Za’atar has been- and still is- having a moment!

You now see it sprinkled over avocado toast in cafés in New York, whisked into vinaigrettes in Paris, folded into very good looking puff pastry buns at third wave bakeries in London, and dusted over sweet potatoes by wellness influencers who pronounce and spell it three different ways in the same video.

And honestly? I love seeing it receive attention. I love seeing people become food curious about ingredients from the region my parents, and my DNA, is very much from. But at the same time, I often feel like the conversation around za’atar outside of the Middle East is still incredibly flat. People speak about it as though it is one singular spice blend with one recipe and one flavour. As if it was just “one thing”.

But za’atar is far from that. And that’s what I’m here to talk about today.

In the same way that there is no single “curry powder”, no definitive garam masala, no universal ras el hanout, there is no singular za’atar. There are countless variations, shaped by geography, trade routes, migration, agriculture, memory, economics, and family tradition.
In fact, it is often said that there are as many za’atars as there are households in the Levant.

And for many of us who grew up in the culture of za’atar, this is obvious. Of course your aunt’s blend tastes different from your grandmother’s. Of course the Jordanian one is redder. Of course the Aleppan version is deeper and warmer. Of course some are greener, some browner, some coarse, some powdery, some intensely sour with sumac while others lean heavily into wild herbs. Even in my very own family, everyone has a favourite type of za’atar, and we love to taste different blends. To us, this is normal. But outside the region, za’atar is often reduced to “that green Middle Eastern seasoning.” And that reduction misses the entire soul of it.

The word itself already carries complexity. Za’atar can refer both to the herb and to the spice blend. Linguistically and botanically, things become even more layered because depending on who you ask, za’atar may refer to wild thyme, hyssop, oregano, marjoram, or specifically Origanum syriacum, a shrub native to the Levant region.

The plant has grown throughout historic “bilad al sham” بلاد الشام for thousands of years — across modern-day Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, Jordan, and surrounding regions. It appears in ancient medicinal texts, purification rituals, and religious scripture. Some scholars believe the biblical hyssop mentioned in the Book of Exodus may in fact have referred to za’atar. Ancient physicians wrote about its antibacterial and respiratory benefits, while in traditional homes, it was burned or infused for purification and healing.

Even today, many people across the Middle East still associate za’atar with vitality and alertness. Growing up, children were often fed za’atar before exams because it was believed to strengthen the mind and improve concentration. Modern research is now beginning to explore some of these long-held beliefs surrounding the herb’s neurological and mood-supportive properties.

But beyond the history and medicinal lore, za’atar is deeply emotional to me. There is not a single day from my childhood where I do not remember seeing za’atar on the table. My mother still eats it almost every single day.

Bread + Olive oil + Za’atar. And she hasn’t gotten bored of it. That ritual alone is enough.

And perhaps this is what people outside the culture sometimes miss: za’atar is not merely seasoning. It truly is a ritual and a deep part of one’s identity. It’s on every breakfast spread, it’s the identity of a village, it’s the smell of multi-generational family run bakeries at 7am with freshly made za’atar manousheh. It is mothers packing school lunches with a za’atar sandwich- it was certainly in many of my lunch boxes! It is something eaten standing up in a hurry and something eaten slowly with tea and conversation.

It is simply a part of everyday life in the Middle East, especially Palestine, Lebanon, Syria and Jordan.

At home, we usually have three or four za’atars on rotation at any given time. Some are bright green and intensely herbal. Others are darker, moodier, richer, almost earthy-brown in colour. Some are heavily acidic with sumac. Others are nutty and sesame-forward.
And every region tells a different story through its blend. Here are some photos I took of the za’atars we currently have at home:

As you can see, every za’atar looks a little different- one package we haven’t opened yet (the Alarjawi one), but the ingredient list reads dreamy!

In Palestine, za’atar is often rubbed with olive oil for preservation. In Jordan, blends often contain a much higher percentage of sumac, giving them their deep reddish hue and sharp tanginess. Lebanese variations may include caraway or even dried orange peel.

Moving north into Syria, you begin to taste the influence of ancient spice trade routes. Syria historically sat at the crossroads of trade between the Mediterranean and Asia, and its za’atar blends often reflect this complexity through the inclusion of cumin, coriander, anise, and occasionally nuts. Aleppo in particular is known for culinary creativity and richness- and many of their za’atar blends are rubbed into pomegranate molasses. Personally, it’s my favourite… after the one my mother used to make!

Which brings us to …the next point. My mother learned to add grated coconut to her za’atar after leaving Damascus to study medicine in Aleppo. Coconut is certainly not what many people would associate with za’atar, but that is precisely the point: these blends are living cultural documents. They evolve through movement, trade, personal taste, and migration. I remember her making it at home and the curious addition of coconut. It never left my mind, so when many years later I moved to Jamaica, I would also make my za’atar blend with coconut and sell it at my restaurant. Food travels that way.

It’s also a spice blend that found it’s way further north into Turkey. There, some blends become almost “meaty” in flavour, incorporating ground chickpeas or pistachios for depth and body. And if we move West into Egypt, we eventually arrive at duqqa — technically not za’atar, yet spiritually related. A blend of nuts, seeds, cumin, coriander, sesame, salt, and pepper, duqqa reflects another branch of the same regional instinct: the desire to create flavour through texture, nuttiness, herbs, warmth, and spice. And something you can just dip bread into- very important!

And this is why I always encourage people to stop asking, “What is the za’atar recipe?”

There is no one recipe- but there is a soul that always has to include thyme, sumac and sesame. There’s a range of acceptable tastes- and even that, I could not know how to explain because it’s so intuitive. A good za’atar should taste alive. Herbal but not dusty. Tangy but not aggressively sour. Nutty from the sesame. And it should not taste flat. Some should smell almost sun-warmed and floral, others darker and deeper, almost forest-like. The best ones have a certain wildness to them. And perhaps that is why it’s so difficult to define: you don’t taste za’atar, you feel it! 🙂

Visually, za’atar can be heavily dotted with sesame, it can be spring green, a precious deep emerald, sometimes even brownish-red from a generous hand with the sumac. It can be powdery or incredibly textural. To me, za’atar is a mirror of both the land and the person who made it — but also their creativity, because even within tradition, there is always room for personal expression. One of the more unique za’atars I’ve come across comes from Shorkk Food, a small socially minded Bristol-based company working directly with Lebanese producers. Their blend is intentionally coarse, with barely crushed leaves still visibly intact. I was told the herbs grow on mountain terraces with very little watering, which gives the leaves an almost concentrated intensity and remarkable aroma. See picture below:

Personally, I think one of the reasons za’atar has exploded globally is because chefs like Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi helped introduce Levantine flavours to a wider audience in a beautiful and accessible way. But ironically, the version most people now recognize internationally tends to be only one style: the greener, herb-heavy blend. While za’atar has become quasi-globally recognizable, the understanding of its diversity did not travel at the same speed. The word became famous faster than the cultural nuance behind it.

Meanwhile, I still regularly meet people asking me what za’atar even tastes like, or how to use it. And perhaps the best answer is: far more ways than you think.

Yes, you can eat it traditionally with bread and olive oil. You can scatter it over labneh, eggs, roasted vegetables, or grilled cheese. But one of my favourite ways to use green za’atar is actually in sweet applications.

Dark chocolate and za’atar are extraordinary together. The herbal bitterness of wild thyme against dark cacao creates something deeply sophisticated and unexpected. One of the simplest things you can make are juicy dried dates or dried figs dipped in dark chocolate with a generous sprinkle of green za’atar on top- emphasis on generous. Suddenly, za’atar moves beyond “Middle Eastern seasoning” and becomes what it has always had the potential to be: complex, elegant, layered, and endlessly adaptable.

And maybe that is what I ultimately want people to understand.

Za’atar is not just a trend.

It is an entire cultural landscape crushed between your fingers.

It is agriculture, trade, migration, ritual, medicine, memory, and home.

Once you begin tasting the differences between one za’atar and another, you realize you are not just tasting herbs and spices anymore.
You are tasting geography.

Some great stores here in Paris to find a wide range of za’atar blends would be Sabah, Les Delices d’Orient and L’Epicerie du Faubourg. I am an advocate of buying za’atar from the people and cultures who use it themselves.

And because this is a food curious space, I wouldn’t leave you without sharing some of my favourite ways to use all the types of za’atar:

Above: za’atar with portobello mushrooms is one of my favourite combinations. You can work with the browner and greener varieties to season the mushrooms at the very end (be generous, they can take a good handful of za’atar) and serve over hummus or over labneh- vegan in this case.

Above: za’atar paired with very seasonal ingredients (as I type) such as asparagus or agretti (monk’s beard). In general, za’atar seems to go well with all green coloured vegetables.

Above: to make a nice mezze spread, I love to top off hummus with a mixture of dates + walnuts + olives with za’atar and rose petals. You get a beautiful contrast of sweet & savoury, and textural contrast between crunchy and chewy too. And instead of plain roasted bell peppers, rub them with olive oil and za’atar!

Above: za’atar also goes extremely well in a beetroot-orange-walnut salad and of course, with tomatoes. For the latter, I like to make a tomato-arugula salad and mix in some crumbled sesame brittle with the za’atar too. It gives a sweet element of surprise, with the sesame is still relevant with za’atar itself.

To finish off, here is my Pistachio Za’atar recipe that you can find in my cookbook, FOOD CURIOUS!

This recipe is provided in ratios, allowing you to scale it up or down as needed.

INGREDIENTS

1 part toasted sesame seeds
1 part sumac
1 part thyme leaves
½ part ground cumin
½ part ground coriander
½ part marjoram or oregano (optional)
½ part ground pistachio

DIRECTIONS

In a bowl, mix all the ingredients until well combined. Store the zaatar in an airtight container to keep moisture out and preserve its flavors.