Jordan: Chapter 2 - The Christian Restaurateur tells me how to be happy

His name is Ashraf. He is the proud owner of Clepatra's Restaurant, what he calls his "colloquial" restaurant. "Treasury," his tourist restaurant, is where he makes food wanted by rich tourists. Clepatra's is where he serves the People kebabs, chicken, rice and beans. Tonight, that meant us.

"Good, cheap food" had been the request, and with that - one of the young hotel front desk workers led me and Allison (as a scout team) to Clepatra's, just around the corner from the hotel. On the way he grabbed Ashraf, who had been yakking with the owner of a dry-cleaning place.

A bit later, our caravan dismounted in his restaurant. Much bread and rice was consumed. Delectably tender kebabs were savored. A good time was had by all.

Afterwards, with everyone going to bed back at Al-Anbat II hotel, I decided to stay at the restaurant and drink some tea. It had been a long day: traveling in a large group came with its own set of frustrations, and 24 hours of travel and waiting was enough to wear me down to a nub.

"Stay as long as you like," said Ashraf as he brought me tea in a small tin teapot. It was quiet in the restaurant -- a few workers in the back, a tourist couple from our hotel sat in the corner with one of the front desk guys and talked about . . . something. I sipped the sugary tea and wrote in my little black journal, hoping to wind down a bit before sleep and another long day.


I was in mid-sentence when Ashraf breezed back in from the chilly outdoors. "You smoke?" he asked, handing me a cigarette. I didn't, but it seemed like he wanted to talk and in this part of the world, it's almost rude to turn down the triple offer of nicotine, tea and conversation. It was an offer I couldn't refuse.

We both lit up and exhaled, blowing smoke towards the front door and the traffic outside. We talked about what I was doing in Jordan (tourism) and where I was from (US, but studying in Cairo). I guessed probably didn't like Bush. I was wrong.

"I'm a Christian, not Muslim," he said. "And I think he is good to do what he thinks is best. It takes a tough man, a strong man." He sat back for a second, eyeing me to see if I got it. I wasn't sure I did. He leaned forward again.

"It is what is important to you," he said. "With many people, it's money."

"You don't think money is important?" I asked.

"It's useful to do things, yes," he said, stabbing the air with his cigarette. "But I want to make my God happy. I want to be happy, I want my guests to be happy."

But money can buy a lot of happiness, I said. Not so, he replied. At his upscale restaurant, rich tourists come in and expect meals with quality should equal the size of their wallets.

"I want them to be happy," he said. "And they're not happy unless I charge them one-hundred US dollars."

I sat back a bit, feeling the nicotine.
"That's a lot of money," I said. He smiled.

"But they're happy, so I'm happy," he said.

But that's cheating them, I said.

Suddenly two tall tourists walked in to Clepatra's, led by one of Ashraf's friends. Some referral business, this time from Russia.

"We want feesh," they demanded.

Ashraf sat them at a corner table and yelled at Mahmoud in the back to see if there Clepatra's had any fish.

"But why do you want fish?" He asked the tourists. They looked confused. They just wanted some fish. But Ashraf did not feel like feeding fish to the Russian tourists. They left, still confused, and Ashraf returned to my table.

"You see them?" he asked, as he lit up my second cigarette. "They weren't happy."

"But, don't you have fish?" I asked.

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently, "but they were not happy. I could see what they were thinking, like maybe my fish had bird flu or something. They're not happy, I'm not happy. And why would I have them in my restaurant?"