Capo Batroun: A Roman Holiday, Lebanese Service

A boutique resort in Batroun that dazzles with design but falls short on hospitality standards

The plan was simple: two nights at Capo Batroun. A splash of sea, a dollop of sun, and perhaps, if the gods were kind, a rare Lebanese weekend unmarred by calamity. Friends had raved, the sort of misty-eyed gushing that usually precedes disappointment. “It’s the Amalfi of Batroun,” they said. “It’s transformative,” they said. And, like a fool, I listened.

To be fair, the booking process was impeccable. When I had to cancel one night—through no fault of my own, unless you consider being Lebanese a fault—the team was gracious and efficient. No sighs, no passive-aggressive WhatsApps, just clean, crisp service. Already, I was half in love.

The drive up was the usual carnival ride we call the coastal highway: traffic, exhaust, the occasional microbus overtaking as if auditioning for Fast & Furious: Byblos Drift. Yet we made it. Capo revealed itself like a Roman amphitheatre flung toward the sea, cascading in five dramatic levels. Architect Carl Gerges clearly aimed for “living ode to history” and, aesthetically, nailed it. From the terraces, the Mediterranean stretched out like a screensaver; the interiors whispered monochrome serenity. Only eight or nine suites, each with private pools, courtyards, and outdoor showers—luxury packaged with minimalist understatement.

Our suite wasn’t ready, so we dutifully dumped the luggage and went to Batroun port for lunch. Check-in later was painless, even charming. The afternoon passed lazily by our private pool, where we ordered nibbles from Bucco Burger Bar, because sun plus chlorinated exercise equals ravenous hunger. Bucco, in fact, was the highlight of the stay—crispy, flavorful, and staffed by people who at least pretended to know what they were doing.

Now comes the “but.” And it’s a big one. For a resort strutting around in the “premium” bracket, the service was decidedly budget airline. Not actively hostile, mind you—just mediocre, polite indifference—the kind that grates precisely because of the price tag. Nobody seemed trained. Complaints, when voiced, were met with the shoulder-shrugging “Bah, it’s okay” ethos that’s become Lebanon’s unofficial national motto.

The lone exception was the manager of Butler’s Table, who actually went out of his way to resolve our issues. Aside from him, it was amateur hour. The reception was dismissive, the staff were adrift without guidance, and the overall effect was that of a place coasting on design credentials rather than operational finesse.

And then, checkout. Our invoice looked slimmer than my trust in Lebanese hospitality, so I helpfully pointed out a missing bill. They were caught mumbling excuses like a deer in headlights, assumed it was added to the final bill, only to call later and demand a wire transfer. Nothing says luxury quite like being hounded for money after you’ve already left the premises.

Capo is gorgeous, no doubt—aesthetics to rival anything on the Med, with architecture that stages nature itself. But the service? Not so much. It’s the eternal Lebanese paradox: five-star bones, two-star muscle. And this, friends, is why I rarely bother holidaying at home. We once had proper tourism, long ago. Now we have Capo—beautiful, flawed, and just a little too “Bah, it’s okay” for the price.