Surfing

I've been out of it... Blogging that is, among other things.

Work surrounded me, trapped me in and overwhelmed me by its utter persistence and futility. I was fed up with the whole work ethic crap. We were naturally built to have fun, you know, like eat, sleep, make love then eat and sleep some more. Some bastards came along the way, maniacally obsessed with control and psychotically enticed by the prospect of turning everybody's life around them into a miserable and grim existence and... and they managed to fuck it up for the rest of us. Feasting till we drop on our backs was deemed inappropriate behavior. Climbing trees to find a solid branch for an early afternoon nap became a waste of time. Spotting a sonsie female while drinking from a spring and jumping her turned into "a thou-shalt-not". Chains were conceived and forged, taboo, religion, labor, military, slavery and ultimately capitalism took over, brutalized our ingrained indulgence and sodomized our innate wantonness. With the rise of civilization came the demise of man. And woman of course.

So I decided to take a vacation.

Sabbar

I stood watching intently, and amused, as she attempted to peel the ripe Sabbar. The juices ran down her fingers to her delicate wrists and bits of the peel covered the place at the table where she stood. She was determined to do it herself. That was part of what I loved about her, her determination, which, at times, bordered on a hard-headed stubbornness. Although she had seen it in the streets of Damascus, she had never eaten the sweet fruit in her life. Here, it was everywhere, a delicacy we took for granted. However, as soon as her lovely hands held one for the first time, I saw the pear in an entirely new light.

We had been out walking. I was showing her the area around where I grew up. She marveled at the number of cacti, Sabbara trees, as she called them, that were along the road. They were handsomely laden with their brilliant red or yellow pears. When I told her they were edible, the Saber, as we call them here, she insisted that we pick some and I, enthusiastic to share everything with her, carefully pulled them from their prickly nests. I took off my shirt and created a sac of sorts in which to carry them home. She giggled nervously after I cursed several times from receiving a poke or two, but she continued to cheer me on as if I were navigating an obstacle course. My pride would never allow me to pick less than ten and, after I caught her admiring my bare torso with a mischievous little grin, I continued on as long as I could.

I rolled the fruits from my shirt onto the kitchen table. There were at least twenty. I stood for a moment and admired my harvest until I caught sight of her hand moving in to fetch one. "No, habibti!" She pulled her hand back in alarm. I immediately put my arm around her slender shoulders and warned her about the nasty thorns. They were small but insidious, and caused great discomfort if they got under the skin. Naturally I knew this from years of experience, from having them embedded in my hands and arms. But I couldn't knowingly expose her to anything unpleasant. The only thing I wanted her to remember about Sabbar was the luscious taste...and me picking them without my shirt. So I washed each of them and removed as many of the thorns as I could without actually peeling them.

She insisted on using a potato peeler and somehow I couldn't bring myself to stop her. "I don't want to cut out too much of the good fruit. I tend to gouge things with knives." She told me confidently and with a look in her eyes that suggested I'd better not try to stop her. She tentatively peeled away the outer skin and then used a knife to chop off each end of the fruit. It took everything in me not to chuckle or to move in to show her the proper way. She was adorable in her awkwardness, so I bit my tongue.

When she cut off the ends she discovered the spines. At first she wasn't sure what to make of them. She muttered to herself as she inspected it by removing one of them. As she did, the rest of the outer skin pulled away revealing the edible fruit. I saw the light go on; her beautiful eyes sparkled with delight. "Ah ha!" Then the scolding. "Why didn't you tell me?!" Instead of answering I gently removed the well peeled pear from her hand and took a bite. Her eyes turned stormy as she watched my mouth envelop almost half of it but before she could reprimand me I put the rest of it to her lips. She took a small bite and let the juices and pulp roll around in her mouth. Her eyes immediately quieted as the pleasure of the taste registered on her tongue. "Sahha."

I sat down and quickly peeled more of them. I selfishly needed her to eat at least one more. I cut the fruit into small pieces and asked her to sit by me. With my fingers I placed each piece on her tongue after she had chewed and swallowed the one before. I watched her enjoying the sweetness, her lips moving sensually as she chewed. I gazed longingly as she swallowed, following each lump as it moved through her throat and down her long, graceful neck. After she finished the last bite, I kissed her and savoured the sweetness of her mixed with the nectar of the Sabbar. It was the most heavenly combination. Suddenly I had the urge to harvest every tree in existence just so I could feed her one every day for the rest of our lives. But we had enough to last us a few days, and other, more burning, urges overtook us anyway...

I had wanted to show her everything about my life here. However, I quickly discovered that, in fact, through her, my life was reflected back to me in a refreshing new way. Just by being here, by being curious, by being her, she transformed the simple Sabbar into a delicious memory of that day, of her. I would never ever look at it or taste it in the same way again.

by Mariyah

Quattro Stagioni

Staying at the right hotel is the dividing line between a successful business trip and a memorable experience. When traveling in Europe my temporary residence is often a four-star or, occasionally, a five-star business hotel as close as possible to the venue where my meetings are to take place. I usually follow the advice of my hosts and when they offer to handle the reservation themselves I normally agree. These hotels are quite comfortable and provide efficient around the clock services. They and most of their clientele are sadly soulless though. I'm not always fortunate to run into a Fenella after all. Sigh!!!

On my third trip to the Netherlands over the last year I have learned my lesson well enough not to put my fate in the hands of efficient secretaries. Despite the inconvenience of changing accommodations for one night only I find myself opting for this choice more and more. The hell with the business suit and tie, the hygienic room in the middle of nowhere and the bar full of boring stiffs who talk only about work even when drunk. On my last night in a new city I'm moving my ass out of there in search of a cozy little place either in the heart of things or away from the screeching silence of the business environment.

March has been one of those months for me where I lived off my suitcase. Well, it's no longer a suitcase in the real sense of the word as I have become very apt at traveling light. I can handle any four or five-day trip now with a single carry-on and instead of waiting for my luggage to arrive on a maddeningly slow carousel I can have a head start on my first beer.

I spent a wonderful evening in the buzz of Amsterdam and a relaxing walk through her back alleys followed by a good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast at the Avenue Hotel on the Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal Straat in the center of the city. After a brief interim in Tartous I found myself in Venice with one last free afternoon and a rainy sky. I had worked out of the port of Venice for two days and I really looked forward my alone time in a small suburb of Mestre called Zelarino. This is not the first time I stay at the Antico Moro, a three-star hotel built on the original structure of an 18th century palace owned by the Foscari Family and it hopefully won't be the last. I really relish the privacy and the placidity it offers after a couple of days of hard work. I waited the rain out in my pleasant room and listened to it tap-dancing on the shingles of the vaulted ceiling. Then I went out into the night and walked along the deserted main street to the sounds of bells from the chiesa di Santa Maria Immacolata. An hour of brisk walking changed my mind about not having dinner but all I could find were small ice cream parlors and the ubiquitous Italian cafes. I sought advice from the night clerk and he was rather surprised that I was asking for a good place to eat.

“This way prego.” I followed him to the back of the small lobby where he opened a door and I found myself stepping into the fantastic Sotto il Sogno, Pizzeria e Ristorante. The waitress asked: “Would you like meateh, fisheh or Pizza?” Since I was only familiar with the last one that's what I chose. Now don't get me wrong, I like a good pizza. I always thought that I offended my Italian colleagues and friends when I told them that the best pizza I've had was in Chicago. Accordingly I stopped saying that completely. They are sensitive those Italians you know and they take everything personally. I also never gave justice to Italian beer simply because, apparently, I was always taken to the wrong places.

I sat alone at my table facing the wood fired oven and watched the tall and skinny chef handling the dough. I always assumed a good cook must be fat, or has a full waste line at least. Very wrong assumption, I'm glad to admit. And, not only did this place look terrific but lo and behold they had a beer menu. I ordered an amber Rurale Birra. The waitress warned me: “But it is biggeh!”. I simply smiled at her and said: “Certo ... So” (Sure... I know).

It didn't turn out to be that big after all, a mere 750 cc any healthy boy like me should easily gulp down with a pizza. And, Ahhh, that brings us to the real stuff. I ate the best Quattro Stagioni, well really the best pizza ever, anywhere, anytime.

As I went outside for one last walk late at night, the buzz of Zelarino was no less magnificent than that of Amsterdam, a fitting end to a long stretch away from home. Did I mention that the beer was goooooood? Well it was and I can't wait for my next visit. When the petite waitress tells me that “it is biggeh the beer” I will answer, again with a grin on my face: “quindi si prega di fare loro due ” (Then please make them two).

Keddabat

Tartoussi cuisine is inconspicuous, even in Syria that is. Anyone who's been here will tell you that we make out of this world fish but I think seafood is great in all coastal cities around the world. Ignorance about our local entrées though does not necessarily mean that we don't have some of the yummiest dishes in Syria. It's more a testimony of our quiet nature, the writer of this blog not included. We're not loud like the Damascene. We're not vocal like the Aleppine. We are neither funny nor too self-conscious like the Homsis or the Hamwis respectively. We're simple folks who love Mezza, barbequed chicken and Arak. And when we want to be gluttonous we feast on Burghul.

Well just to be sure no reader takes this post as an indication of false modesty, no one in Syria, and I repeat no one, even comes close to our Wara Enab (Stuffed Grape Leaves) but that is another story which had already been proven and laid to rest.

Today's dish is called Keddabat and unless some of you prove me wrong it is a very local Tartoussi/Arwadi recipe unknown beyond Al-Thawra Street in Tartous.




Ingredients:

• Fine Burghul 2 cups (Cracked Wheat): sold in most Middle Eastern food stores

• All purpose flour 2 cups

• Olive oil ½ cup + 2 tablespoons to saute the onion

• Debes Remman ½ cup (Pomegranate Molasses): sold in most Middle Eastern food stores

• Swiss Chard a few chopped leaves (for stuffing the larger Keddabat)

• Onion 1 diced

• Garlic 4 cloves

• Parsley 2 tablespoons finely chopped after thorough washing

• Salt and black pepper to taste

Preparation:

• Wash the burghul under running water then keep in strainer for 15 minutes.

• In a blender crush the burghul until it becomes powdery.

• Mix the burghul and the flour and roll in semi-wet hands into small balls (see picture).

• For the larger Keddabat: Saute the diced onion in 2 tablespoons of olive oil until tender (don't let them turn golden in color). Chop the Swiss Chard after washing it thoroughly with water and add a dash of salt. Mix onions and Swiss Chard together and use it as stuffing for the larger Keddabat. It's not as difficult as it looks to make them and to stuff them. Just keep your hands a little wet and practice, practice, practice.

• In a bowl bring 6 cups of water to boil. Add the Keddabat (small and large: on the average for every 10 small unstuffed ones you should have one large stuffed one). Keep over medium high heat for 10 minutes then remove Keddabat and drain and put aside.

• Keep 4 cups of the boiled water (throw away the rest). Add ½ cup Debes Remman (Pomegranate Molasses), ½ cup olive oil, crushed garlic and some finely chopped parsley and stir well.

• Return the Keddabat to the sauce.

• Serve hot or cold. I eat it with a spoon like soup. Uuuummmm if you do it right you'll know what's the big deal about being a tartoussi :-)

And, ehem... the red sauce you see on top is Tabasco.

Upside Down

It's been much longer than I wanted to. I haven't been able to read as much as I'd like, to ride my motorcycle on a twisted mountain road, to walk by the sea or to sit down in the privacy of my own thoughts and blog. Working for a living is the most overrated human activity. To take pride in what we do is acceptable but to surrender our identities to our careers is so pitifully vain. I honor what I do but what I do doesn't add or take away anything from what I truly am. Since my last business trip, work has been pressing parasitically on my personal space. I work for a living that's true but I need to eventually take a firm stand and not allow a job, any job, to turn my life upside down.

And this brings us to the recipe I chose to share with you today: Ma'loubeh or Upside Down is a Levantine eggplant dish. I often post about local recipes in their most basic form for a purpose. I want you, the reader, to be able to acquire, prepare and cook the dish without hassle. This is exactly the case with my Upside Down since there are so many more elaborate variations to this basic theme.

I must confess that as a child I was not a fan of eggplants at all. In fact, I'm not really that fond of them even today. However, I have changed my attitude to not eating something because I don't like to eating it and appreciating the fact that I have food on my table while many people are hungry around the world. You might be wondering why am I swaying left and right when all I intend to write about ultimately is a recipe. I guess this is my own way of getting in the mood for blogging again. I'm wetting my toes before I dive in and shiver in the briskly cool waters of November.

If you're into eggplants (as food or in some other twisted and kinky way) Ma'loubeh will turn you upside down. I wonder why they don't call it 69? Come to think of it, it's equally appropriate:-)

Ingredients:
2 cups rice - (long grain)
400 g ground beef or minced lamb
1 kg round eggplants - cut in slices (1” thick)
1 small onion – diced
Salt, pepper and spices as per preference (for the meat and rice)
1 cube chicken broth
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon vegetable oil

Preparation:

• Mix the meat and onions in a frying pan over medium heat until golden brown
• Separately heat the eggplants in a large pan on both sides (10 minutes each) in the oven (high) then remove and wait for the pan to cool a little so you don't burn your hands. Uuuhhh, if you're the gorgeous woman I have in mind let me kiss that burn for you. If you're a man and happen to burn your hand, stick it somewhere then get back to cooking (don't forget to wash it first)
• Arrange the eggplants side by side and in layers if needed with the meat and onions
• Add 2 ½ cups water and 1 cube of chicken broth. Wrap in aluminum foil completely and return to oven for 20 minutes
• Remove and collect the sauce in a small pot
• In the same frying pan we used for the meat and onions, heat the butter then stir in the rice for a few minutes before throwing it in the sauce to cook (normal way of cooking rice)
• Bring in a new pot (its shape will determine the final look of the dish) and spread the eggplants, meat and onions at the bottom. Top with 1/3 the quantity of cooked rice then another layer of the remaining eggplants, meat and onions then the rest of the rice
• Place the serving glassware on top of the pot and turn Upside Down to get the dish ready for the table
• Enjoy with salted plain yogurt on the side (add some garlic for great taste)

Sahha W Hana

Different Minds, Different Soups

We should wash our hands, but most importantly our hearts, before we sit around the table together. The holy month is nearing its end and a post about my two favorite Ramadan soups is in order. As varied as we are in Syria, as different as we are as bloggers, there are so many soups to enjoy none of which is right or wrong. We're a passionate crowd, us Levantines, and we are known to pick fights with our own shadows when we can't find someone to disagree with.

Yet the disparity of opinions should never degrade to a personal conflict. In the free future most of us aspire to no one should set rules for the others to follow. We might as well stay as we are if we don't have it in us to embrace all the colors of the rainbow. Neither I nor whoever disagrees with me have the correct answer. My proven science and their divine text mean so much to each of us respectively but might signify nothing to a third person. It's not a matter of numbers or of a majority and minorities. If we truly aspire to be free we have to defend the freedom of those at odds with us first.

I leave you with the double-recipe for Lentil and Red Soups. Over the last month I've rarely strayed from either one or the other on the Iftar table. They are prepared differently, they look different, they taste different, but both are authentic Syrian cuisine and come with plenty of meat:-)

Ah and on a final note... I wish you all a Happy Eid Fitr. I wish I could've enjoyed it here at home but it so happens that I'm traveling over the holidays to a new land. Hopefully, I'll come back with a story.

Lentil Soup

Lentils 2 cups (cleaned and rinsed in cold water)
Short grain rice ½ cup (cleaned and rinsed in cold water)
Ground beef or minced lamb 200g rolled into small balls ½ “ in diameter
1 small onion (diced)
Chicken broth 1 small cube
Butter 1 tablespoon
Salt 1 tablespoon (or per taste)
Cumin ½ teaspoon
Black pepper ½ teaspoon



-Bring salted lentils and rice to boil in 4 cups of water – Keep uncovered over medium-high for 30 minutes.
-Pour into manual food masher (with the water) and mash them so they come out the bottom, well... well-mashed.
-Separately fry the diced onion in some butter until light brown.
-Separately fry the meat balls in the rest of the butter until brown.
Add the well-mashed lentils and rice mix to the fried onion and meat balls, top them with 2 cups of hot water.
Sprinkle with cumin and black pepper and a (cut into small pieces) cube of chicken broth. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium-low and keep for 30 minutes.

Serve and enjoy Ummmm


Red Soup

Ground beef or minced lamb 200g rolled into small balls ½ “ in diameter
Vermicelli 1 cup
Tomato paste 2 tablespoons
Chicken broth 1 cube
Salt 1 tablespoon (or per taste)
Black pepper ½ teaspoon




-Fry the balls of meat in butter until golden brown. Remove replace with vermicelli and heat until red.
-Separately bring 5 cups of water to boil then add meat balls, vermicelli, chicken broth, tomato paste. Stir for a while then leave over medium-low heat for 30 minutes.
*Be very careful not to add cold water to the vermicelli because it will go crazy and turn Afro.

Sahha wa Hana

Jijeh Mehshieh (Stuffed Chicken a la Tortosa)

This post is dedicated to Katia (I promise you a more romantic one, loool)

I have settled adequately into my Ramadan routine. It's really simple come to think of it, minimum talk and/or contact with the rest of the human race, that's all I ask for. At work, I hate talking on the phone or having to hear office chitchat. You know I'd rather be left alone. I don't like smiling or being agreeable. Well I pretty much hate everything in the morning. Later on in the day, I can close the door, be by myself and relieve the rest of the world of my grumpiness. You got the idea didn't you? I'm not much fun in Ramadan so just …. The phone rang for the hundredth time. Ohhh, I'm really mad now...



"HELLO."
It was my son, “Hi dad, I have a good recipe for your blog.”
“What is it Fares?” I asked, restraining myself from being too opprobrious.
He loitered with his words, “Mum is stuffing a chicken and I'm helping out. Do you want me to take pictures?”
"Sure why not,” I wanted to hang up, “is that all?” My mouth gaped in a rictus of annoyance and dudgeon.
“No there's Fatteh too”, he said unnecessarily.
I was on the brink of desperation, “no I meant do you want something else before we hang up.”
“Ahhh not really, although it would be nice seeing that big smirk on your face now. Bye dad!!!” He hung up.



Oh damn it, I really didn't want to smile. It's so out of my character at this hour of the day in Ramadan. But here it is anyway, Jijeh Mehshieh (Stuffed Chicken a la Tortosa), all photos taken by Fares.



Ingredients:
1 whole naked chicken
200g ground beef
1 cup long grain rice
1 onion
2 garlic cloves
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 teaspoon salt (or per taste)
2 cinnamon sticks
½ teaspoon black pepper
½ mixed spices (whatever)
½ cinnamon powder
½ oregano
2 laurel leaves



Preparation:
-Heat oil in pot and stir the ground beef until golden brown then add the rice. Continue stirring for a minute or two before adding 1 cup of water. Cook rice covered over low heat. Remove when almost done.
-Rub the chicken inside out with the salt, herbs and spices and stick the cut garlic in there. It's easy to get kinky with chicken so watch what you're doing and respect the dead please.



-Stuff her with meat/rice making sure not to over pack.
-Stitch the ungodly hole with needle and thread then place into a large pot and add water to cover ¾ of the body. It's a good time to throw in the onion, cinnamon sticks and the laurel leaves. Bring to boil and keep on medium heat for 30 minutes.



-Remove then place in a pan with 2 cups of the broth. Wrap completely (chicken and pan) with aluminum foil and shove it in the oven for 45 minutes (175ºC). Remove foil and leave in oven for another 15 minutes to give the chicken a lovely suntan (or oventan, hahaha: wicked laugh).
-What remains of the broth could be used as sauce or converted into chicken soup (it's very good by the way).
-Present with more cooked rice (in this case the additional rice was prepared with some saffron to give it the golden yellowish hue).
-Enjoy the Jijeh (chicken) at its best.

Bon Appétit



Jijeh is Tartoussi for Jahjeh (Damascus), Djedjeh (Aleppo), Dajaja (the rest of the Arab world with the exception of Egypt where it's called Ferkha).

Shakrieh

It is customary in Syria to have a white main dish on the first Iftar table of Ramadan. This might be true of other neighboring countries but I cannot claim what I do not know. White for many cultures is considered as a good and auspicious color and as thus has no religious significance whatsoever. Of course in Levantine Cuisine a white meal could only mean that a dish is prepared and cooked in Yogurt Sauce. As far back as I can remember we always had Shakrieh on Ramadan 1st. It' is one of my all-time favorite dishes especially since I'm biased anyway to anything cooked in yogurt. Shakrieh is a year round Syrian recipe and is not unique to Ramadan.



Here it is, in very simple steps, Shakrieh in its most basic form, the Tartoussi way.

Ingredients:

1 kg lamb chunks (Mozat)
3 large onions cut in rings
6 to 8 cups plain yogurt
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1 egg
1 teaspoon Salt
2 sticks Cinnamon
1 tablespoon Vegetable oil
Water

1 cup of Rice or Burghul (cooked the usual way on the side)




Preparation:

-Heat the salted lamb chunks and onion rings in a large frying pan with the oil. Stir well with a wooden spatula for 5 minutes.

-Bring 4 cups of water in a pot to a boil. Add the lamb chunks, onion rings and cinnamon sticks. Cook over medium-high for one hour. Save the broth.

-Separately bring 6 to 8 cups of plain yogurt, cornstarch and raw egg to boil over medium-high making sure to stir slowly but constantly (non-stop otherwise the sauce is ruined) until it starts boiling. Reduce heat to low and add the lamb chunks and the tender onions plus one cup of the broth to the yogurt. Cook uncovered for 10 minutes.




-Cook the rice (or burghul) with 1 cup of broth (or more) as usual.

-The Shakrieh and the rice (or burghul) are served side by side in individual plates but presented separately on the table.

Simply delicious!

Paradise

This post is dedicated to my friend JGM, Kassak Habibi


A little before midnight my buddy called and asked me if I could join him on a short hop to Zgharta, Lebanon in the morning. He wanted to visit a friend recovering in the hospital. We might grab a bite to eat if you want to, he said, Ehden is not that far away.

I haven't been to Lebanon since October of last year. I feel terrible how a fucking barrier blocks my freedom to cross the “border” between here and there. What a bunch of idiots on both sides. What filth, hypocrisy, shortsightedness and bigotry make me wait in line to be in one of my favorite locations on the planet, a mere hour and a half drive away.



Ehden's Paradise is the number one restaurant in the world serving Mezza and Middle Eastern Cuisine. I'm not an idiot to accept the words Lebanese or Syrian Mezza. I have evolved far too much to be such a Levantine Chimp. There's no place on earth where every bite you swallow, every sip you gulp, every breath you take is as good as it is in this northern Lebanese village. Paradise has been my favorite hideaway since the first time I set foot in Ehden, well over twenty years ago.



We made it in the late afternoon to Paradise. The wide terrace seats a comfortable thousand hungry patrons but it was almost deserted. There were far more waiters milling around like busy bees than there were people sitting behind tables and eating. We were greeted near the entrance by the maître d' who assured us that we would still get the best food and service despite our late arrival. What was it all about, I asked. This is one of the biggest nights in Ehden, he said, Sabah Fakhri is here for his annual one-night appearance.



For those readers who don't know who Sabah Fakhri is and in order to make it easier for them to comprehend and grasp the importance of the event, this is a man who is considered by over 200 millions of Arabs as Our Pavarotti. Well, wait, I need to elaborate further. Pavarotti, rest his soul, was one of the greatest of all times no doubt, but he could have found a cozy place to sit in his heydays in the shadow of our 76 year old veteran singer. Sabah Fakhri is the greatest performer alive. In 1968 he sang for 10 hours without a pause in Caracas, Venezuela to the adulation of thousands of expatriate fans. This world record remains unbroken.



The evening was sold out, of course, weeks ahead. We consumed the heavenly Mezza slowly and deliberately. No Kass of Arak could taste remotely close to the way it tastes in Ehden. In the late heat of this July afternoon all around the Mediterranean, the cool air at 1,500 m altitude took us to another reality. This is indeed how Paradise would be like one day when we bite the dust and are sent by default there. There is no man on the face of this earth as good as me, I mused, content in the knowledge that someday, this could all be mine forever. A renewed and spirited hubbub behind caught my ear then my eye. The owner and the staff were greeting someone very special who, just like us, had come fashionably late for lunch. It was none other than Mr. and Mrs. Fakhri who had just checked in in their hotel and came for a quick bite to eat. They were accompanied by a Tartoussi guy we knew. As they walked close by, our friend waved hello and said to the old man: “These guys came from Tartous to see you tonight”. We had to stand and shake hands with the legend. He expressed his happiness and gratitude for our taking the trouble to attend his performance. When our friend knew that we didn't even have a reservation he fixed it in an instant. You will join me on Sabah's table, he assured us, as he hurried and joined the superstar.



I only had what clothes I was wearing. Not a toothbrush! Not even another pair of boxers to change into. Yet we managed to buy the essentials, find a great room in a hotel nearby and took a long nap before the endless night ahead. I was only missing one thing. I needed to call someone, as my day and night, my whole life past or ahead of me wouldn't be what it was meant to be if I hadn't done that. When I reluctantly hung up, my smile was larger than my face. I knew that it'll be a night to remember.

How can I explain what Tarab is to non-Levantines and North Africans? It's almost a futile attempt since Arabic is the only language with the right vocabulary to convey this state of mind. Sabah Fakhri is the master of Tarab without any shadow of a doubt. As thus let me try to make a fool of myself and fumble with an attempt to explain.

كل البنات نجوم وانت قمرهم
All the girls are stars and you...
Their moon you are

Tarab is a state of musical rapture. The lyrics, the music and the voice conspire together to put the listener in a unique mood of oriental sensuality and worship, lust and spirituality, seduction and chastity. Tarab is when you reach a mental point where everything around you is beautiful. The plate of fresh fruits on the table with drops of dew forming on the grapes and melons, the dark of night and the velvety flow of wine down your body, the numbness of complete sensory satisfaction, the touch of the wind on your cheek, the swaying ass of the girl dancing nearby, her erect nipples, the perfume on her belly in your nose, memories of love making, a mental orgasm, a voice from within,... floating in a womb of pleasure, your long scream at last with an uncontrollable Ahhhhhhhhhh, this is Tarab.



In the Paradise of Ehden, Sabah Fakhri brought us, all one thousand and one of us, into a land of one thousand and one Arabian nights for five consecutive hours (1:30AM till 6:30AM).

خمرة الحب اسقنيها، هم قلبي انسنيه
عيشة لا حب فيها جدول لا ماء فيه

The wine of love let me drink
Burdens of hearts let's forget
A life we live void of love
Devoid of water, a barren creek

I woke up at nine o'clock and headed back, across the fucking barrier to Tartous. On my way around the park in the late evening I was suddenly assaulted by the taste of fruits on my tongue, the long shadows of the night and the stream of wine gushing in my soul, the stupefaction, the caress of a breeze on my skin, a beautiful woman's butt, her breasts, the smell of her tummy, my going in, my inescapable climax, my own voice inside the tunnel, my last scream..... Ahhhhhhhhhh, Paradise.

Stuffed Zucchini in Yogurt Sauce – Kousa b Laban

Well it all started innocuously enough, I stated that I'm hungry then I went further, I'm still hungry, I pleaded. I don't quite know what else to do on Facebook except change my status. I access it through a software, a proxy fucker of some sort, and the whole experience isn't that enjoyable to tell you the truth. If it were not for you, some of the people I care most about, I wouldn't even bother go there.

The immediate comments on both statuses were very confusing to me. After all I am a provincial man with a simple mind. I needed something to pacify my hunger that's all. Kousa (Zucchini) I reckoned is the perfect answer to my commentators. This a recipe that is simply delectable. Yet more significantly, it is very sexy to prepare as it involves... well never mind...
It might not be as naughty as asparagus, wink wink, but from a certain perspective, Kousa is very erotic. Even the name, Ah! Even the name... LOL

So here we go, let me feed you right.

Below quantities for 4 to 5 People.

1 kg small sized zucchini (15 cm and less)

2 tablespoon olive oil
1 large onion finely chopped
300 g minced lamb meat (low fat) or ground beef
2 cubes chicken broth (optional)
2 crushed gloves of garlic
1 teaspoon salt (or more)
¾ teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon Cinnamon
1 tablespoon pine nuts (optional)
1 cup short grain rice

4 cups low fat yogurt
1 egg
1 ½ tablespoon cornstarch

1 teaspoon dry mint

(photo from the web)

-The zucchini pulp is scooped using a special utensil (found in Middle Eastern Food stores) or the handle of a tablespoon. First cut both ends of zucchini (slightly).
If you've never done this before, place the scooper next to the zucchini and estimate the full length – 2 cm to avoid opening a hole in the closed end of the zucchini. Slowly turn (using your wrist) the scooper in 90 degrees counter rotating moves while removing the scooped pulp gradually (this is the only tough part about the whole thing).
-Wash with water and let dry. You can use the pulp for another side dish so you don't have to throw away, but I really don't feel like writing about it today.

(photo from the web)

-Over medium heat in a large pot heat olive oil, add chopped onion stir for 5 minutes then add minced lamb, garlic, black pepper, Cinnamon and pine nuts. Continue stirring for another 5 minutes then add washed and rinsed rice and chicken broth and stir for 1 final minute then turn off heat, remove and place in a bowl.
-Let cool at room temperature.

-Stuff the zucchini with (above) using your fingers (ummm naughty, naughty) until ¾ full and slightly pressed.



-Add cornstarch and the egg to Yogurt in large pot and stir constantly with a wooden spoon over medium (don't stop at all – if you do the yogurt sauce will break apart and becomes useless) until boiling. Immediately reduce heat to medium/low then stop stirring (now you are safe). Add the stuffed zucchini to the yogurt and cook for 60 minutes (uncovered).
-Remove, sprinkle with dry mint and serve.

Bon Appétit however you decide to assuage your hunger.

The Cave

Toward the end of October 1096, the Count of Toulouse, Raymond de Saint Gilles (1041– 1105) left his native land never to return. Driven by religious zealotry and material aspirations, Saint Gilles, by far the oldest and richest Crusader, dreamed of dying in the Holy Land. On his way to fulfilling his failed destiny in 1101, he took control of Tortosa, a little burg by the sea. Known today as Tartous, Tortosa offered safe harbor as an entrepôt for military provisions and was ideally close to Cyprus and Antioch. Before the old Count died he managed to transform it into a magnificent military bastion which eventually became one of the most interesting old Mediterranean cities for researchers and historians.



Nine hundred years later, the remains of the Crusader era still form the core of the historic center of Tartous. They have survived centuries of earthquakes, hostilities, neglect and negligence. The splendid cathedral of Our Lady of Tortosa (1123) endured the ravages and the elements of time almost intact. A banqueting hall, originally known as La Salle Des Chevaliers, has lost most of its arched ceiling and houses within its walls scrounging and contiguous abodes. A nearly roofless chapel with a stone lock carrying the sign of the Rose, a testimony to the Knights Templar who dwelled and worshiped within the high walls of Tortosa, has all but succumbed to vandalism and defacement. And to the West, facing and defying the incalculable number of waves thumping incessantly against their sloped outer walls, lay the dungeons, where offending natives were imprisoned, tortured and eventually executed.



The Old City is located at the very beginning of the Corniche, a 2.5 km wide boulevard by the sea ending at the Ghamka River to the south. Most of Tartous’ restaurants and cafes are sprawled along the way and they vary from the mediocre to the admissible. Yet there is one so unique that it transcends all other restaurants in Syria and is possibly among the most distinctive anywhere in the world. It’s called The Cave and it occupies the northernmost dungeon.



The Cave is an unobtrusively restored 900 year old dungeon turned restaurant by none other than my best friend. He did not start the business. In fact, The Cave is one of the oldest restaurants/bars in town but last year he took over and embarked on his ambitious restoration dream. No expenses were spared and the painstaking work was brought down to a halt time and again by City officials and the pen pushers of the Antiquity Department. The Antiquity Law in Syria is even more archaic than the ruins it protects. In the wrong hands of bureaucrats any legislation can bring an entire country to a standstill. My friend persisted stubbornly and was finally awarded with the realization of his vision: a high-end joint in Tartous serving the best sea food and a la carte entrées this side of the Mediterranean. The ambiance is inimitable, the attention to details impeccable, the food delectable, the drinks ambrosial.



Next time in town and looking for a delightful gastronomical experience give The Cave a try. You can of course tell them Abufares sent you. Knowing my friend, don’t expect any discount but you will sure be treated like a Count.

Boxing Day Shopping in Tartous

I've already posted pictures from the vegetable market in Tartous. Even if I run the risk of repeating myself, the orgy of colors and forms deserves a second look. On the morning of Dec. 26th, clueless as to what we're going to have for lunch, we marauded the open Souk El Khedra on the southern side of town. We triumphantly returned with more than a dozen bags of fresh fruits and veggies and these delicious photos below (taken with my Nokia mobile phone).

Hot Peppers & Fava Beans Drop Box

Oranges, Green Beans, Cucumbers & Corn Drop Box

Apples, Avocados, Kiwifruits & Eggplants Drop Box

All sorts of Apples, Tangerines, Yellow Carrots, Garlic, Mushrooms & Chestnuts Drop Box

Radish, Green Onions, Spinach Beets, Spinach, Parsley & Mint Drop Box

Freekeh

This past week dragged on and on until it finally killed itself out of despair. I’m glad it’s over and I really needed some form of distraction to snap out of my misery. All the way from Canada my ultrasonic ears picked a distress signal from a dame in anguish. The mother of a cyber friend needed my immediate attention and help. While shopping, she found a bag of Freekeh on a supermarket shelf. Rumor has it that she was flooded by memories of the good old times from her native Lebanon and of the days she had spent at her mother’s in Aleppo. The miles and years of her Ghorbeh (estrangement away from home) made her forget how to prepare a most delicious dish of Freekeh. So I donned my superhero outfit (does that remind you of something?) and to her rescue I bolted. “Freekeh you desire and Freekeh is what you should have Madame", I sang in my baritone voice.


Freekeh is sold in supermarkets or delicatessen stores all over the world. It's a highly nutritious grain made from roasted green wheat. 100% organic, it's filled with minerals and vitamins because the wheat is harvested while still young. It's extremely low in carbohydrates and high in fibers. But the way we cook it will render these health advantages trifling since we’re going to top it with most delicious lamb shanks (Mawzat) or if you’d rather not go all the way with chicken instead. Either choice, Freekeh is delicious and relatively easy to prepare. My advice is to get some plain salted yogurt on the side. Nothing goes more smoothly with Freekeh than a glass of cold Ayran.


Ingredients:
1 Chicken cut in half or ½ kg of Lamb Shanks (bones removed)
1 Whole onion + 1 carrot
3 cups of freekeh, rinsed with water
1 tablespoon salt, 1 teaspoon black pepper, 5 cinnamon sticks, 5 pods of cardamom (optional)
4 tablespoons butter or shortening
1 finely chopped onion
1 cup of mixed pine nuts and almonds (pistachios and cashews are nice additions but optional)



Preparation:
The pieces of chicken or lamb shanks are heated and turned over in a skillet to dry them off from their own excess juices for a few minutes.
Then in a pot we place the chicken or meat in 6-7 cups of water along with the salt, black pepper, 1 onion, 1 carrot, cinnamon sticks and cardamom. Bring to a boil then reduce heat for 1 ½ hour until chicken or meat is done and tender. Throw away the onion, the cinnamon sticks, the cardamom pods and the carrot.
Separately, soak 3 cups of Freekeh in water for 1 hour. Afterwards the water is drained completely. Butter or shortening along with a finely chopped onion are heated in a pot until the onion is soft then the Freekeh is added and stirred constantly over medium heat for 5 minutes.
The broth from the chicken or meat is added on top (about 5 cups). Bring to boil then cover and reduce heat for 45 minutes.
Again separately, your choice of nuts is sautéed in butter until light brown.
In a large dish the Freekeh is spread first then pieces of chicken (without the bones) or meat are spread over and all are topped by the beautiful looking nuts.
This is one hell of a good recipe and I’m sure you and your 5 companions will enjoy every single bite of it.


Ayran: This is basically diluted plain yogurt. Add water at ratio of 1 to 3 (1 water, 3 yogurt), salt per preference and some mashed garlic 2 to 3 cloves per 1 liter. Splash a few ice cubes and stir until cold. Serve in tall glasses and drink with the meal.

All photos used from the web. The first plate (chicken) has an optional rice layer. We never cook it with rice. The second (lamb shanks) with green peas. This is of course optional and entirely up to you.

Lions' Milk

Twenty four hours after I shot this short clip I was on my way to Beirut. Following dinner and a few drinks I flew to Rome then to Amsterdam where I spent the rest of the week and came back to write about it.
Yet despite the fascinating piazzas, the broad avenues, the grandiose monuments and buildings, despite the enchanting canals, the intertwining back streets and the stunningly beautiful and virtuous prostitutes, I missed the little pleasures and treasures of Tartous my eternal home. I took off my tie, my pressed jacket and trousers and the shiny black shoes. I showered my tired body with a cold stream and washed away the remnants of a foreign luxury. I put on a faded pair of jeans and a patterned flannel shirt and sat by the little table at my corner in the kitchen to enjoy a simple breakfast. I reminisced over the exotic beers, the succulent steaks, the delectable pastas and the velvety wines I hedonistic consumed. I remembered the frantic pace, the purposeful crowds, the manicured lawns and the urbane vibes. In my brain, the refined sights, the restrained sounds and the polished smells of Europe danced and mingled with the Kaset al Shai (in Syria we drink tea: Shai with breakfast in a small and clear glass).
It was only a matter of time before I revert to my true nature and tell you about my annual jaunt into a green forested valley 20 km east of Tartous to partake in an old ritual: the drawing of the Karake = Arak distilling. In Everything You Wanted to Know About Arak and More I have exhausted all the little details about the ritual and procedures. My purpose here is notably different. I want to share with you the essence of the experience in a visual form. Don't mind the amateurish editing or the script since making movies is not one of my strong points. What I have going in my favor, however, is the marriage of Wadih el-Safi's song "Tallo Hbabna" with the rustic visual experience. El Safi (1921- ) is a Lebanese Tenor and one of the greatest modern singers of the Arab World. In coastal Syria, Abu George, as he is affectionately called by his faithful fans is an imposing icon of crossnational worth. He sings in our accent and he could as well have grown up in the alleys of Tartous instead of Niha, Lebanon. Wadih is to Arak what olive oil is to Zaatar (Thyme), but that's another story.
W. C. Fields once wrote: "Never trust a man who doesn't drink." In a way, we share this line of thought in Tartous but we digress further. "Never trust a drinker who doesn't like Arak".

Of Guilty, Disenchanted and Dazzling Women and Cities

Some of us take pride in having photographic memory and never forgetting a face or a name. I’m not like that you know. Casual encounters do not deeply register or leave a trace on my psyche. It has been extremely embarrassing at times when someone would remind me that we’ve met some years ago and goes on describing the exact setting of the “alleged” meeting. Judging from my bewilderment or insouciance, as he might deem, he may reach the conclusion that I’m either a fool or a condescending bastard. Unfortunately, it’s getting worse with the passage of time, especially my short-term memory. I either remember a particular occurrence with vivid and colorful details or barely have any recollection that it ever took place in my life.

Women and cities are normally exempted from this involuntary eclipse of the mind. Nature has endowed me with extra-large brain cells to store the sight, the smell, the sound, the taste and the feel of women and cities. I am a very lucky man as I don’t really have bad memories of women. Perhaps a few things went wrong over the years, but nothing that might cause embarrassment or remorse on my side or theirs. I need to add that I haven’t truly been close to that many anyway so I’d better remember each and everyone fondly and with the utmost of affection. I have some ghastly experiences in a few cities but they were, in general, independent of the place. They could’ve happened anywhere and to anyone. So it goes again that I have no real regrets about the cities I’ve been to. Sure, there are some I didn’t like but it serves no particular purpose to reminisce about what we're not fond of. Until now that is, which brings us to the beginning of our story.

It has been a fascinating week. I was slowly getting myself in travel mode as I was scheduled to leave to Amsterdam for a two-day conference. But on one dark night, as I was having dinner with a bunch of friends up in the mountains near Tartous I received a call that not only I would have to go to Rome first but that I would have to fly out of Beirut. Not two days later as previously planned but on the next day!

I arrived in Beirut late in the evening after a 2-hour drive from Tartous. By most accounts, Beirut is a gem, a unique cosmopolitan city of unmatched beauty and inspiration. To tell you the truth though, I never thought so much of her. I can’t fit in in Beirut where I have the nagging feeling that I’m in a heartless place. She’s a city who pretends to tolerate me but doesn’t like who I truly am. Beirut is an unloving city with a perpetual identity crisis even to her own inhabitants who have different mental maps of her based on sectarian coordinates. At one time during its celebrated modern history it provided an intellectual and political haven to all but only because other Arab cities were run by obsessive-compulsive and tyrannical regimes. This early fling with a pseudo-democracy, at a time when all her sisters were unabashedly struggling under the heavy load of despotism, made her derisive and pompous. What a shame, had she only learned a lesson or two in humility, things would have been different. Beirut today is a narcissistic and neurotic city, shifting loyalties, fostering hate and suspicion among dwellers on opposite sides of the same street. Like a once beautiful woman marred by a long scar running down her face, Beirut needs to come to terms with her own reality. She has to learn how to forgive and forget before she finds herself again. She has to accept that a great part of past faults, mistakes and blunders were hers and hers alone, all along. I opened the door of the Captain’s Cabin, an old restaurant, turned pub, on a side street of Al-Hamra and walked in. Had I been blind-folded I would’ve had no idea of where I was. I ordered a cold Almaza beer and sat at a corner alone. The beer was refreshing and cold. The atmosphere was stale and heavy. There were two women sitting nearby who could not make up their minds on what language to stick to to carry out their loud conversation. English, French then English again. They would get out of synch and inadvertently slip into Arabic before they would catch themselves and amend. A tall westerner of undetermined origin and age was standing in the middle of the small room, laughing hoarsely and begging for more attention. He was surrounded by two or three doting local chicks of mediocre beauty. A graying man sat at the bar, sipping his whiskey in silent thoughts. A girl, raring to go, gave me a look from across the room. "Nah", she must’ve thought, too old for her or not particularly her type. She shifted focus in search of a more interesting companion amongst the faces in the crowd. A mix of rock music, good and bad, reverberated in the corners. Only the man with the white hair looked real. Because he was real he had to forget what was going on around him. He was a disenchanted Beirutian, so I liked to think, overwhelmed by the unmerciful abuse his city has suffered on the hand of time. At 4:20 in the morning I left Beirut with no regrets but with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the duty free at the airport, a solitary testament of my brief call. The Alitalia plane took off and headed west toward Rome, the center of the known universe for a significant part of our recorded human history. I was harsh on Beirut you would think and assume that I will flip completely once I start writing about Rome. Not so I am afraid. I am not done badmouthing cities of inveterate reputations yet. Let me go on.

One of the most un-Italian traits of the dolce vita, in addition to the obstinately obsolete style of football, is the Italian national airline. Alitalia is without the slightest shadow of a doubt one of the worst in the business. I flew on four miserable flights during this trip of mine and was served with the same horrendous cold turkey sandwich. The airplanes were noisy, the service inferior and the Fiumicino airport in Rome a nightmare. I am one who enjoys his idle layovers in airports but Rome’s international doesn’t give the traveler any chance or possibility of having a good time. I jumped in a waiting cab and gave my hotel address to the driver who sped up toward the ancient capital of the world. It was 7:30 in the morning. I had one affair to attend to in Rome and I was done by ten o’clock. The Grand Ritz Hotel was in the northern part of town, an old establishment catering to American senior citizens traveling to Italy in flocks. I put on my walking shoes and headed in the general direction of Piazza di Spagna. It was a fine Saturday morning with vigorously fresh air. When I reached the Piazza hundreds of sightseers and tourist were already there. Under normal circumstances I avoid crowded venues and feel itchy in the bestial rush of the hordes stampeding from one site to the next for the sole purpose of being there. Soon enough my annoyance started creeping up on me and I found myself snaking through side streets and narrow alleys for evasion.

I located a small restaurant and sat at a table in the confined yard. The place was lively with conversation and having decided that these were probably some of my finest moments in Rome so far I ordered lunch. Primo e secondo, vino e cappucino have finally caught up with me after all these years of traveling to Italy. I simply needed an unfussy bite to eat and a cold beer to drink. The waiter presented me with a plain cheese sandwich, a Peroni and a cynical look. I gathered my will again and wandered the vias and the piazzas for the rest of the day. I watched the swarms of enthusiastic tourists clicking their cameras and further immortalizing statues of naked muscular men with hanging testicles and small penises. An hour or so before sunset I stopped again for a bite and another beer, a Moretti this time then walked back unhurriedly to the hotel where I slept the evening and night away. I wasn’t really disappointed in Rome but rather unimpressed. She reminded me of Zsa Zsa Gabor (b. 1917), the Hungarian-born American actress who was stunningly beautiful at one time. But nine marriages and the attrition of over ninety years had left their conspicuous toll. I found Rome a disenchanted city living the glories of her past and void of novel originality. The Italians, more Mediterranean than continental Europeans, suffer from our same Levantine infliction. They seem to be stuck in time while the rest of the world has moved forward in strides.

I briskly stepped out of the train carrying me from Schiphol airport to Amsterdam Centraal in less than twenty minutes. As I emerged from the underground station and took in my first panoramic look of the cityscape I immediately fell in love. I spent three days in Amsterdam and like a man madly in love with a stunningly beautiful woman I remember every little thing about her. I had imagined Amsterdam as a woman of aloof disposition, a flaxen with exceptional beauty, large breasts and pinkish nipples. How she turned out, however, is a thousand folds more intriguing. Immigrants came from everywhere, from Suriname, Indonesia, the West Indies, Turkey, Morocco, Italy and Spain and settled down to become part of the city’s identity. Her nipples had turned darker over the past two hundred years but certainly not less striking and tantalizing. Her breasts were smaller and firmer, her legs skinnier and taller, her hair wilder, her spirit livelier, her love more copious. Amsterdam decided at one point in her colorful history to shun aside all pretensions of chastity and conceited morality. She opened up and exposed to the world what goes on in every city in the shadows of dark shame and guilt. Prostitution and soft drugs are in no way degrading to the magnificent Dutch mindset.

I strolled the narrow passageways of the Red Light District where prostitutes display their mouthwatering bodies to the thousands of hungry eyes. I exchanged a word or two with a few of them and had a laugh and many smiles. No remorse, no guilt, no disgrace but a better understanding of true human nature. The tangy smell of marijuana filled the night air in the crowded Dam Square and the amber sparkle of frosty glasses of beer glittered with promises and assumptions. I lunched and dined around the city and experimented with Indonesian, Argentinean, Dutch and some of the best Italian pasta I’ve ever eaten anywhere, Italy included. Amsterdam permeated my skin and I reveled in an ecstatic abandon of Pilsner and light lager. Each restaurant and café promoted and served its preferred beer and I took every chance to sample a wide variety of drafts such as but not limited to Palm, Amstel, Heineken and Grolsch.

 

I dined in a boat and sipped South African wine while gliding through the canals of this magical city. I rode her trains, busses and trams and was besotted with her bicycles and the crisp yet relaxed pace of her ephemeral visitors and lifelong dwellers.

I know I have to go back there one day, hopefully with my wife and kids. Amsterdam broke all the taboos of the past and present and became a guiltless city where anything and everything goes, very much like Paradise. She has gone beyond morality, ethics and religion and is thriving in a higher form of humane conscience. I want them to see her with their own eyes and leave it to them to reach their own conclusions.

A week went by in the intangible silence between two successive heartbeats. A Week to remember in the arms of three cities.