Way back in a former life, my very first job was in Church Street Parramatta. I worked in an office within ten metres of heavy haulage trucks that would trundle along the road in that pre-motorway era. The noise would be deafening, and my desk would vibrate as they thundered past.
Much has changed along Church Street of course, with restaurants now lining the street, an emphasis on outdoor dining, council-sponsored landscaping and the provision of motorways and by-passes all discouraging trucks from the area. With so much effort placed into creating the right conditions for eating out, it would be nice to report that Parramatta is worthy of the trip along the M4. At the beginning of the evening however, things don’t look to have changed at all.
A stretch Hummer the size of a demountable classroom is snaking its way along Phillip Street, replete with doof-doof music blaring and the gaggle of teenagers in the back seat reminds us that the HSC finished just four hours earlier and we have fetched up in the middle of a Year 12 Formal hell. We agree to go in search of something away from the main strip, and at my companion’s suggestion head for Sahra, the award-winning Lebanese restaurant near the ferry wharf in Phillip Street. As we wander past the Sebel Hotel, the teenagers are making their grand entrance, with collections of mothers looking on as they step out of vintage cars. The parents appear proud of their pretty children, or maybe just relieved at surviving the horror of an HSC year, but it strikes me that this should be their cause for celebration as well and not just that of their children.
Sahra is built into the back of an award-winning building, with floor to ceiling glass affording views of the tarted up riverbanks and cycle path directly behind. There’s a choice of indoor or al-fresco dining with tables topped with cloth and paper and dark wood chairs. It’s a world away from the laminated tables and Beirut tourism posters of Lebanese eateries of my former life. There is attention to detail in everything from the provision of Persian rug covered cushions lining the banquettes to art works of old Lebanon on the walls. It’s spacious and gracious, warm and welcoming and it’s blessedly free of kitch.
After being shown to our table and handed menus, the waitress reminds us that the Fortune Teller will be taking bookings until 10 pm. A Fortune Teller? Oh yes, says the waitress, she’s here every Friday and Saturday night and very popular. I resist the temptation, because by now I’m looking at the hefty six page menu.
To make our decision easier we opt for a banquet menu and are almost immediately served with bread and a trio of dips – labneh, babaganouj and hommous - and a dish of pickled vegetables and olives, and finally a plate of stuffed vine leaves. Thinking this constitutes the entrees, we tuck in, only to have the next wave of foods bought to us – platters of tabouleh and fattoush, some coriander-spiked fried potatoes and a mixture of small spinach and sumac (fataya) and lamb and pine nut (sambousik) pastries. And that’s just the entrees.
Clearly this is a meal to be eaten slowly. The owners spell out their philosophy across the menu page - “we strive to make you leave our establishment happier, healthier and wiser” and to that end, they are wonderful. This is food that has been made with a lot of love and with great respect for their heritage. The labneh is lemony and tart, the breads studded with oregano-flecked za’ttah. It is when I eat the first dolmades that I am tempted to head straight into the kitchen. I want to stand at the side of the person who put these together, as there is no hint of mass-production in the astringent, lip-smacking after-taste. They are delicious. The tabouleh is hand-diced, light on the burghul, a more gentle and thoughtful version of the standard. The fattoush is a standout, with coils of pan-fried crispy Lebanese bread resting on uniformly cut pieces of radish, capsicum, well-flavoured tomatoes and studded with pomegranate seeds, all delicately dressed with a sumac and pomegranate-flavoured vinaigrette. We practically fall over the potatoes, pan-fried, garlicky and sensational. Whoever is in charge of the cooking has an excellent palate - nothing overwhelms and there is a light touch in the flaky consistency of the pastries and composition of the salads.
The mains in this banquet consist of a variety of shish-kebabs, and I opt for a vegetarian dish, Mijadara, a cumin-scented and fried onion-topped rice and lentil pilaf. While lovely, it seems a little restrained after the exuberance of the entrée platters. I could have stopped at the mezze dishes, or headed straight to the honey and mint tea and arack, but really why would you? The hospitality is working its charm – this is a place to linger.
It is at this stage that the lights dim and the belly dancer begins. The women at the table next to us are clapping in time to the music, men and women take it in turns to dance with her, unselfconsciously. Outside, a table of young men have ordered a hookah, nearby a large family including grandparents and young babies are finishing off the Sultan’s Banquet. It feels like I’m in the company of friends. It’s a shame the parents at the Sebel could not come here instead for a reminder that life is to be celebrated – they would have found plenty to smile about, safely away from the hullaballoo nearby.
As we head out into the night, my companion asks if he did well with his restaurant choice. Yes, I say, you did very, very well, and we head off arm in arm, back towards the waiting vintage cars. I don’t need a Fortune Teller to tell me that, for now at least, the future is assured.