Ziryab
What is the one thing toothpaste, deodorant, and musical conservatories have in common? They were invented in the 9th century by the man who added a fifth string to the Arab “oud”, thus creating the European lute and forerunner of the guitar. This same man figured, in pre-Reconquista Spain, that it would be cool to wear different colors and styles of apparel depending on the time of year. Not just less or extra layers of textile. He even went so far as to introduce the in-between season. The famous fashion designer, astronomer, musician, and gastronome invented the crystal drinking glass, and multi-course meals at a time when all things edible, both savory and sweet, were devoured regardless of form or etiquette.
Abu l-Hasan ‘Ali Ibn Nafi, or “Ziryab” (Blackbird) as he was called due to his mellifluous voice and dark complexion, was a former slave of Tanzanian descent who, after a brief stint as poet and musician at the court of Harun Al-Rashid in Baghdad, wound up at the Ummayad palace in Cordoba.
“Every man desires beauty in the objects of vision and hearing, as a requirement of his nature,” he said. Much like a modern-day pop idol he soon branched out into fashion, cuisine, and life-style guru-ism, a Sean “Diddy” Combs of his age, yet endowed perhaps, with a broader pallet of talents.
Today Ziryab remains a beacon of taste, and many a town across the Middle East features cafes, restaurants and streets named after the illustrious innovator.
Ramallah makes no exception to the rule. What better place then to usher in my first New Year in Palestine, say goodbye to 2004, and welcome my then girlfriend F to a mysterious place, than Ziryab restaurant.
It was a rather quiet night, and I don’t recall any fireworks. New Year’s Eve isn’t that big a deal among Palestinians, although it’s gaining adherers among the many that have lived abroad for an extended period.
The food was A-ok, and I drank Cremisan wine from Bethlehem. Lots of it, if lack of memory serves me correctly.
Shortly after twelve we stepped into the tranquil darkness, and marveled at the lack of drunken revelers. No confetti. Even less “Huray’s”. A single car honked in diminutive mirth. Perhaps the driver’s hand merely slipped. It seems to happen a lot in the daytime.
We strolled on, resigned to an early night when oud-play and a steady roll of darbuke drums raised our spirits. A grapevine glee had lowered our inhibition, and at the fuzzy junction of intrepid and shameless we simply waltzed in there.
“Is there a party here?” we asked innocently.
“Yes, yes. Please come in.”
By the time we’d grasped that it was in fact a private family gathering, the damage was done and it was all we could do to escape the swelling vortex of hospitality.
“No, no, thank you,” we tried, and “seriously, we were just passing by, curious, and must be on our way now. It’s getting rather late.” It availed but to enhance the Velcro generosity.
“Please come and sit with us. Please.” The tractor-beam smiles of an entire extended family left no route of escape, and before long a copious succession of dainties, and even more smiles, were set before us. The whiskey added as lubricant soon made me forget that I’d already dined, less than a half hour prior. Proceedings spiraled to a point where, oblivious to the fact that I don’t dance well to Arabic music, I danced well to Arabic music. Or so my recollection would have it….
Finally, after waving goodbye and profusely thanking everyone, we managed to somehow clamber into a taxi. “Behind the Muqat’a, please.” A mumbling, happy state. “That way. Yes. Oh, and a Happy New Year, sir.”
I’m not sure if any of this connects to good old Ziryab, save perhaps that the objects of my vision and hearing had turned mighty blurry, as requires the nature of a decent single-malt. It’s all good.