The recent closure of Abdul's Lebanese Restaurant in Sydney wasn't just the end of a business; it felt like a piece of Sydney's heart was ripped out. This wasn't just a restaurant; it was a landmark, a cultural touchstone, a place where celebrities and students alike could find solace in a delicious kebab. But what truly made Abdul's special? It was more than just the food; it was the legacy of a family and the spirit of a community.
For Hiba Damaa, the daughter of Dib and Nizam Ghazal, who founded Abdul's back in 1968 (naming it after her eldest brother), the restaurant represented something profound: the pioneering spirit of early Lebanese migrants in Australia. "Abdul's started as a small Lebanese sweets and pastry shop run by my brother-in-law," Hiba recalls. "When he decided to move on, my parents took over and began selling falafel sandwiches… It was incredibly small. And of course, back then, there was no readily available Lebanese bread, so my mother made it all from scratch. The line for her sandwiches stretched halfway down the street!" This humble beginning eventually blossomed into a full-fledged dine-in restaurant, and later, a second location.
Dina Ghazal, Abdul's daughter, who spent her after-school hours and weekends working at the restaurant, isn't at all surprised by the immense outpouring of love and memories following the closure. Her father, Abdul, was renowned for his unwavering dedication to his customers. He rarely took a day off, driven by a genuine desire to make people happy. "Dad never took his customers for granted," Dina emphasizes. "He was very serious about maintaining the restaurant's standards. In the early days, we had tablecloths, wine glasses, and even uniforms for the staff." And this is the part most people miss: it wasn't just about the food, but the experience.
Abdul's commitment extended to the menu. He insisted on preparing labor-intensive dishes because he knew his customers adored them. "He would even give out a free falafel with tahini sauce when the restaurant was busy and people had to wait in line," Dina remembers. His generosity wasn't just a marketing tactic; it was a core principle. "He always said you could not succeed in the food business if you weren't generous."
Many people today associate Sydney's Lebanese community with the western suburbs. But here's where it gets controversial... there's a rich history of Lebanese presence in the inner-south, in an area once known as "Little Lebanon." If you look closely, you can still find remnants of this vibrant past.
John Betros, a 91-year-old, vividly remembers his childhood spent in this area. He recalls how most of the homes on Great Buckingham Street, bordering Redfern and Surry Hills, were already inhabited by Lebanese families. "The Lebanese go where the churches are," he explains, and indeed, several Lebanese churches were well-established in the area: St Michael's Melkite Catholic Church (inaugurated in 1895), St Maroun's Maronite Catholic Church (opened in 1897), and St George's Antiochian Orthodox Church (in 1920). Wilson's, located on Pitt St Redfern, even claims to be the area's first Lebanese restaurant, opening its doors in 1957.
When Betros opened his pharmacy in Surry Hills in 1960, he witnessed a thriving scene of Lebanese restaurants catering to migrants, particularly single men seeking a taste of home after a long day's work. These restaurants then attracted a wider clientele, eager to experience the flavors of Lebanon. "There was a Lebanese chicken shop, and then the [Ghazal] family opened Abdul's… They were doing so well that another restaurant, called The Prophet, opened next door. And then, next to The Prophet, was a Lebanese grocery store owned by a Greek man and his Lebanese wife. As the restaurants filled up, Fatima's opened. Lebanese food was in great demand!"
Betros fondly remembers the camaraderie among the restaurant owners. "Even though they were competitors, there was no animosity between them. They were all nice people and very respectful of each other." Ghazal confirms that her father didn't feel threatened by the competition; he saw the bustling activity as a positive thing for the area.
Betros believes that the food's "somewhat exotic" nature also contributed to its popularity among Westerners. As the customer base became more diverse, so did the offerings. Some restaurants even hired belly dancers for special events and Saturday night entertainment. Eleanor Sharman, a belly dancer who performed at Emad's, a nearby restaurant, recalls that Westerners "didn't know how to deal" with her. "If it was a couple on a date, the woman would be watching the man, and so he would be trying not to look at me," she says. Lebanese customers, on the other hand, had their own traditions, such as tucking bills into her belt or, if they were quick enough, her bra. "At a room kept for Middle Eastern parties, it was a very different experience, and one that felt far more authentic and satisfying. Cheers went up when I arrived, and men would take turns getting up to dance with me."
Ghazal remembers a "beautiful, happy atmosphere" at Abdul's. "The restaurant used to close at 2 am," she says. "There'd be Arabic music playing, and people would celebrate birthdays and parties there. Some even requested belly dancers. It was fun."
Abdul Ghazal passed away nine years ago. At the time of its closure, the restaurant was being managed by Dina's cousin, Omar Ghazal, who recently announced that Abdul's will be "coming back stronger" after a period of liquidation. This gives hope to those who feel the loss of Abdul's deeply.
Dina Ghazal and Damaa attribute the decline of this once-thriving restaurant scene to a combination of factors: changing demographics, rising rents, and a shift in foot traffic after the COVID-19 pandemic. Damaa also points out the challenges of preparing authentic Lebanese food, which requires a lot of labor and fresh ingredients, while customers often have low-price expectations. She contrasts this with the high cost of a simple "bowl of pasta that you pay $30 for," which is made primarily of flour and egg. Abraham Zailaa, the owner of Fatima's, echoed these sentiments, noting that Surry Hills was "thriving" before COVID-19, thanks to people attending theaters and sporting events. Now, local cafes and restaurants "need the support."
The tributes that poured in after Abdul's closure reflect a deep sense of loss and a fear that the area is losing its unique character. Many long-time fans and locals lamented the gentrification of the neighborhood, worried that another gym or generic corporate eatery would take the restaurant's place. But what is the true cost of gentrification, and is it inevitable?
As for Dina, she remembers that her father always prioritized his customers' preferences, even if it meant deviating from traditional Lebanese cuisine. "Dad was adamant that he wanted to cater to the Australian community who still wanted their tomato sauce with hummus and their tahini with BBQ sauce." Abdul didn't care that they wouldn't make it like that in Lebanon. He just wanted to give people what they liked to eat. Was this the key to his success, or did it dilute the authenticity of Lebanese cuisine? What do you think? Share your memories of Abdul's and your thoughts on the changing landscape of Sydney in the comments below!
