The sudden closure of Abdul’s Lebanese Restaurant in Sydney’s ‘Little Lebanon’ earlier this month left many hearts heavy. For over five decades, it wasn’t just a restaurant—it was a cultural cornerstone, serving everyone from celebrities to cash-strapped students with its legendary kebabs and hearty dishes. But here’s where it gets emotional: Abdul’s wasn’t just about food; it was a living testament to the resilience and pioneering spirit of Sydney’s early Lebanese migrants.
Hiba Damaa, whose parents Dib and Nizam Ghazal founded the restaurant in 1968, recalls its humble beginnings. Named after her eldest brother Abdul, who later ran it with his siblings, the establishment started as a tiny Lebanese sweets and pastry shop. “My brother-in-law initially ran it,” Hiba explains. “When he moved on, my parents began selling falafel sandwiches. It was so small, and my mother made everything from scratch—even the Lebanese bread, which was unheard of back then. The lines stretched halfway down the street!” From there, Abdul’s expanded to include dine-in tables and a second shop, becoming a beloved fixture in the community.
Abdul’s daughter, Dina Ghazal, who worked there after school and on weekends, isn’t surprised by the outpouring of love for the restaurant. “My father never took his customers for granted,” she says. “He was relentless in his dedication, rarely taking time off. In the early days, we had tablecloths, wine glasses, and uniforms—he wanted everything to be just right.” And this is the part most people miss: Abdul’s generosity was legendary. He insisted on labor-intensive menu items because customers loved them, and during busy hours, he’d hand out free falafel with tahini sauce to those waiting in line. “He always said you couldn’t succeed in the food business without being generous,” Dina adds.
But here’s where it gets controversial: While many assume Sydney’s Lebanese community has always been concentrated in the western suburbs, the inner-south was once known as ‘Little Lebanon.’ Signs of this heritage still exist—if you know where to look. John Betros, a 91-year-old local, vividly remembers his childhood in the area when Great Buckingham Street, on the border of Redfern and Surry Hills, was predominantly home to Lebanese families. “The Lebanese go where the churches are,” he explains, pointing to the establishment of St Michael’s Melkite Catholic Church (1895), St Maroun’s Maronite Catholic Church (1897), and St George’s Antiochian Orthodox Church (1920). Wilson’s, on Pitt St in Redfern, claims the title of the area’s first Lebanese restaurant, opening in 1957.
By the time Betros opened his pharmacy in Surry Hills in 1960, several Lebanese restaurants had sprung up, catering to migrants—especially single men craving home-cooked meals. These eateries soon attracted a broader clientele. “There was a Lebanese chicken shop, then the Ghazal family opened Abdul’s,” Betros recalls. “They were so successful that another restaurant, The Prophet, opened next door, followed by a Lebanese grocery store owned by a Greek man and his Lebanese wife. The demand for Lebanese food was insatiable, leading to the opening of Fatima’s.” Despite the competition, Betros remembers the restaurant owners as friendly and respectful of one another—a tight-knit community in a bustling hub.
Here’s the bold question: Was the success of these restaurants due to the ‘exotic’ appeal of Lebanese food to Westerners, or was it the genuine warmth and hospitality of the community? Betros leans toward the latter, but it’s a debate worth having.
As the clientele diversified, so did the offerings. Some restaurants even hired belly dancers for Saturday nights and special events. Eleanor Sharman, a former belly dancer at nearby Emad’s, recalls the mixed reactions from Western audiences. “People didn’t know how to react,” she says. “If it was a couple, the woman would watch the man, who’d try not to look at me.” But at Middle Eastern parties, the atmosphere was electric. “Men would take turns dancing with me, and the cheers were deafening—it felt authentic and joyful.”
Dina Ghazal describes Abdul’s as a “beautiful, happy place.” The restaurant stayed open until 2 a.m., with Arabic music playing as people celebrated birthdays and parties. Belly dancers occasionally performed, adding to the festive vibe. “It was just fun,” she says.
Abdul Ghazal passed away nine years ago, and at the time of its closure, the restaurant was managed by Dina’s cousin, Omar Ghazal. The good news? Omar recently announced that Abdul’s will be ‘coming back stronger’ after going into liquidation. But the challenges remain. Dina and Hiba point to changing demographics, rising rents, and post-Covid footfall declines as factors in the area’s shifting landscape. Hiba also highlights the labor-intensive nature of Lebanese cuisine and customers’ low-price expectations. “Compare it to a $30 bowl of pasta made mostly of flour and egg,” she says. “It’s a tough balance.”
Abraham Zailaa, owner of Fatima’s, echoes this sentiment, telling ABC Radio Sydney that Surry Hills was ‘thriving’ pre-Covid, thanks to theatergoers and sports fans. Now, local businesses need support more than ever.
As tributes poured in after Abdul’s closure, many lamented the area’s gentrification, fearing it would be replaced by another gym or corporate eatery. Dina remembers her father’s philosophy: “He wanted to cater to everyone, even if it meant serving tomato sauce with hummus or tahini with BBQ sauce. He didn’t care if it wasn’t ‘authentic’—he just wanted people to enjoy their meal.”
Here’s the thought-provoking question for you: In a world that often prioritizes authenticity, is there room for cultural adaptation in food? Should restaurants stick to tradition, or is it okay to cater to local tastes? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s keep the conversation going!
