Coffee houses of the Middle East

In Lebanon's bustling second city of Tripoli, a string of stalls selling fake designer watches and clothing line the bottom of a sand-coloured Ottoman-era building.

Flanked by an old cigarette shop and even older pharmacy is the arched entrance to Cafe Fahim, one of the country's oldest surviving coffeeshops.

In Lebanon, the days of tarboush-wearing men sipping coffee and smoking argileh, or shisha, in coffee houses border on extinction. A wistful memory of the bygone coffee house era remains in colourised photographs on postcards, and in the aesthetic of popular nostalgia cafes – each decorated to recreate an artificial, picture-perfect version of the country's better days.

But Cafe Fahim has stood the test of time, retaining an old-school authenticity that only belongs to a handful of cafes across the country.

“It was an Ottoman Bank between 1860 to around 1910 or so,” says the cafe’s owner, Khodr Shaarani. “Then it was rented out by the owners of the building and transformed into a cafe around 1925.”

The cafe’s first operator was known as Fahim Agha. In the decades after his death and throughout the years, Fahim Agha’s descendants were unable to keep up with the costs associated with renting the establishment and fell into debt.

“They weren’t able to afford it,” says Shaarani. “So the state closed it down and sealed the entrance in 2006 or maybe 2007.”

The cafe was shuttered for 10 years. Squatters eventually moved into the building.

“Four or five families moved in and were controlling Al Tal Square and the area around it because of their presence in this building and in this cafe,” he says.

Shaarani, a wholesale clothing trader who operates several businesses in the town square adjacent to Cafe Fahim, says the presence of the squatters became bad for business.

“Sometimes the families would fight among each other and clash in the street," he says.

“It became chaotic and unpredictable. It was even rumoured that people were kidnapped and taken into this building. So the people who squatted here were really hurting the area and our businesses.”

In 2017, he convinced the owners of the cafe, who live in Paris, to rent him the ground floor so he could have a legal basis for evicting the squatters. After that, he came to an arrangement with the squatters to leave the space.

“Reopening the cafe wasn’t on my mind at the time. I just wanted them out so we could conduct business in peace,” says Shaarani.

He soon saw the value in using the space, choosing to bring back the historic cafe and to name it Qahwet Fahim - or Cafe Fahim - in honour of the original owner.

"There’s nothing else this cafe could possibly be named. It’s a historic name," says Shaarani.

“It’s Tripoli’s oldest and biggest cafe. People from all classes and walks of life have come into this cafe.”

In the final years of Ottoman rule, Lebanon's intellectuals and revolutionaries would meet at the cafe to plot independence, he says.

"Now people have all these romantic notions of the Ottomans but back then a lot of people considered it an occupying power." he says. "Then, during the French colonial days, they would do the same.”

And when protests against the government erupted across Lebanon in October 2019, on the heels of an immense economic collapse, Shaarani reserved parts of the cafe for defiant citizens to strategise.

Cafe Fahim’s longevity is rivalled by Lebanon’s dynastic confessionalism. Since the cafe opened in the 1910s, the country has soldiered past two colonial powers, a 15-year civil war, two more foreign occupations, numerous political assassinations, countless clashes, multiple political crises and protest movements, one of the largest non-nuclear explosions in history, and one of the worst economic crises the modern world has seen.

The elderly who frequent Cafe Fahim belong to the Lebanon of "before": the golden age prior to the 1975-1990 civil war that changed the nation’s social fabric and codified its sectarian politics, while its younger clientele represent the Lebanon that came "after".

To avoid sectarian blame-mongering, Lebanese history textbooks end in 1943 – the year of the country’s independence. Young people must rely on snippets of oral history from family members to fill in the blanks, or conduct further research on their own.

But in Cafe Fahim, the younger generation mixes with the older, giving both an opportunity to see Lebanon’s history from each other's perspectives.

Each day, older men gather for hours under the cafe’s plastered Ottoman domes to smoke ajami-style argileh, the soaked tobacco stacked high with coals placed directly on top, play card games or backgammon, and gossip about the country’s political developments.

“I’ve been coming here for over 50 years. Back then an argileh and a coffee cost three francs,” says Samih Al Rawi, 68. “I would ride my bike to the cafe, past all the horse-drawn wagons. Tripoli didn’t have many cars back then.”

Between draws from ajami argileh, which is known to be particularly harsh on the throat and lungs, Al Rawi points down the street, where a string of ancient Mercedes Benz taxis stand awaiting customers.

“That used to be where the horses parked."

Cafe Fahim was already a historic fixture when Al Rawi began frequenting the establishment. His father and his grandfather before that were both years-long regulars of the cafe.

He had just graduated high school when Lebanon’s civil war broke out in 1975, and would bike down to Cafe Fahim when he wasn’t at work – against his father’s wishes.

About a year into the war, after Syrian forces invaded northern Lebanon, “my dad found me in the cafe. He handed me the day’s newspaper and told me to go home with it.”

But Al Rawi didn’t go home. Instead, he rode in the direction of his fiancee’s house but was inadvertently caught in clashes between Syrian and Palestinian forces. Suddenly, his eyes and head were bleeding, his stomach was gashed, and the newspaper had flown from his hand.

He had been hit by the shrapnel of an Energa anti-tank rifle grenade.

“The doctors didn’t think I’d survive. And that’s the story of how I almost died near this cafe," he says, gesturing to the cafe. Set within the walls of the nearly 200-year-old building are colourful stained glass windows and original tiles. Its domes are plastered and an old fountain sits in the middle of the street-facing courtyard, where customers can drink coffee under a peaceful canopy of trees.

Fahim is one of the few remaining of Lebanon’s classic coffee houses. The old-school argileh-and-backgammon cafes once harboured intellectuals, poets, revolutionaries and exiles from across the Levant. But Lebanon has evolved: Most of the classic cafes have closed down. Others, their original destination destroyed by war, have reopened with modern storefronts or franchised.

In most of Lebanon, the convivial coffeeshops of the country’s golden era have been replaced by pavement "expresses" selling instant coffee to people on-the-go, and western-style specialty cafes for more discerning customers.

“I’m not a fan of the express coffee they sell on the street. I prefer to sit here,” says Al Rawi as he watches people walk by.

A young man sitting nearby agrees with him. But unlike Al Rawi, Ahmad isn’t there to merely watch people come and go.

“Honestly, I like to watch and eavesdrop on them,” he says, nodding towards a group of men slapping playing cards down on a table, an argileh pipe hanging from each of their mouths.

“Through them I get to envision what Lebanon must have been like before the civil war messed everything up."

Down a narrow alley in Cairo's famed Khan El Khalili bazaar is one of Egypt's best known and most popular coffee houses.

Believed to have opened in the late 18th century, just before Napoleon Bonaparte's invasion of Egypt, El Fishawy has hosted royals, European generals, prominent authors and artists.

To reach it, visitors must navigate a maze of alleys in Cairo's medieval quarter and ignore the calls of shopkeepers imploring passers-by to buy their trinkets, colourful lanterns, clothes or jewellery.

Adjacent to the city's revered Al Hussein Mosque, El Fishawy is known across the region and remains a local favourite.

The cafe is long and narrow with crowded seating pushed up against each wall, leaving a path in the middle for servers to squeeze through. Above, a motley collection of artefacts hang precariously from the cafe walls. Visitors can also sit in the alleyway just outside the cafe on wooden benches and well-worn chairs tightly packed around circular metal tables with golden-yellow brass tops.

But a seat at El Fishawy is a rare commodity. It is perhaps one of the few places in Cairo where locals, Arab visitors and western tourists sit together in close proximity, loudly chatting away in a variety of languages and Arabic dialects. Their conversation is carried out between sips of tea from small blue metal pots or cups of black Turkish coffee infused with cardamom.

Lucky patrons will visit the cafe on a day an oud player and singer pass by, serenading customers with popular old Egyptian songs by legendary musicians such as Umm Kulthum and Abdel Halim Hafez. Whoever invites the pair to sit down and perform will most likely be the one who pays them an "ikramiyah", a tip of no less than 100 Egyptian pounds ($3)

El Fishawy offers a lively experience for visitors but can come with its downsides. Patrons are constantly interrupted by street hawkers, who pause at virtually every table to make a sales pitch for anything from Arabic books and bracelets to necklaces and rosaries. Women, mostly from neighbouring Sudan, also make the rounds, offering to imprint henna on women’s hands and forearms.

A shoeshine is always on hand, but his work routine requires a leap of faith on the part of El Fishawy’s patrons: the man does not do the job on site, but instead takes the shoes away, handing the customer a piece of cardboard to put their feet on before he vanishes.

He returns a short time later with the shoes polished.

With patrons seated on both sides of the alley, El Fishawy’s business-like waiters, who are distinguished by their blue jackets, often yell at pedestrians and the hawkers to move along so as not to bring pedestrian traffic to a halt in the narrow alley.

For some, these interruptions can outstrip the joy of visiting the historic establishment.

A veteran tour guide from Cairo, who prefers not to be named, says she stopped taking tourists to El Fishawy several years ago.

“The sellers are too much," says the 61-year-old guide.

"One of them appears every other minute and that quickly becomes very annoying. Now, I just take my clients walking past it to see it.”

For others, the cafe has become a caricature of itself, catering more to tourists than locals as it once did.

“I patronised El Fishawy many times and every time I go I am more convinced that the place does not reflect the historical significance or vibe of the area. It’s way too commercial,” says Ahmed Farouq, a 55-year-old father of two from Cairo. However, he says, “the service is quick and the drinks are not bad".

Unlike ordinary cafes where clients can linger for hours, El Fishawy’s patrons are made to feel unwelcome after 45 minutes to an hour. The message is conveyed by servers telling customers how much they should pay - the equivalent of a waiter bringing the bill to a customer unsolicited.

Prices at El Fishawy are three times what clients pay at standard coffee houses across the city of some 21 million people and maybe twice what similar, but definitely less popular outlets, in the Khan El Khalili area charge. And the tea and coffee are often not as good in comparison to those typically served at cafes of equal popularity in landmark Arab cities like Baghdad or Damascus.

The exorbitant prices and modest quality of the beverages at El Fishawy are perhaps more than made up for by the intrigue and historical aura emanating from the items hung on the walls in the indoor area. These include a life-size wooden crocodile from Sudan, a giant mirror with an ornate golden frame, crystal chandeliers and colourful Arab-style lanterns.

Adding to the lure of the interior are grainy black and white photos of Egyptian movie stars from the 1940s and 1950s taken in El Fishawy, and yellowing clippings of newspaper articles about the coffee house.

When it comes to a place as steeped in history as El Fishawy, the alumni of its celebrity clients can be a mix of fiction and fact. For example, some claim that Bonaparte himself visited when he was in Egypt in 1798-1799. Another claim is that Empress Eugenie of France visited and was served tea with mint in 1865 while touring the Khan El Khalili area.

But photo evidence exists to prove that Egypt’s Nobel literature laureate Naguib Mahfouz penned his famous Cairo Trilogy novels while patronising the tea house. The events of the three books take place in the same neighbourhood.

"At the end, there’s always value in boasting that you have actually sat at El Fishawy," says Farouq.

In the bustling heart of Old Baghdad is a coffee house frozen in time.

Beneath its ornately carved bronze sign, Al Shahbandar's windowed wooden doors offer passers-by a peak into a place that has attracted writers, politicians, and book lovers for more than a century.

A beloved institution among locals, the cafe can be found on the corner of Al Mutanabbi Street - the cultural hub of the city known as book street for its transformation on Fridays into a book market that draws thousands.

Today, despite decades of war and civil unrest in Baghdad, it is one of the few remaining cultural symbols of resilience and tradition in the changing capital.

"When I sit here I have an indescribable feeling,” says Jawdat Kadhum, a 58-year-old long-time customer. “You feel that all your history is here and the atmosphere discharges all your burdens."

For centuries, Baghdad has been known for the popular coffee houses dotted across its neighbourhoods on both banks of the Tigris River, which snakes through the ancient city.

Many of these coffee houses can be found on Al Rasheed Street, which was built by the Ottomans in 1916 as a modern and prestigious avenue for government offices, military barracks and, later on, nightclubs and commercial areas.

The cafes contributed to modern Iraqi culture and its thriving political scene. They served as the meeting place of intellectuals, thinkers and politicians who had a great impact on Iraq’s political, cultural and literary life.

Al Shahbandar was established in 1917, replacing a printing press owned by the Al Shahbandar family - a famous and affluent Baghdadi family known for their merchants and politicians who assumed senior positions mainly during Iraq’s monarchy from 1921 to 1958.

It is located amid important buildings, including the Serail, the seat of the government, and its Qishla Tower, which is fitted with a clock presented by King George V to King Faisal I.

The cafe is characterised by its unique Baghdadi architectural style. Built of yellow bricks and plaster with metal and wood columns, it is considered one of the few remaining important Ottoman-era heritage sites of the city. Inside, visitors sit on wooden benches lined with a flattened cushion, interspersing puffs of shisha with sips of coffee or tea placed on cigarette-burnt tables.

The fragrance of cardamom and lemon tea mingle with the smell of the smoke and a white-cheeked bulbul tweets from a wooden cage hung in the middle of the cafe, calling patrons in.

Antiques brass samovars and ceramic pots are neatly organised on shelves in the corner, where tea and other drinks are prepared. Other antiques are scattered around the cafe.

Dozens of black and white photos line its walls, taking visitors on a journey into Iraq’s modern troubled history from the Ottoman and British occupations to monarchy and the republics that followed the 1958 coup.

When the current owner, Mohammed Al Khishali, took over Al Shahbandar in 1963, he wanted to make it an oasis for culture and banned all games that are popular in cafes, including backgammon and dominoes.

It made the cafe a haven for writers, poets and politicians.

As a teenager, Khadum, who was born and brought up in the nearby Qanbar Ali neighbourhood, would meet his friends at Al Shahbandar every day to study or discuss politics and culture.

Moving to a modern area of Baghdad in 2004 could not keep him away and he continued to visit the coffee house at least twice a month with his sons and now grandsons.

“When I come here, I see all my life as if I’m sitting in a cinema,” the iron merchant says as an old Iraqi song plays inside the cafe, evoking a feeling of nostalgia among patrons.

“I always bring my sons and grandsons with me to let them see our Baghdad in the photos and nearby heritage sites,” he says, flanked by his son and 11-year old grandson.

The cafe is a testament to modern Iraqi history but it bears the scars of its turmoil.

The bloodshed that followed the toppling of Saddam Hussein's regime by the 2003 US-led invasion left its mark on Al Shahbandar. In 2007, a car bomb ripped through the area, killing more than 30 people and wounding about 100 others. Among the dead were the owner's four sons and a grandson.

It was defiantly reopened the following year and now commemorates the family's dead.

In one corner, pictures of the slain sons and grandson hang among a sign that reads: "Al Shahbandar, the Cafe of Martyrs".

Jordanian architect Madian Al Jazerah was flipping through the onboard magazine on a KLM flight in the early 1990s when he saw an advert for a cafe and book business in Amsterdam.

He was on his way from San Francisco to Amman to meet his parents. They were among thousands of Jordanian expatriates of Palestinian origin expelled from Kuwait after the Gulf War in 1991.

"I was on my way to join my parents, who had just became refugees and I was thinking one day I will open a cafe like this," says Al Jazerah.

"I tore the advert from the magazine," he says. "Years went by and, by that time, the internet became in [vogue]."

In 1997, he opened books@cafe, one of the first cafes in the Arab Middle East with internet service, in an old house in Jabal Amman. The cafe also sold books, and later added an art gallery. It attracted mainly middle class Jordanians, tourists and western students learning Arabic, who wanted a place with a different feel to the cafes in the derelict downtown or in Amman's newer, and uniform, western areas.

Al Jazerah opened a second branch in Abdoun, a newer district of the capital, in 2011.

Today, books@cafe is among the most prominent in a city not known for a cafe culture, partly because Jordan did not come into being until 1921, when it was established as a British protectorate, before independence in 1946.

Amman did not take shape as capital until almost three decades later, when the first wave of Palestinian refugees led to significant population growth and economic expansion.

The city also did not produce cafes with a region-wide reputation. In Cairo, Damascus and Beirut, cafes such as El Fishawy, Rawda and the now-vanished Mocha attracted a cross-section of Arab intelligentsia and built up a loyal clientele over generations.

Instead, cafe culture in Jordan appears to have jumped straight into the modern era, as embodied by books@cafe.

From the road in Jabal Amman, the cafe doesn't particularly stand out. It is barely distinguishable from neighbouring homes, apart from its large sign. Newer terraces and other glass additions built by Al Jazerah offer a view of Amman's old centre. A facade of chipped limestone, mandated by the building code in Amman, frames a large window and beside it, the main door is painted white.

The typical exterior masks modern space and designs on the inside. Graphic wallpaper sourced from Finnish fashion company Marimekko, known for its use of zippy colours, gives some rooms a 1960s vibe. Jackie Kennedy wore Marimekko dresses during the 1960 US election campaign, partly to project a young image.

Visitors can either dine at shiny black tables on bright orange chairs or sit on tall seats at the slick bar.

The menu offers Arabic dishes, such as hummus, and Western ones, including muesli and hamburgers, as well as a dish named confusion pizza, which is half pizza and half pasta.

"It sounds very heavy but it one of our most popular dishes," says Al Jazeerah, who waited on tables and cooked when the business stared, and devised the menu ad hoc with his brother.

One of the kebab offerings contains pomegranate molasses, the cafe's take on a 1,000-year-old sweet-and-sour dish from Aleppo, inspired by the city's trade with China.

As far as coffee, regulars vouch that the American percolated variety at books@cafe is reliably good.

Despite the western influences, the cafe has contributed to the revival of one of Amman's few organic areas. Some of the city's best restaurants have since opened in old houses in Jabal Amman, along with niche shops and businesses catering for tourists, next to butchers', barbers' and groceries.

At least one Arabic language school has opened and several buildings have been converted into hostels. Some descendants of the rich families renovated the houses they inherited, and moved into them.

The area was Amman's premier district in the 1950s, when merchant families from Palestine and Syria built villas in the district. Their descendants abandoned the area in the 1980s to move further west.

But unlike the rest of Amman, Jabal Amman has street trees. Many of the houses also have gardens with old citrus and fig trees.

When Al Jazerah first saw the area in the 1990s, it reminded him of the town of Jenin in Palestine, where the family is from.

"It was run-down and felt abandoned. Most of the [wealthy] families had moved," he says.

"But it had the mature trees the old houses. I knew if I was going to a place that was going to be part of my identity it would have to be right there."