A courtyard kept for four generations, now set with tables.
Behind a studded walnut door on a lane off Al-Qaymariyya, the noise of the old city falls away and the courtyard opens.
Jasmine climbs the stone. A thin sheet of water slips over the marble of the fountain. The lamps are lit at dusk, and the long tables fill the way a family table once did, without anyone counting the plates.
We cook the canon of Damascus the way the house has always cooked it. Unhurried mezze, charcoal that never quite cools through a long lunch, and the slow dishes that ask for an afternoon. You are not shown to a restaurant. You are received into a home, given a seat near the water, and trusted to stay late.
Old Damascus, since 1962




