Liquid Refreshment

To paraphrase Tom Waits: I like to consider myself a pioneer of the palate, a restauranteur, if you will; I've wined, dined, sipped and supped in some of the very most sublime and ridiculous spots this sweet sphere has to offer.

In particular, I have an abiding interest in the boozy concoctions that various places have concocted, and it was thus that I approached Syria with a certain amount of trepidation; in a majority-Muslim country, what would be available?

In truth, I needn't have feared. Syria has a significant Christian population (about 10% of the country's inhabitants, as opposed to other Arab nations like Morocco which are virtually 100% Muslim), and liquor stores aren't the sordid, maudlin affairs that they seem to be in North Africa; they stay open during Ramadan, their windows aren't blacked-out like the storefront of an adult bookstore in Times Square, and they have a thoroughly decent selection of the sort of internationally-known liquors that you'd find in a duty-free store.

Not that this does me any favors. I can't afford duty-free liquor; I'm living on $550 a month, and I need to know what the proletariat are drinking. It is thus that I offer up a brief summary of my explorations into the world of cheap, locally-available tipples.

Category 1: Beer

It isn't hard to find the usual brands of light lager here; Heineken, Corona, Amstel Light and the like are readily available; there's even a store that has the Czech Budweiser (which bears gratifyingly little resemblance to its American counterpart). As to what the locals are actually drinking in Damascus, it seems to boil down to three choices; the Turkish-brewed Efes, the Lebanese Al-Maza and the locally produced Al-Barada.

There isn't much to say about Efes, really, except that it comes in rather large cans and that they also brew an "Extra" version that tops out at 9% alcohol, for when there is serious work to be done. In terms of flavor, it is thoroughly innocuous, and not particularly worth describing. Al-Maza is equally retiring, and both work well to cool the brain on a hot day.

Then there is Barada.


With Barada, like Forrest Gump's box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get. Bottles come in three different colors of glass (clear, green and brown), and the labels all seem to be of different vintages. Some of the labels list it as 3% alcohol, other's 4%--and others, with admirable honesty, claim that it is between 3-5% alcohol.

In terms of gustatory experience...

There are few times in my life that I have attempted to consume a foodstuff or beverage that was so laughably atrocious that I laughed out loud. One of those times involved my first sip of Barada. Its head resembled soap bubbles, and the flavor closely resembled that of used dishwater. I wish this were an exaggeration. Strangely enough, my second experience a month later was considerably tastier. Perhaps they tweaked their machinery, perhaps the boss came in early or late, perhaps all the good stuff had settled to the bottom of the brewing vat? I'll never know, but whenever I have the daredevil urge, I know I can get a thrill by ordering up a bottle of this stuff.

Category 2: Wine

The wine scene in the Middle East has an admirable pedigree, as anyone who's read the Old Testament knows. "Old," however, does not necessarily translate to "good." Syria itself doesn't seem to have much wine production going on, and though I've seen a few bottles for sale, I've been warned off them by well-meaning friends. Jordanian wine doesn't seem worth the trouble, though their marketing squads do make much of its Holy Land status. The clear winner seems to be Lebanon; the reds are cheap and usually tasty, , though til now, I've yet to encounter anything worth taking home.

Category 3: Liquor

Sometime in the middle of the summer, I wound up wandering into one of the government run commissaries that provide various foodstuffs and kitchen supplies for astonishingly low (and clearly subsidized) prices. To my surprise, one couldn't even enter the main rooms without walking by the liquor counter, which carried a hair-raising assortment of locally-produced selections. Intrigued, I decided to purchase a bottle of the local gin, which cost me approximately $1.65 for a 750ml bottle.

It is... an acquired taste, and in that respect I suppose it's just like more expensive, ostensibly better gin. It has a faint industrial aftertaste, as though the distillers forgot to clean off some sort of industrial lubricant before running a batch through. As is usual in these cases, the more one consumes the more charm it has, and when heavily adulterated with tonic and lime--in season, alhamdulillah--the experience need not be overly unpleasant.

Lest one think that I take a universally dim view to the state of Syrian liquor production, there is one drink that has yet to disappoint. That drink, ladies and gentlemen, is the noble Arak.

Arak is an anise-flavored liquor produced throughout the Levant, and is very similar to Greek Ouzo or Turkish Raki (although as is usual in these cases, it is wise to praise the relative superiority of the local product should you find yourself in any of these countries.) Highly alcoholic, it's usually diluted heavily with water before consumption. The addition of water renders the clear liquor a cloudy, milky white, a transformation I always find exciting. (I've tried and failed to understand the precise chemical reasons for this phenomenon; something to do with insoluble oils, as I recall.)

Syria, Lebanon, and Jordan all produce a few brands; price points range from gratifyingly cheap (about $3.50 a bottle) to $30 and up, but so far as I've been able to tell, quality is consistent no matter the thickness of one's wallet. If you don't like anise, I suppose you're out of luck; if you do, it's worth seeking this stuff out (or hitting up any friends you know who might be making a trip back from Syria sometime soon).

Teetotalers are in luck, as well; almost anywhere in the city you're not far from a glass of the freshest, most delicious juice the planet has to offer. When I arrived in June, mulberries were in season, and my tongue was purple for days. Now the mulberries have gone, but we're in the middle of pomegranate season, which means that you can have the supremely decadent experience of fresh pomegranate juice, squeezed before your eyes, for about a buck. Fancier places will also offer milkshakey concoctions of bananas, chocolate, milk and other fun things, but I haven't felt the need to try, honestly. I can make a smoothie at home, but I can't walk outside and buy pomegranates.

Hope you're all well--

John