A Nablusian Breakfast

Walking down Nablus’ covered streets is enough to make anyone hungry, even if my destination wasn’t already a local eatery. Coffee and cardamom is the overwhelming scent but the piles of dates are a feast for the eyes and the sound of frying sweet treats sets off a salivation in any passerby. It even seems to overwhelm the low level clucking of the caged birds whose fate, next to the boiling water vats, is best not contemplated. We turned off the main street at a particularly decorative fountain on the corner of a mosque, a peculation of Islam into the fabric of the town. The excitement of an agnabi (foreigner) in the house ignites a flourish of activity as I was welcomed by all; to Palestine, to Nablus, to the eatery. Fresh bread was brought from the oven; arriving like little balloons and slowly deflating to form a warm, edible plate. Pickled things; an everyday delicacy in the West Bank; brightly coloured cauliflower, gherkins and spicy peppers (be careful! The wrinkles can be deceiving...) Houmous generously sprinkled with cumin and labani-yoghurt lavisciously lashed with yellow-green olive oil. Simple fare, but delicious. Finally the smiling owner slaps down the main dish: a flat omelette deeply fried to an almost crispy crust. He pulls up a chair with a patriarchal air and urges ‘eat’. The dishes never seem to empty as the warmth of the Palestinians is reflected in their hospitality. Their passion portrayed in an almost aggressive provision; you can’t possibly be full. Finally coffee is brought in. The cliché comparison between their coffee and the Palestinians; the extremities of sweet and bitter, the fine balance between a last sip and a mouth of grains is hard to avoid. Easily missed, however, is the complete sense of tranquillity which settles the table when the food has been eaten, the coffee drunk and we sit smoking and nodding.