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to many locals the essence of a place that drew celebrities like
Muhammad Ali, Ray Charles, and Mickey Mantle couldn’t be
transported. Alcott sees things differently, marking the decline
to her mother’s death in 2006: “My dad was never the same.”
Alcott estimates the restaurant was $350,000 in debt by the
time her father, Tyrone Elias, died in 2018. As he suffered from
dementia, the restaurant fell into disrepair. In 2014, he stopped
paying taxes. “Dad, you’re going to have to give me this business
or the IRS is going to take it,” Alcott remembers telling him.
Even without those issues, the business model is a relic of
another era, says Edmond Slyman. He worked at Jamil’s when
he was young (including with Saab, after Pierre’s closed) and
now owns the only other remaining Lebanese steakhouse in
the Tulsa area, Freddie’s, in the suburb of Sapulpa. The crowd
digging into the cabbage rolls is overwhelmingly white-haired.
These steakhouses trade on value rather than luxury: a moun-
tain of food, with nothing on the menu over $30. “Ribs are
expensive now. If I tried to open a place like this right now, I
couldn’t,” Slyman says. “The only reason I can do it is my base—
land prices and so on—is back in 1979.”
But even as rib prices soar, the same thing that ingratiated
Pierre Saab to the high rollers in the first place keeps today’s
steakhouses alive. “I don’t have a nickel’s worth of culinary
artistry,” Slyman says. “It’s hospital-
ity.” His army of teenage servers buzz
about the room as he explains how he’s
trained generations of employees: That
it’s all about the customers having a
good experience. Which is why, for
so many years, people have trailed to
Freddie’s for the exact same level of
service and taste of tabbouleh. “If we
changed things,” Slyman notes, “we’d
get too many complaints.” Alcott, on
the other hand,
has had to switch
things up to keep
her restaurant
afloat. “I’ve had
to slowly charge
people that my
dad wouldn’t
charge,” she says
with a shake of her
head. Her father's
hospitality meant
letting people run
up credit that was never paid and free
meals for police. Alcott now charges lo-
cal officers a reduced flat rate of $10.
On a recent Saturday night at Jamil’s,
people waited outside for the doors to
open at 5. Here, the customers are greet-
ed like they’re family. They’re not, but
many of the staff are: Alcott’s 68-year-old
cousin, Steve Elias, holds court in his
tuxedo shirt and bow tie. He worked for
his own father’s steakhouse, Eddy’s, until
it closed in 2016. He knows the tricks
to the menu, advising customers to top
the cabbage roll with the tangy hummus
and to liven up the ordinary green salad
with a spoonful of the tabbouleh. Alcott’s
husband is the chef. The oldest of her six
kids, Jack, is on the floor tonight.
These are the people who carry on the
Lebanese steakhouse tradition. Jamil’s
is almost out of debt, and Alcott has just
begun to dream of the improvements
money could buy. Higher booths, new
tablecloths, a point-of-sale system, and
maybe—if the changes work—a real bar.
She hopes it will challenge the idea that
Jamil’s has never reclaimed the magic of
its old location—something that those in
the know might already see. Lebanese-
Tulsan old-timer Ronald Fogley, sitting
with his friend Don Abraham, leans in,
as if sharing a secret. “I think Jamil’s is
turning around. I think Jennifer’s doing
good things with it,” he says. Don, the
elder statesman, gives a silent nod. From top:
Unconventional
steakhouse sides
are ready to be run
out; a cook parboils
cabbage for rolls.“RIBS ARE EXPENSIVE
NOW. IF I TRIED TO OPEN
A PLACE LIKE THIS RIGHT
NOW, I COULDN’T. THE
ONLY REASON I CAN DO IT
IS MY BASE—LAND PRICES
AND SO ON—IS BACK IN 1979.”