A Shocking Closure: The Legacy of Abdul's Lebanese Restaurant
A beloved Sydney institution bites the dust, but its impact lives on.
When Abdul's Lebanese Restaurant closed its doors, it sent shockwaves through the city's culinary scene. This iconic eatery, a staple since 1968, had fed generations of Sydneysiders, from celebrities to students, and everyone in between. But here's where it gets controversial: the restaurant's closure isn't just about the food; it's a symbol of a changing city and a fading era.
For Hiba Damaa, the restaurant's story is deeply personal. Her parents, Dib and Nizam Ghazal, named the restaurant after their eldest son, Abdul, who later ran it with his brothers. To Hiba, Abdul's represented the spirit of early Lebanese migration, a testament to her family's hard work and dedication.
"Abdul's began as a humble Lebanese sweets shop," Hiba recalls. "When my brother-in-law moved on, my parents started selling falafel sandwiches. My mother made everything from scratch, and the line stretched down the street!" The business grew, adding dine-in tables and a second shop.
Abdul's daughter, Dina Ghazal, who worked there after school, attributes the outpouring of affection to her father's dedication. "Dad never took his customers for granted," she says. "He was a stickler for quality and service. In the early days, we had tablecloths and wine glasses, and we wore uniforms."
Dina explains that her father insisted on making labor-intensive dishes because customers loved them. "He'd even give out free falafel with tahini sauce during busy times. He always said generosity was key to success in the food business."
But here's the part most people miss: Sydney's Lebanese community wasn't always concentrated in the western suburbs. There are still traces of what was once known as Little Lebanon in the inner-south, if you know where to look.
John Betros, now 91, remembers his childhood in the area. Most homes on Great Buckingham Street, bordering Redfern and Surry Hills, were occupied by Lebanese families. "The Lebanese follow the churches," he says, pointing to well-established Lebanese churches in the area. St Michael's Melkite Catholic Church, St Maroun's Maronite Catholic Church, and St George's Antiochian Orthodox Church were all inaugurated in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
When Betros opened his pharmacy in Surry Hills in 1960, several restaurants catered to Lebanese migrants, particularly single men seeking a taste of home after work. This soon attracted a broader clientele.
"There was a Lebanese chicken shop, and then the Ghazal family opened Abdul's," Betros recalls. "They did well, so another opened next door, called The Prophet. Then a Lebanese grocery store, owned by a Greek man and his Lebanese wife, opened next to that. And because people loved the food, Fatima's opened too. Lebanese cuisine was in high demand."
Betros remembers the restaurant owners as friendly competitors. "Despite being rivals, there was no animosity. They were all good people, respectful of each other."
Ghazal's father saw the competition as a positive, a sign of a thriving community. Betros agrees, adding that the food was "somewhat exotic" to westerners.
As the clientele diversified, so did the restaurants' offerings. Some recruited belly dancers for functions and Saturday nights. Eleanor Sharman, a belly dancer at nearby Emad's, recalls westerners' reactions. "They didn't know how to deal with me. Couples on dates would watch each other, trying to avoid looking at me."
Lebanese patrons, however, had their own traditions, like tucking bills into her belt and bra. "In rooms kept for Middle Eastern parties, it was a different, more authentic experience. Cheers went up when I arrived, and men took turns dancing with me."
Ghazal describes Abdul's atmosphere as "beautiful and happy." The restaurant closed at 2 a.m., with Arabic music playing and patrons celebrating birthdays and parties. Some requested belly dancers, and it was a fun, lively scene.
Abdul Ghazal passed away nine years ago, and at the time of closure, his cousin Omar Ghazal ran the restaurant. Omar recently revealed that Abdul's will "come back stronger" after going into liquidation.
Dina Ghazal and Hiba Damaa attribute the restaurant's decline to changing demographics, rising rents, and post-Covid shifts in footfall. Damaa highlights the labor and fresh ingredients required for Lebanese cuisine, contrasting it with a simple bowl of pasta costing $30.
Abraham Zailaa, owner of nearby Fatima's, agrees. He told ABC Radio Sydney that Surry Hills was "thriving" pre-Covid, thanks to theaters and sports events. Now, local businesses "need support."
As tributes poured in after Abdul's closure, fans and locals lamented the area's changes, blaming gentrification and fearing another corporate eatery would replace it.
Dina remembers her father's commitment to accommodating his customers' tastes, even if they weren't authentic. "Dad wanted to cater to Australians who loved their tomato sauce with hummus and tahini with BBQ sauce. He didn't care about authenticity; he just wanted to serve what people loved."
So, what do you think? Is it possible to balance authenticity with customer preferences? Should restaurants adapt to changing tastes, or stay true to their roots? Let us know in the comments!
