bars, clubs, and hotels are remnants of a time when saying you were Lebanese meant another, more glamorous, thing to people in the West.

One of the most resilient of these hotels is the 

 in the Hamra district of Beirut – one of few to have remained open during the civil war. Founded by Mr Mounir Samaha in the fifties, today it is run by his son Sherif, who has preserved the hotel’s most curious feature: an English pub called 

“During the Golden Age, it could only accommodate three people,” Sherif tells me. “Over time, it expanded and became a famous attraction.” Mr Mounir himself was an Anglophile, who began his career at a hotel in British-controlled Palestine. “When he opened the 

, he wanted a pub to accommodate his foreign guests. So, he flew to London, studying the pubs in the city, using a tape measure on the bar, the chairs, and noting the decorations.” It’s a bizarre but comforting scene to encounter as an Englishman in the Levant – a bolthole favoured by author Graham Greene and infamous double agent Kim Philby, among others. It also sparked a trend of English-style pubs throughout the city, of which very few now remain. “At the time, Beirut was known as the ‘Paris of the Middle East’,” Sherif adds. Thanks to his father, the Hamra district became associated with intellectual café society. “It was a cultural crossroads — the centre of the world. The rich Arabs arrived to party and the Europeans came for the culture.”

When the civil war began in 1975, the party stopped. Prominent luxury hotels shut, or were refashioned into militia hideouts. But in the midst of sectarian warfare, Mr Mounir stayed behind. “Hamra was majority Muslim and he was a Catholic. But he fought to defend his property,” says Sherif: “He was smart – hosting foreign charities and agencies, and reporters covering the war. He knew that if any of them were hurt, the militia might face repercussions.” His father’s story convinced Sherif to keep the 

 open during the Israel war in 2006. Following another short-lived economic miracle, Beirut once again fell to chaos: “I could have left, but I tried to think of my father’s courage. And in two days, the hotel was fully-booked with reporters from all over the world.” Sherif used his father’s same underground network from the 70s’ to supply the journalists with booze. He earned more than he would have without the war.

 survive on the efforts of the founder’s family. A personal favourite of mine, and perhaps the most famous, is an hour’s drive from Beirut. Nestled in the caves near a quiet Maronite harbour, the 

 was founded in 1962 by eccentric playboy and adventurer, Youssef ‘Pepe’ Abed. Like Mr Samaha, Pepe’s name epitomises the era. Also like 

The stone floors, terracotta pots, and white chairs resemble every Mediterranean guest house you have ever known. But in the sixties, a visitor might have spotted Bardot dancing barefoot with Gunter Sachs, or JFK eating a fish lunch with his officials. Thanks in part to his good friend Marlon Brando, Pepe himself is credited with sparking the jet set’s arrival in Lebanon. As the story goes: 

 was conceived after a night of drunk sailing with Brando, who Pepe met while partying in Acapulco, Mexico. The actor spotted the fishermen’s caves and suggested that Abed buy and convert them into a hideout for his celebrity friends. It’s a story that seems far-fetched, until you notice the photos of them grinning like schoolboys in the dining room – today covered with snaps that commemorate their famous guests’ visits. It is an impressive collection of sixties cultural icons.

Roger lived through those times. Speaking to me from Byblos, he describes an era that everyone of his generation is nostalgic for: “Superstars joined thousands of tourists each year, and we would organise these grand themed beach parties. Beirut was truly a sleepless city.” The photographs on the walls show turtle-racing contests, Mexican and Asiatic-themed parties, white-tie events, and Pepe on his famous sailing trips. As with Mr Samaha, Pepe was known as an innovator and bon vivant; recognising the country’s tourism potential. But while Mr Samaha created a space for the intellectual class to flourish, Pepe was more interested in bringing the glamour of St Tropez to Lebanon. His roguish charm and trademark sailing cap earned him the nickname ‘The Hugh Hefner of the Middle East’. Roger echoes what so many Lebanese say about Pepe now: “He was the ultimate party host throughout the 60s, and was instrumental at putting Lebanon on the tourist’s map.” While 

 was his personal refuge, he ran a tourism empire that included 

 in Jnah, and more. All of them, except for his Byblos establishment, were sadly closed because of fighting. “My father’s heart was broken by the war, and he left for Mexico,” Roger says, “he couldn’t accept that all he had built was now gone.”

Pepe’s legacy in Lebanon is glittering even today. But Roger remembers him as a great father, who – having emerged from humble beginnings – instilled in his family a sense of hard work. Reflecting on the nation’s recent troubles, he insists that the club will continue to stay open no matter what happens: “It is part of Lebanon’s history, and we will serve customers in spite of all the problems the country is facing.”

 is still a world-class attraction. During my first visit, I was seated near the President of Bulgaria. A few months later, the Manoukian and historic Bamberger families, and the British Lord and Lady Derby arrived for dinner. Their photo is not only on the dining room wall, but uploaded to the hotel’s Facebook wall, too. And although it is open to anyone now, it remains a popular celebrity address.

The same cannot be said of so many other establishments. The iconic hotels of Downtown Beirut, 

 in particular, have failed to return to their pre-war status. As the pandemic cripples the country’s economy, so has their cause withered. This year, the 

, an organisation founded to protect these sites, disbanded; its headquarters at 

 bought out by the InterContinental Hotel Group. Sherif laughs when I ask why the government does nothing to help. “They don’t care,” he says, “If they were smart they would preserve these places for our tourism.”

In recent years, politicians have been attracted to Gulf money. According to one source, foreign investors buy real estate, and pay off Lebanese officials to replace heritage architecture with towering glass apartments. It’s a blight on the city’s beautiful, mostly Ottoman-era urban design, and a cause of controversy for local cultural commentators. One of those is prominent 28-year-old artist Yazan Halwani, whose work focuses on themes of identity.

: “There is perhaps nowhere more emblematic of the glamour of that time, and of how the government interacts with the architecture,” he says. Approaching from the main road today, the 

 is an underwhelming sight: a concrete box next to the sea, with a giant banner that reads ‘STOP SOLIDERE’ obscuring its face. The establishment remains closed, thanks to the efforts of the mysterious owner, Fady Khoury. All that remains for public use now is the pool area and the unchanged tiki bar — both popular spots considering they are at the foot of a martyred hotel.

“The banner is aimed at Solidere, a government-backed company whose purpose was to redevelop Beirut after the Civil War,” Yazan says. The impact of Solidere is contested. Like so many government initiatives here, corruption has overshadowed some of their better achievements. In the case of the 

, Mr Khoury has refused to sell them the property, recognising that it will likely be destroyed. “It’s kind of honourable. In some ways, he is a custodian of the city’s heritage” adds Yazan, “Solidere was supposed to be disbanded this year [2021], but was recently given a time extension.” Some theories point to last year’s explosion.

This act of preserving, or reclaiming, the city’s heritage is a theme from Yazan’s work too. In 2015, he famously created murals around Beirut depicting stars from the 

. “Since the war, the city has been overrun by images of political figures. I wanted to take back the public space and refocus it on our unifying culture.” The singer Fairuz and the actress Sabah are displayed on buildings across Beirut. I have also witnessed the murals he is talking about: of sectarian political figures and martyrs, like the Druze Jumblatt or the deified Bashir Gemayel. Beirut’s spirit lives within this contrast of entertainment and death. “Notice the memorial of [ex-president] Rafiq Hariri outside of the 

?” Yazan asks, “… he always pushed for Solidere to take it over, as his family are major shareholders.” In an ironic twist, Hariri was assassinated in 2005 as his motorcade passed the hotel. The bomb took a large portion of the 

 with it. Today, his statue stands outside facing the STOP SOLIDERE sign, and beside a series of pixelated banners that show the establishment in its glory days.

For Halwani, these good times were largely fictitious. “

was really just Beirut and its surroundings. The rest of the country did not see the same benefits, and poverty was rampant. Many of our issues today began with the corrupt business licensing that started from those times.” Still, it serves as nostalgia for younger people to reminisce over a time they never lived through – as proven by popular social media groups like Old Beirut Lebanon (@oldbeirutlebanon). When I ask Yazan how Lebanon became a cultural hotspot, he points to the Christian community’s relationship with European merchants: “The Christians traded with the Europeans for protection. So, there was already a mixed cosmopolitan character.” He adds that during French colonial rule, Beirut’s rich Christian mercantiles – along with a Sunni Muslim bourgoisie – gained wealth, invested in their universities, and developed a strong western-eastern cultural identity that flourished in the 

It was this liberalism that allowed the Lebanese to reshape their image for tourism. “You have to understand, in those days we had less development, and entertaining guests was our biggest commodity,” reflects Yazan: “Even after recent events, in some ways, it still is.” True enough, the Lebanese nature has been characterised as partying through the pain. Beirut remains a riotously fun, fashionable town, even earning itself a hip 

 Guide. The efforts of Pepe and Samaha left a mark that persists in the clubs, hotels, and mood of the nation’s younger generation. They were not the greedy Sheikhs or Emirs of today’s east-west playground, Dubai. But men whose vision for a more open Lebanon beguiled the world. Even if only for a very brief, golden moment.

Could that moment be revived? On my trip, I had the impression of two Lebanons, one progressive and the other reactionary: fundamental in more than simply religious terms, sectarian; maybe the nation’s future. Like a delicate see-saw, it lowers on one end and requires the opposite to depart completely before reaching ground. It’s a pattern the Lebanese know too well: optimism and then revolution. But by the efforts of its people — once Pepe and Mounir, now the likes of Yazan, Sherif, or Roger — the country re-emerges, welcoming visitors back to its vibrant culture. They proved it in the sixties. They continued after a civil war. They were certainly putting on a good show when I arrived. And there’s no doubt they’ll be partying when the current perilous phase is over, too.

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