Keskoun

A dinner table in Paris. Candle wax, cigarette smoke, a bottle already breathing. Someone asks: “What do you know about Lebanese wine?” Silence. Ignorance wasn’t the elephant in the room, it was something heavier. Guilt. Disconnection. A crack in the dynamics.

But that crack let the light in.
And the light smelled like crushed grapes and gunpowder.

The Bekaa Valley roars in silence. Vines claw the earth like they know they’re not guaranteed tomorrow. Shellfire once shook this land. Lately, it’s drones. Still, the grapes don’t blink. They ripen in resistance asserting that they will survive.

This is what it means to make wine where collapse is always one breath away. No romance here, but a grounded desire to live.

Château Kefraya is the most iconic estate in the area. It stands like a mirage in a land deserted of opportunity. The Western Bekaa, flanked by mountain spines, births bottles holding sunlight and old stories. Iconic milk of the gods. All the gods that is.

Let’s look closer.

Picture by Eli. Chateau Kefraya

Sept Winery

Moon phases, wild yeasts, no additives. Maher grows and ferments like he’s casting spells. The tasting table is an altar. The pairing menu is a poem. They call it “Table à Sept”, but it’s more like a séance.

La Tourba

By Lake Qaraoun. Brut and rosé, crisp as truth. The soil here unearthed a Roman grave during harvest, because of course it did. That’s Lebanon: every root wrapped around a ghost.

Château St. Thomas

A family estate turned sacred ground. Once arak-makers, now winemakers. A chapel watches silently over the vines. It’s quiet here, but the kind of quiet that remembers everything.

This is a map of blood memory bottled.
It’s the joy of still being here.

To drink Lebanese wine is to toast those who make beauty in impossible conditions. Their craftsmanship is alchemy;  turning recurring pain into continual delight.

This exploration stemmed from Marie-Lou’s curiosity. We thank her instinct to follow the thread and trace these bottles back to their source. 

So Késkon!

Here’s to every bottle that bites back.