The wild wood in winter

Contrary to all expectation Damascus is getting cold.  I saw my breath condensing as I was waiting for a bus last night, and suddenly I wish that our lovely old Damascene house was a lovely new house, with lots of lovely insulation and central heating instead.  Abu Michelle has very kindly installed a remarkable stove in the sitting room and now we can huddle round our can of fire in the evenings before streaking across the courtyard to a shivering bed and back again in the morning for, what you hope will be a hot shower.  The most attractive element of our house when we first arrived, other than it being old and 'authentic', was that is was cool in the summer.  Unfortunately, between the months of November and May, stretch nights upon nights of icy chill from the open sky of a semi-desert winter. Our house is centred around an open courtyard, with single thickness, breeze-block walls, poorly fitting, single-glazed windows and stone floors.  Underfloor heating is not an option.  As a result we have all taken to sleeping in approximately of our clothes (Barbour socks are Manna from Heaven) including at least two t/rugby shirts and trousers as well as our landlords heavy fleece blankets.  The problem is not so much that it is cold, as Damascus is unlikely ever to be chillier than Durham, but that, at the moment, there is no escape. The inside of our house is not more than a few degrees warmer than the outside, the University has not cranked up its central heating yet and we still don't have stoves in our rooms.

That said, Damascus is a beautiful place in the crisp chill of late autumn and now that the rains have passed it seems almost alpine. The low rise alleys look veritably clean against the pale blue of the post-summer sky and late evening travellers cram into the service buses in scarves, thick coats and garish knitted hats.  In fact, knitwear is something that distinguishes Syrians from foreigners quite distinctly in Damascus.  The local crop of jumpers is garish at best, and certainly the unity of colours in Benetton goes little distance toward tempering the horror of their designs.  The mode in Damascus amongst the young this winter is for chunky-knit pastels with intermittent segments of luminescent orange and discordant multi-coloured quarters and thick plaits woven into the chest and sides.  We went jumper hunting with Will last week and it would appear that he bought the only two tasteful jumpers in the city, although somehow, Syrians give the impression that they are pulling these styles off in a way that you could not. However there is solace for the deck shoed and shirt collared Westerner that the craze for two piece denim outfits, slicked black hair and black leather jackets (or jawakeet as the local dialect would have it) is still very much alive.  Perhaps in twenty years we will be laughing at their Jack Wills 'gilets' and pashminadanas. Perhaps not.  There are on the other hand who those have been blessed with a sense of style that is completely their own, and they get it very right.  The most morish example of which is the Damascene chocolatier Ghraoui who are soon to open in Paris and Milan if rumours are to be believed.  Not only are their products delicious, but their presentation in packaging and shop front are very sophisticated and elegant. Not at all what first impressions might lead you to expect from Damascus as a city.

Indeed, after a slightly depressing few culinary weeks in the old town - where the restaurants' location always outclasses the food, and the endless stream of slightly samey Arabic mezzeh and rather bland steak au francais with hard done by vegetables and piles of chips gives a depressing perspective on Syrian cuisine - I was amazed to be served what I can only describe as a delicacy in one of the least preposessing restaurants, tucked away behind the travel agents district near downtown Damascus.  The restaurant itself has a large glass fronted and plastic adorned exterior and in a village in the country could well have been represented by a shack.  Its specialty, I was told, was grilled meats, and I am ashamed to say the cynic in me did not hold his breath.  After a large and delicious selection of mezzeh had made its presence known to my appetite a round of lahm-a'gine (essentially a small pizza base covered with, in this case, whole strips of lamb) presented itself. Once that turned out on closer inspection to be delicious, it was time for some grilled meats.  In this case small, tender cuts of lamb, still on the bone, slightly pink in the centre and served with a simple salt and pepper seasoning that were so flavoursome as to sweep aside the homous and fattoush (salad) in its path and demand finishing to the last morsel.  I departed a very surprised and satisfied man.

With this flame of hope in mind and a burgeoning sense of adventure we set off in search of other food sources on a par, (including Edwardo's magnificent chicken and lentil supper, Guy's carbonara and an appropriation of Jackie Zamparella's spaghetti and aubergine sauce). So far have discovered a very fine Indian (by the name of The Taj Mahal) and heard rumour of an excellent french restaurant in the same area.  Just over the border in Beirut there is a very impressive choice of eateries. With several birthdays popping up soon, the prospect of many sorties into the delights of Beiruti evenings and with the possibility of some skiing in the Golan Heights after Christmas the winter is looking warmer by the day.