A Riverside Café in Damascus, Nineteenth Century
After Bartlett and Purser
Yet much, very much of the excitement of the life of the Turk in this city, is absorbed in these coffee-houses: they are his opera, his theatre, his conversazione: soon after his eyes are unclosed from sleep, he thinks of his Café, and forthwith bends his way there: during the day he looks forward to pass the evening on the loved floor, to look on the waters, on the stars above, and on the faces of his friends; and at the moonlight falling on all. Mahomet committed a grievous error in the omission of coffee-houses, in a future state: had he ever seen those of Damascus, he would surely have given them a place on his rivers of Paradise, persuaded that true believers must feel a melancholy void without them.
There is no ornament or richness about these houses: no sofas, mirrors, or drapery, save that afforded by a few evergreens and creepers: the famous silks and damasks of Damascus have no place here; all is plain and homely; yet no Parisian Café, with its beautiful mirrors, gilding, and luxuriousness, is so welcome to the imagination and senses of the traveller. After wandering many days over dry, and stony, and desert places, where the lip thirsted for the stream, is it not delicious to sit at the brink of a wild, impetuous torrent, to gaze on its white foam and breaking waves, till you can almost feel their gush in every nerve and fibre, and can bathe your very soul in them. And while you slowly smoke your pipe of purest tobacco, the sands of the desert, and their burning sun, rise again before you, when you prayed for even the shadow of a cloud on your way. The banks are in some parts covered with wood, whose soft green verdure contrasts beautifully with the clear torrent, and almost droops into its bosom.
Near the coffee-houses are one or two cataracts several feet high, and the perpetual sound of their fall, and the coolness they spread around, are exquisite luxuries—in the heat of day, or in the dimness of evening. There are two or three Cafés constructed somewhat differently from those just described: a low gallery divides the platform from the tide; fountains play on the floor, which is furnished with very plain sofas and cushions; and music and dancing always abound, of the most unrefined description.
The only intellectual gratification in these places is afforded by the Arab story-tellers, among whom are a few eminent and clever men: soon after his entrance, a group begins to form around the gifted man, who, after a suitable pause, to collect hearers or whet their expectations, begins his story. It is a picturesque sight—of the Arab with his wild and graceful gestures, and his auditory, hushed into deep and child-like attention, seated at the edge of the rushing tide, while the narrator moves from side to side, and each accent of his distinct and musical voice is heard throughout the Café. The building directly opposite is another house, of a similar kind in every respect There are a few small Cafés, more select as to company, where the Turkish gentlemen often go, form dinner parties, and spend the day.
Night is the propitious season to visit these places: the glare of the sun, glancing on the waters, is passed away; the company is then most numerous, for it is their favourite hour; the lamps, suspended from the slender pillars, are lighted; the Turks, in the various and brilliant colours of their costume, crowd the platform, some standing moveless as the pillars beside them, their long pipe in their hand—noble specimens of humanity, if intellect breathed within: some reclining against the rails, others seated in groups, or solitary as if buried in "lonely thoughts sublime"; while the rush of the falling waters is sweeter music than that of the pipe and the guitar, that faintly strive to be heard. The cataract in the plate is a very fine one; on its foam the moonlight was lovely: we passed many an hour here on such a night, the clear waters of the Pharpar, as they rolled on, reflecting each pillar, each Damascene slowly moving by in his waving garments. The glare of the lamps mingled strangely with the moonlight, that rested with a soft and vivid glory on the waters, and fell beneath pillar and roof on the picturesque groups within.
The slender brass coffee grinders sometimes serve as a combination utensil in the equipment of the Turkish officer. Frequently they are made of silver. They might be called collapsible, convertible coffee kits, as they are made to serve as a combination coffee pot, mill, can, and cup. The green or roasted beans are kept in the lower section. It takes but a minute to unscrew the apparatus. To make a cup of coffee, the beans are dumped out and three or four of them are put in the middle section. The steel crank is fitted over the squared rod projecting from the middle section, which revolves, setting in motion the grinding apparatus inside. The ground coffee falls into the bottom section, and water is added. The pot is placed on the fire, and the contents brought to a boil. The coffee pot serves as a cup. The process requires but a few minutes. The cup is rinsed out, the beans replaced, the utensils put together, the whole thing is slipped into the officer's tunic, and he goes on, refreshed.
In Persia, where tea is mostly drunk, the Turkish-Arabian methods of making coffee are followed. In Ceylon and India, the same applies to the native population, but the whites follow the European practise. In India, many people look upon coffee as just a bonne bouche—a "chaser." A well known English tea firm has had some success in India with a tinned "French coffee", which is a blend of Indian coffee and chicory.
European methods obtain in making coffee in China and Japan, and in the French and Dutch colonies. When traveling in the Far East one of the greatest hardships the coffee lover is called upon to endure is the European bottled coffee extract, which so often supplies lazy chefs with the makings of a most forbidding cup of coffee.
In Java, a favorite method is to make a strong extract by the French drip process and then to use a spoonful of the extract to a cup of hot milk—a good drink when the extract is freshly made for each service.