Circles of Birds

In British English there's a term for the strange love some people, mainly men, have for flying rodents: pigeon fancying.

It's normally a hobby confined to older people and it's seen as a little odd and, perhaps old-fashioned.

Maybe that's also the case in Lebanon, I don't know any pigeon fanciers here, but it's common enough to see clouds of pigeons circling above Beirut of an evening.

Birds, in a circle

If that's not amusing enough, the accompanying whistles and claps coming from the fancier create a sort of soundtrack to a lazy evening. The kick of it is that Lebanese pigeon fancying is a competitive sport. Yep. I called it a sport.

Fanciers compete, clashing their bird clouds together and attempting to trick birds from another coop to join their pack of flying rats. Yes, the competition revolves around "stealing" your neighbour's birds. I'm sure that the average bird probably changes teams on a regular basis.

Pigeon fancying, in a city. In a country that is notorious for shooting and eating anything that flies. Odd. But fun.

The hunt continues

A while ago I wrote a piece about my efforts to find the best margarita in Hamra. At the time Colon ranked first by a distance, followed by Dany’s.

However, it’s time I posted a brief update.

Over the last couple of weeks I have retested the offerings at both Dany’s and Bricks (all in the name of social research, I assure you) and have to alter my findings.

Dany’s – At Dany’s there is a certain bartender by the name of Jean. Beyond being an all-round good guy, Jean also mixes a mean margarita. Pretty much spot-on. Provided that Jean is on the bar, Dany’s margarita’s are almost a match for those of Colon.

Bricks – A margarita appears to be a very personal experience. As with Dany’s a certain talented individual can make all the difference. Appalled at my description of the Bricks margarita in my previous post the manager, Jose, took up the challenge. The result? A unique take on the traditional margarita, made with a touch of lemon and a refreshingly different approach to the old classic. Definitely worth a try. Again, ask for Jose.

And now an out-of-Hamra (shock horror) margarita joins the mix:

Carlito’s (Antelias) - Now, I must admit to a certain bias here as my brother-in-law was the bartender in question.

However, Carlito’s (part-owned by the guy who managed Monet’s Pacifico back in the day when it did the best mixed drinks in town – as an aside, a few of the bartenders at Kayan are graduates of the Pacifico school overseen by this guy) margarita was quite exceptional. Simply blended, a mix of sweet and sour, not too much salt, it was a great example of what an extraordinarily simple mixed drink can be if done well.

-

As Carlito’s isn’t a Hamra bar, the league table stands as follows:

Colon – Nadim still rules the roost

Dany’s – Provided Jean’s on the bar (Carlito’s would slot in at joint second place)

Bricks – Try out Jose’s alternative blend

Ferdinand / Neighbours – This blog is not responsible for any injuries that occur while sampling margaritas at either establishment

The verdict so far – If you’re looking for a margarita in Hamra, speak to Nadim, an easy-going guy and a talented mixer.

Dinner with Momo

I recently had the pleasure of dining at Downtown’s Momo at the Souks. A friend and I had dinner there earlier in the week. Thankfully, she’s one these vegematarians so, despite being a committed carnivore I was able to “enjoy” some herbivorous items from the menu.

The terrace, overlooking the souk

I’d been before but was a little reluctant to post about it for two reasons, firstly, it was during my hiatus from Brit in Beirut, secondly, the experience wasn’t all that (it was just after it opened, so I was willing to cut them a little slack).

This time however, everything was great.

Pastilla, essentially a pigeon pie, is one of my favourite dishes and Momo’s was second only to La Mamounia in Marrakech and possibly the Momo’s in London, so I was off to a good start. I followed that with a lamb tagine. I figure that the best baseline test for any Moroccan restaurant has to be their tagine and I wasn’t disappointed. This isn’t to say that it was the best, my wife’s tagine approximation is better, but it was pretty damn close.

Pastilla...

My poor little veggie friend, when she found the energy to express emotion, claimed that her aubergine starter and veggie tagine were both good. I can’t claim to the veracity of her statement regarding the aubergine dish, but the tagine certainly tasted vegetablely and thus, I presume, was satisfying enough to one unused to the taste of proper food.

And now we get to the real reason why Momo’s got a reprieve the first time around … they serve port. Port, for the uninitiated among you, is God’s drink. It’s a fortified wine originally from Portugal but also consumed in vast quantities by certain types of Brit. I am of that type. The list at Momo’s isn’t extensive, but it’s serviceable. I went out of my way to sample several varieties and was pleasantly pleased, and slightly inebriated.

Mmmmmm...... port........

All-in-all, a good night, good ambiance, good food and great staff. It was pretty reasonably priced, and without my port indulgence would have come to around 45 USD per head without wine, which is OK in my book. Plus, as my friend said, the wallpaper’s pretty.

My, look at the pretty pink walls

(Disclaimer: I am not a meat Fascist. I believe there’s a time and place for vegetarian options, when you’re too old to chew for example, or when you’re dead.)

Beirut nights and the (aging?) Brit…

There was once a time when I’d cut through the crowds, empty glass and cigarette in hand, oblivious to the music, heading for the bar, to my friends, or a girl I liked the look of. It didn’t much matter where I was, what music filled the air, the music, the drink, the vibe, that’s all that mattered.


New York, Orlando, Miami, the UK, Beirut, New Zealand, the beachside clubs of the South Pacific, it was all the same. Whatever city it was, whatever the scene was, past midnight meant after hours drinks, music, knifing through the crowd in search of someone and that endless struggle to last till dawn.

As a young man I spent the most formative year of my life in New York. It made me realise what I wanted to do with my life, how I saw myself and how I could present that to others. It was an introduction as to what was possible, should you choose to grasp it. Added to that being “an Englishman in New York” made life that much sweeter.

Ahhh, Sting ... The hair's quirky, but I do 

question the scarf though...

Grasp it I did, that year passed by quickly, long hours at the office doing something I loved (publishing), longer nights at some of the most incredible bars and clubs and night spots on the planet. Or, if they weren't the best, they were certainly interesting:

DO: Arrive on your Harley

DON'T: Wear a suit... you will end up hosed

in tequila ... trust me... what can I say? It

was immediately after work, I had a meeting...

plus, she had a six pack and wielded a syphon 

like it was some sort of frickin' whip...

That all passed and I headed back to the UK for my bachelors. Armed with a self-confidence that now seems incredible, three years passed in a blur of ale, student discount nights, trips with the rugby team to distant cities and the weekly “social”*.


Eventually I ended up in Beirut to attend AUB. My introduction to the city was intense, I ended up living with a group of American students, they’d been in town for a year and were not the type to let an opportunity pass them by. Week 1: Centrale (Flaming Lamborghini’s on the bar), BO18 (too many single men sweating and on acid), Club Sociale (back in the day when it was little more than a long bar), Crystal (sparklers et al), Pacifico (when the food was still good), Element (Pink Floyd at 02.00 anyone?). Week 2: Oblivion. Can’t remember. Women (including my future wife) dancing on bars, boozy dinners at our penthouse apartment opposite Bank Audi on Hamra, it was endless. Somehow I ended with an M.A. … God knows how. My abiding memory is of a bottle of a substance known as Slwibowitz, a plum brandy that would be put to better use removing rust from your outdoor grill… Almost a potent as a certain South African brandy named Klipdrift where you’d bleed from the eyeballs after one glass.

The things we do to fit in...

Satan's drink

Fast forward five years …


It’s gone. The desire to continue to the end, the need to see that vanilla sky at dawn simply isn’t there anymore.


Last night I visited the kind of bar I craved when younger. Achingly cool, concrete floors, chains linking seating areas to the ceiling, bartenders who ignored you until the urge to reach over the bar and grab them by the throat was almost overwhelming. And the music, the music was as painfully chic as could be. The drink flowed, the women swayed … but it just wasn’t doing it.


As I sat nursing a 961 (lager, thanks) I reflected on it all. Actually, I didn’t, I just realised that this was the last place in the world that I wanted to be.

You might not look like much, but

you're safe and I love you

Don’t get me wrong, I was there with some of my closest friends, one of whom will be leaving Beirut shortly. I was more than happy to be there. At least I was. As the night wore on and the drink flowed something dawned on me: This no longer interests me.


It’s a little sad to realise that you’re no longer interested in clubs. A city like Beirut has it all, Sky Bar, the myriad rooftop bars, BO18, etc., etc., etc.. It’s all academic…


Dragonfly, that’s more like it. God help me, but surround me with Frenchies complaining about everything under the sun and I’m a happy man... plus ... they serve those little wheat puff things that are so addictive after one beer...

--

*Social: Something akin to an initiation ritual at a US college, but on a weekly basis for members of sports clubs, the one hosted by the rugby club was the most brutal. 

961 image shamelessly pilfered from here.

---

I've been gone for a while, but am, I hope, back for good.

Services and me…

I took my first service in about a year last month and I’ve been doing so fairly frequently since. It got me thinking about services / cheroots / shared taxis, whatever you want to call them.

When I first came to Lebanon (to live, rather than on holiday) in 2004, services were my main mode of transport. Living in Hamra meant that just about everywhere was too far away to contemplate walking on a Friday night and generally getting out and about relied on the use of services.

When I first appeared here, with little or no Arabic (compared to my pidgin-French-English mash, which gets me by these days), services were my worst nightmare.

Ok, so you’re supposed to be able to get to most places for a thou’, or two at most, right? That’s what my Lebanese friends had told me. Try that with a “fresh off the boat”, pale skin tone and a lack of Beiruti jaow. Not going to happen.

So, there I am sitting listening to how the price of petrol has gone up, or that how the guy’s got children to feed. Sure. I’m sure the guy who sells me my Lights also has kids to feed and bills to pay, doesn’t mean I have to haggle over my pack of coffin nails. But, ok, I want to get to Torino to meet my girl, and that means I’m getting in, regardless of the cost.

Whatever, suffice it to say that white guys, yeah, we get screwed when it comes to services.

 "AUB students ahead, I've got the dumb

foreigner,you go for the Lebs, we'll split the 

difference, back here in an hour."

However… they’re also an educational goldmine that all too often goes unexplored. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been told about party A, or party B, politician A, or politician B’s inner most thoughts. Now, that might not sound like much, but, as a foreigner first arriving in the city … it’s great. The majority of Lebanese you talk to tow the official party line, they’re at least wary of the fact that you’re a pale face and they don’t want to upset, or confuse you – alternatively, you’re sticking by rule no. 19. Service drivers? Hah. Once they’ve decided that they’ve scammed you enough, they’re a fount of useful (or it is useless?) information. Sure, that information is as biased, screwed up, inaccurate or simply baseless as any other, but it’s delivered with an enthusiasm that, frankly, is often missing in polite society. Whereas other Lebanese might groan and sigh when talking politics, the service driver? It’s his life.

Added to that, around Hamra and Gemayzeh certainly, chances are Service Man speaks at least five languages. English, French, Arabic, Danish and Gaelic are ones I’ve come across. That’s great, but it makes the times when you just want to sit in the back and relax difficult… claim you don’t understand Arabic and he’ll start chatting to you in whatever language you do…

Two enduring service moments remain me with from my early days in Hamra… firstly, sitting in the backseat after having too much to drink, usually via the helping hand of Pacifico’s Tony, head bouncing around, wishing for Malak al Batata to appear ahead … suddenly the tires hit Hamra’s cobblestones and, I’m home. Rashad’s going to hit me up with the best sharwarma on this side of town, a cold bottle of Rim and my bed await upstairs … home sweet home.

The second revolves quickly knocking back a cup of coffee at Younes, back when it was still little more than a corridor with a few chairs outside, cursing as I burnt myself, and then jumping into the back of whatever red-plated monstrosity came around the corner, then off to Saint Joseph for four hours of Arabic language self-flagellation.

Those were the days.

Does anyone have any interesting service tales to tell?

How to write about Beirut 101

I just found this piece by Angie Nassar on the Daily Star's blog. Given that I recently posted this little discussion about the British press, I thought it appropriate to share.

Here's an excerpt:

This is a cliché article about why “Beirut is back”

First, I will romanticize Lebanon into a chic, post-war brand so you can buy into this cliché article about why “Beirut is back.” I will tell you that there was a 15-year civil war in the country from 1975-1990, and then contrast several buzzwords and phrases like “battered” “bruised” and “once-divided” with notions of “rebirth” “glamorous” and “united.”

This paragraph begins with one of the four “p” metaphors: pawn, playground, pearl or Paris. Beirut is like one of these. I could also use Switzerland as an analogy, but that is *so* overdone. And take note: I will repeatedly refer to Lebanon’s capital throughout this article as if it is representative of the country as a whole.
 

Well, it made me laugh.