Jasmine Haddad, 25

Hi, I’m Jasmine! Or as my teta says, “Yasmine, habibti” — which basically means I’m never allowed to leave a family gathering hungry, tired, or single for long. Fair warning: my grandmother has already decided what your name should be.

I’m Lebanese-Canadian, born and raised in Côte-des-Neiges, the neighbourhood that might be the most beautifully mixed-up corner of Montreal. My parents came from Beirut in the nineties, and they raised me and my two sisters on a steady diet of Fairuz, tabbouleh, and the firm belief that education is everything. My dad runs a small dépanneur on Queen-Mary — he’s the guy who knows every customer’s name and their kids’ report cards — and my mom teaches Arabic at a Saturday school. Our apartment always smelled like za’atar and garlic, and I wouldn’t trade that childhood for anything.

I’m a pharmacist at a Pharmaprix in Plaza Côte-des-Neiges, and I love it more than people expect. There’s this idea that pharmacy is just counting pills, but honestly, half my job is being the person people trust. Last winter, an elderly regular of mine was confused about whether she could take her blood pressure medication while fasting for Ramadan. We sat down together, called her doctor, worked out a schedule around suhoor and iftar, and she hugged me so hard my glasses nearly fell off. That’s the job. That hug is the job. My younger sister says I chose pharmacy because I like being right about things, and… she’s not entirely wrong.

Now, the thing I’m actually famous for in my family: tabbouleh. My teta taught me her recipe when I was twelve, and it is a whole production — parsley chopped by hand (never a food processor, she would disown me), bulgur soaked just right, lemon, olive oil, and tomatoes diced so small they practically disappear. Every Easter, my cousins and I have an unofficial tabbouleh cook-off, and I have won three years running. My cousin Rania claims the judges are biased. The judges are our grandmothers. They are absolutely biased, in my favour, and I accept this.

The other family tradition I’m obsessed with is dabke. If you haven’t seen it, dabke is the line dance we do at every Lebanese wedding, and I mean every — you haven’t lived until you’ve done the dabke stomp in heels at 1am while your uncle plays the derbakke like his life depends on it. I learned the steps as a kid by watching, and now I lead the line at weddings. There’s a troupe I dance with sometimes, and we performed at the Festival du Monde Arabe last summer, which was one of the proudest moments of my life — dancing our culture on a Montreal stage, my teta crying in the front row.

Côte-des-Neiges life suits me perfectly. On my days off you’ll find me at Parc Kent watching pickup soccer, or doing the big grocery run at Adonis where I always “just pop in” and come out with three bags. I love that on the 165 bus you can hear six different languages before you reach downtown. My favourite ritual: hiking up Mount Royal with friends on a Sunday morning, then arguing — lovingly — about where to get the best manoushe afterward. (It’s the little bakery near my parents’. Don’t tell my dad I said that; he has opinions about loyalty.)

So what am I looking for in a partner? Someone who respects family — mine comes as a package deal, loud dinners included. Someone who loves food, or at least loves watching me be extremely passionate about food. You don’t need to know how to dabke, but you need to be willing to try, preferably while laughing at yourself. I want someone kind, grounded, and curious — curious about my culture, about the world, about people. And honestly? Someone who isn’t intimidated by a woman who will absolutely beat them at board games and then make them tabbouleh to soften the blow. Je parle français et anglais couramment — les deux langues vivent dans ma tête en même temps, alors ne sois pas surpris si je mélange les deux. If you can handle my teta’s matchmaking, my cousins’ teasing, and my extremely strong opinions about parsley-to-bulgur ratios… I think we’ll get along just fine.