What is the name for the grief of losing a restaurant? Surely the Germans have a word for it.
Many Sydneysiders will be keening and lighting candles for Abdul’s, a beloved Lebanese restaurant with threadbare carpets, laminated menus, a man who could roll a kebab for the Olympics and the most delicious food. After being a staple and a landmark for decades, it’s difficult to believe it has really gone.
Abdul’s occupied a key corner shop in a part of Sydney that used to be somewhere to avoid. When you paid for your meal, only the strongest willed could resist picking up a baklava or turkish delight. The hummus was smooth. The service curt. It was perfect.
One of Abdul’s primary charms was that it never changed. You could expect the assuring toss of the bag of Lebanese bread on the table as you sat down. They were among the last businesses to accept payment by card. The decor remained unchanged since I first went there as a child. None of this was a deterrent. It had legions of fans.
In fact, my devotion to Abdul’s predates my birth. My parent’s first date was at Abdul’s, leaving my mum with the impression Dad was cheap, but I’m pretty sure the shawarma won her over. I can’t imagine it being anything Dad said.
Relevantly, my parent’s thirtysomething wedding anniversary was also held at Abdul’s. In fact, all key family events were marked there – partners and kids indoctrinated as they came along. Birthdays, pregnancy announcements: Abdul’s was always our go-to as life happened. It was a constant.
The family who ran it felt like quasi characters in our lives: dependable, always there, churning out excellent food day in, day out. I can only imagine what our city was like in the mid-60s and how extraordinary Lebanese food must have seemed when they opened their doors. My only frame of reference for a family-run business is watching Succession – so it seems complicated. And yet Abdul’s ran for 60 years, which shows something about how special it was. Both in felafel quality and the family behind it.
It was appreciated by so many, whether for a quick kebab where everything was dependably fresh, or a banquet where upon completion you’d need to be rolled out of the venue. The owners would take a picture with famous folks who visited and stick it on the wall, alerting us that our choice of Lebanese restaurant was endorsed by Wayne Bennett and Miranda Tapsell. What could be more Sydney than celebrity-endorsed kebabs?
Now we are bereft. Where to turn without a restaurant that my family had used as an alternate living room for decades? What about the next time I have a hankering for a vat of baba ghanouj?
I wish I had been a better devotee, not complaining as prices went up, remembering to go regularly, giving the “lemon drink” another go after years of deciding it was for decoration only.
After the pandemic lockdowns we all saw businesses struggling and some of our institutions just couldn’t stay afloat. Somehow I thought Abdul’s was locked into the foundations of Elizabeth and Cleveland streets, fossilised into the landscape, available to me for ever. Time never did seem to take effect inside its walls.
What I wouldn’t give to go back now.
Thank you Abdul’s for the memories, for introducing my country kid Dad to Lebanese food in the 70s, for the perfect tangy tabbouleh, for eventually installing an Eftpos terminal. You have a special place in my heart and stomach for ever.
Emily Mulligan is a writer based in Sydney
