The Green is the kind of place where you sit down at one o'clock and look up at four. James Street outside, a long table inside, and the clatter of plates landing in the order a Lebanese kitchen has worked out over generations.
Home-made flatbread arrived warm enough to fold properly, with babaganoush that tasted of smoke first and aubergine second, and a hummus that didn't need garnishes. Then fattoush, fresh and sharp, the right kind of dressing. Charcoal grilled chicken, blistered and juicy. Batata harra holding the heat as it should. A lamb shoulder that had been left alone long enough to fall apart on its own. Carrot cake to close.
The dishes don't try to reinvent the form, they just respect it. There's a quiet confidence to a kitchen that knows the recipe is the recipe.
Where the soul comes from
Modern Middle Eastern often means a cocktail bar in costume, but The Green keeps the cooking as the centre of gravity. The plates are generous, the seasoning brave, and the room is patient with you. That's the soul of it: it's not a meal that performs, it's a meal you settle into.
Would I go back?
Sundays, often. Probably with more people next time, because that lamb shoulder asks for company.