Pita im Labaneh (פיתה עם לבנה), pita with labneh, is the soft strained-yogurt cheese spread thick into bread and finished with olive oil and za'atar, one of the plainest and most everyday sandwiches in the Israeli kitchen. The angle here is the labneh itself doing nearly all the work. Labneh is yogurt drained until it firms into a tangy, dense, faintly sour spread, and the sandwich is essentially a frame for it: the oil carries it, the za'atar seasons it, the pita holds it. With so few parts, it stands entirely on the quality of the cheese and the balance of what little is added. Done well it is creamy, sharp, herbal, and clean; done badly it is a thin sour smear that soaks the bread and tastes of nothing in particular.
The build is short and unforgiving. The pita is fresh, warm if the kitchen warms it, opened to a pocket or left flat and folded. The labneh is spread thick across the bread, generously enough to be the body of the sandwich rather than a thin film. A good pour of olive oil goes over it, and then za'atar, the wild-thyme, sesame, and sumac blend, dusted on so it sticks to the oil and threads its herbal sourness through every bite. That oil and za'atar are not a garnish here; they are what turn a spoonful of strained yogurt into a sandwich with depth. Often a few additions go in for texture and brightness: sliced cucumber, tomato, olives, a scatter of fresh herb or raw onion. Done well, the labneh is thick and properly drained so it holds rather than runs, the oil generous, the za'atar fresh enough to be fragrant, the pita soft enough to fold without cracking. Done badly, the labneh is loose and weeping, the oil stingy, the za'atar stale and dusty, or so much is piled in that the clean tang of the cheese is lost.
Variation is mostly in what joins the labneh and how it is finished. A pure version is just labneh, oil, and za'atar and reads as a clean breakfast; a loaded one becomes closer to a small mezze in bread with cucumber, tomato, olives, and herbs. Some cooks roll the labneh into oil-cured balls and break those into the pita instead of spreading it soft, which changes the texture entirely. A drizzle of chili oil or a dusting of Aleppo pepper pushes it warmer. Those fuller and spiced forms carry enough identity to deserve their own treatment rather than being crowded in here. On its own terms this is the quiet anchor of an Israeli breakfast: get the labneh thick and tangy, the oil generous, and the za'atar fresh, and three simple things become a sandwich worth eating slowly.