What it had was atmosphere. It was a welcoming place, even with little or no English spoken. It was a local community restaurant that sometimes attracted largely German-speaking tour groups, or out-of-towners in Damascus for the day and looking for a meal. Everyone was welcomed warmly and treated like a regular, though regulars got extra "treats" as I soon discovered. Constant smiles and a lot of laughter were perhaps the Broker's greatest attraction, in addition to its excellent food, and that sold the place. It was also a reminder that these people were just like anyone else anywhere else: they appreciated friendship and good food and humour. They were a very long way from the Western media images of Syria and Syrians.
On this first day I was shown into the upper level, the autumn sun glinting on tables and a cloudless sky allowing in bright sunshine. This was a day for relaxation. A tubby young man was at another table, puffing away at a hubble bubble and staring intently at the screen on his laptop. That was encouraging. I opened up mine to find I needed a password. The waiters had no English at all so things were difficult. The tubby young man got up, came over, smiled, and tapped in the password. Success.
"Sukran Jazeelan" I said, thank you very much.
"My pleasure", he replied, "you are welcome in Syria."
Then began the menu learning curve. It had a basic English version that was not entirely clear, at least to me. There was a section labelled "Continental Breakfast", another "Arabic Breakfast". Each carried a list of things that looked like an inclusive package, so I opted for the local version. The waiter came up, I indicated that section, he looked surprised—my immediate thought was that he had predicted I would take the Continental. He went away and soon came back with the first edition of what would be my Brokar staple, the Turkish coffee. It came in a beautiful, long handled copper pouring pot, with a small beaker and a sugar bowl. I had long since sworn off coffee, mainly because I had become bored by it, but also because by now it was such a complex offering in the West it was too hard to contemplate. "I will have an organic decaff skinny latte, and hold the froth"—who has time for that? By now my laptop was going and, moreover, I was on Skype back to Australia. This was new to my password saviour so he came over to investigate, as did several of the waiters, and that led to a broken discussion about what all this meant. Within minutes we were old friends, and it might have been then when Brokar became my second home in Old Damascus.
Then the food arrived, all of it. I had made a huge mistake, of course. The "block" offering was, instead, a list of further optional selections under each category. I had form for this sort of thing. In one of my first exams at the University of Canterbury a million years earlier, I had completed all ten questions only to discover later we had to choose six. The waiters kept bringing out plates and even though I was just one person at a table that held four comfortably, it took some work to get the food on the table. There were smiles all round, and the upside was that I got to see immediately just how marvellous and varied was the Brokar offering. There were several different kinds of bread and pastries, even more varieties of cheese, especially the traditional soft white one, cold meats, labneh (cream cheese), hummus (chick pea dip), ful (the fava bean dip), olives, boiled eggs still in the shells, dried fruit, fresh fruit and several other things. This was an order for a large family, so some of the new friends helped introduce me to and shared all these new delights. By accident, I had the best possible introduction to both the local food range and to the Brokar's high standards. At the end of all this, during which the coffee kept coming, one of the waiters arrived bearing a plate of ice cream, the house speciality.
"For you", he said.
But I did not order this.
My tubby friend interpreted: on the house, you are very welcome in Brokar.
I staggered out two hours after having gone in, but knowing I would spend a lot more time there.
Eating Out
~
In 1154 Nur Ad-Din, the uncle of Salah ah-Din and himself one of the great figures in Damascene history, established a new hospital near the Mosque, aiming to provide the very best Arab medical services. One story has it that a major attraction was the hospital's food. A citizen we would now call a "foodie" heard such good things about the menu that he admitted himself, feigning illness. A doctor soon detected him as a fake but let him stay and the man enjoyed the food. The doctor approached the "patient" after three days, suggesting that Arab protocol of providing for a guest for that period having now been honoured, it was time to leave.
Damascus has long been renowned for its food, and even now tourist guide books and articles stressed this aspect for the prospective visitor. Newer restaurants had sprung up everywhere to serve that interest, including globalised and globalising Chinese and Indian ones—about three minutes walk from the house, for example, on a corner where two tiny laneways meet, a Chinese restaurant hid behind traditional Arabic doors and windows. Despite that growth, however, the old food practices prevailed. In one corner of Hariqa Square there was a tiny takeaway food shop with room inside for three people at best. Nevertheless, at almost any hour of the day there would be three times that number inside with a much longer queue outside, waiting to buy reputedly the city's best shawarma, the meat shaved off a vertical grill slab and wrapped in pita bread. Every Damascene had a firm view on where to get the best kebab or falafel or ful or hommus or any other speciality. These ancient versions of fast food were available everywhere.
Rafik Sharmi's reminiscence of the city revolves around food, each major figure in the book contributing a dish for which he or she was famous in the family or its circle of friends.26 That is a simple indicator of just how central food has been to Damascene life. The same may be said of other cultures east and west: India and France spring immediately to mind. But Damascus has developed and maintained such a special food profile, perhaps more than most, as a result of its history, multiple forms of faith, geographical position and evolved social customs.27 That in turn heightens and is heightened by the Arab tradition of honouring any guest with food. Food was always at the centre of the family bonding that has been such a strong feature of Arab and Syrian life, and that still survives in Damascus, even if more shakily now than in earlier times.
On one trip back to Damascus from Lattakia, we diverted through a small town to drop a local team members at the family house for the weekend. One international colleague, perhaps not fully realising the implications, suggested we all stop into the family home for tea. That was arranged with great grace but "tea", of course, became a full meal with family members bringing out everything they could find in the house. It was excellent, and honour was served with the international guests given the proper treatment demanded by Arab etiquette. It was also humbling, a reminder of just how much of that courtesy has been lost in the West. On a later occasion that same family entertained the international team to a full dinner in their Damascus home, including alcohol so that all needs would be served. The preparation for that dinner was extensive and intensive, the result a magnificent example of Syrian cuisine and style.
While never as good as in such a family home, taking food in Damascus was always a pleasure and over time I developed a circuit of favourites.
The Al Kawahli was very near the house, unobtrusively signed and just into a little alley on the right at the end of the covered Souk Medhat Pasha at the top of Straight Street. In a huge restored Damascene house, it was worth a visit just to sit in the waiting area. About three times higher than it was long and wide, this reception space was a quintessential example of Damascene art and tiling. The large mosaic tiles on the floor were perfect, the furniture heavy but ornate in local style, the walls covered in the black and white layered paint look, and the lights soaring chandeliers. It was more like a church or a mosque than restaurant holding area and, indeed, it was common to see the faithful performing their prayers while waiting to be seated.
The place was huge and complicated. A large dining room downstairs was always busy and crowd
ed, waiters expertly balancing laden trays while avoiding children, chairs, new arrivals, people greeting each other and other waiters either bringing or removing a bewildering array of dishes. It was noisy but welcoming, the food smells exquisite and the look even better. Just inside the tiny entrance, on the left before the main dining room and the cathedral-like reception area, a set of stairs afforded the long trek to the rooftop. On the way up, small areas with tables and chairs were tucked in behind stairs and doors and in tiny rooms once used as a conventional family home. It was a labyrinth and and the waiter serving as guide was definitely needed the first time. The stairs led all the way up to a couple of dining areas on the roof, definitely the place to be when the weather allowed. These roof terraces looked out over the domes of Khan Asad Pasha and the souk towards the hills and Mount Qassioun, a reminder of both the ancient nature of the city, and the fact that over many centuries visitors had come to both sample and contribute to the development of the cuisine. The food itself at Al Kawahli was said to be among the best in the city, in the sense that it was good quality and true to the heritage—no fusion or modernised Arabic food here, just the best traditional basics. Sitting on the roof with some of that food, looking away to the horizon and over the roofs and minarets, this was among the best places locations to remind yourself that you were, indeed, in a very special place.
Naranj was considered by some the best restaurant in all Damascus (and it was, at least in the social sense), so was always crowded, especially on weekend evenings. It was not well signed: it the modern glassed building on the corner of Straight Street near the Roman Arch with the Greek Orthodox Church nearby, given away by all the tables inside. A small upstairs terrace overlooked the Church, but was a prized space and off limits unless you were in the know. The service was good and the reputation well earned, though in all truth it was probably overpriced for what it provided. The range was excellent (the raw but spiced lamb appetiser might not be to everyone's taste) and alcohol was served, but above all it had a presence of which it was well aware.
Just a little further up the lane a nondescript building hosted many of the Naranj staff so that throughout the day, a stream of uniformed waiters, chefs, cleaners and others were coming and going constantly. The restaurant, then, was as much a location as a food outlet, and that added to its presence. In turn, it attracted a crowd with a presence. On one memorable weekend night, our party spent more time watching fellow diners than eating food. The game was to guess what particular characters did. The favourite subject was a man in a visiting Lebanese group, if only because he was noticeable and wanted to be noticed. In his thirties or early forties he was tallish and slim, dark with mandatory designer stubble, very well dressed and extremely self-aware. The feature was the hair. It was black and oiled and there was plenty of it, swept up in the elaborate style favoured by English "Teddy Boys" of the 1950s and 1960s, and by people like Ed "Kookie" Byrnes and Elvis Presley of the same era, only this was even more elaborate. The bets on what and/or who he was ranged from Lebanese film star or producer through to music impresario, or pimp. We never found out.
The Al Dar is located towards the Straight Street end of a main walk through to Bab Touma: find the Greek Orthodox Church on the first street left past Naranj on Straight Street, turn left and go around a couple of bends, and the restaurant was signed on the right hand side. It looked nothing from the outside but the interior had a clean, modern design with a very high ceiling, and a sense of space. Steps led down from the street into a well laid out and modernised dining area, looked by the kitchen behind a large window through which the neatly dressed chefs could be seen at work. Before the 2011-12 upheaval it was becoming increasingly popular with locals and tour groups alike, all attracted by the good atmosphere, reliable food and available alcohol. The food was westernised Arabic for want of a better description, but very appealing.
One favourite escape was Al Azariyeh, a gem in the Christian Quarter. Lazaristes Street is really more of a wide lane that runs off Bab Touma Street in the Christian Quarter and includes, among other interesting things, a marvellous little shoemaker shop in the traditional style—he was further on past the restaurant, itself perhaps fifty metres off the main street. I first ventured into the restaurant late one afternoon after a long walk around the area, and in need of a beer. Like some of these places it looked a touch forbidding. There was small door in a large lime-washed wall, a man lounging outside with a cigarette, and no real way to look inside to check out the place. The man smiled, that was a start. He was in his thirties, perhaps, casually well dressed, average build, ubiquitous brushed back and short black hair.
"Good afternoon" he said, "you need food?"
Well, a drink first, really.
"Come in, come in, you want beer?" Being a European made that question a standard one here.
He showed me into a small, L-shaped restaurant area. The first area has half a dozen tables along a wall, facing a small bar that might have been in an English village: dark wood, high stools, small bar area backed by a mirrored wall hosting the usual range of optics, including a good range of single malts. Just inside the main entrance and to the right of the bar, a set of stairs led away to the cellar and, as it turned out, the kitchen. A small television set high above the entrance doorway was showing a football match from somewhere in the Arab world. On past the bar, and the few tables in this area, stood the main dining area. All the tables had cutlery and condiments set on red and white checked cloths, the English bar now teamed with provincial Italian trattoria. The same football match was screening on another television set here.
He showed me to a table opposite the bar and brought the menu, along with three small plates containing peanuts, chips and popcorn, perhaps the most generous array of "free" drinks snacks to be found anywhere in the world.
"What would you like to drink?"
An Almaza, please.
By now this was the beer of choice, preferred over local brews (including the Barada whose taste matched what the water in the "river" of the same name looked like). The Almaza pilsener is a lovely beer and comes either in the bottle or as a draught. That simple choice of a beer has some interesting global connotations, though. The Almaza company began in Lebanon in the 1930s and had a strong French brewing influence, though essentially owned by a Lebanese family. The company went through several iterations before becoming part of the giant Dutch Heineken group, then later still Lebanese political boss Walid Jumblatt bought a stake. Unsurprisingly, then, the other beers readily found in Syria are Heineken and Amstel.
The host brought me the coldest beer in Damascus. The mug had been stored in a freezer and ice still clung to the sides, so the already cold beer gained an additional chill when poured. It was spectacular and led to a second and, automatically, food.
The generosity of the snacks was matched by the quantity and quality of the food. Over several visits the shishlick (lamb grilled on skewers) became the favoured dish but everything was excellent, and extraordinarily cheap. A single main dish was more than enough for one sitting but, alternatively, so were two or three appetisers, including one of the many fresh salads.
Over several visits I never found the place crowded and only rarely did another foreigner turn up, even though many foreign students lived in the area. Most of them frequented a much trendier but far less value-oriented place a few streets away whose owners, cleverly, had opened up the front wall of a house so that it opened onto the street. Most un-Arab like this was, of course, very Western. In warmer weather the windowed doors were rolled back so the place became more like a European street cafe, its denizens all resolutely staring into the screens of their laptops, plugging into the world via the wifi while the Old City went on all around them.
Back at Al Azariyeh, meanwhile, business remained quiet but steady, catering mainly for locals. The host said that business was good enough and kept him going but, like all the city's other entrepreneurs, he had other enterprises boosting his income. He w
as content, he said, to let the restaurant run its course, and was happy to see people like me as regulars because we spread the word around the locality. It was a pleasure to do that, because this was a "find".
The Elissar became my "treat" restaurant of choice, and where I took visitors to get them started. Just a few paces from the Albal hotel, in a lane off Hammam al Bakri, the restaurant had suffered lukewarm reviews in a couple of guidebooks. For some reason I ignored that: perhaps it was because the place looked so inviting from the outside, and the staff coming and going all looked so smart. It had a large neon-lit sign on a vast expanse of whitewashed wall, so was hard to miss. There was the usual small door in one corner of that expanse, and a short corridor led into the usual big space open to the sky, but with the motorised canvas retractable cover that would come over during winter or other bad weather. Immediately inside the front door, stairs led up several flights to other eating areas, including a really nice roof terrace. Downstairs the decor was traditional, and a little dark.
I met the best maitre d' in the city on my very first visit. He was tall, solid, big featured, sporting greased back black hair and wearing a tuxedo along with a huge smile.
"Good evening sir, welcome to Elissar and to Syria. You wish to eat? You have come to the best place in the city."
Well, you would say that, would you not?
"Smoking or non-smoking, sir?"
That was unusual because in many restaurants, even the better ones, smoking was assumed to be a natural habit. In here, though, non-smoking also meant that no hubble bubbles were allowed in that area, either
The place was busy even though by local time it was still quite early, mainly because at first glance there seemed to be several expats and tourists in. One of the more difficult things to adjust to for many travellers in Asia and the Middle East is the timing of meals. Breakfast is often taken late, followed by a biggish lunch, then dinner might be any time after 9 pm, and often much later—being confronted by a large dinner at 10.30 pm is a trial. The consequence, of course, is that many restaurants do not even open until after 7 pm and towards 8, so that the desperate Westerner looking for normality sometimes has a struggle. Elissar seemed to have worked out that it had a market.
A House in Damascus - Before the Fall Page 9