With over 8000km of coastline it comes as no surprise that this country’s cuisine includes fish. Turkey butts to the shores of the Black Sea, Aegean and the Mediterranean, as well as the Marmara Sea. Coming to the popular travel spots means you won’t be far away from a body of water: be it Istanbul, Izmir, Bodrum, Antalya or the Black Sea cities. There are of course the high-end restaurants that focus on fish. Often located in touristic areas, I steer well clear of them. Generally overpriced, the tasting experience comes usually second to location, variously with or without iconic views of one of the countless Istanbul views. Balık rakının yanında değilse bırakın yüzmeye devam etsin. “Unless fish is accompanied by rakı, leave it to swim in the water” Then there are the Meyhane places where rakı ve balık takes the centre stage, but as a substantial supporting cast, meze dishes are absolutely critical. But a night out in a Meyhane is also a more pricey outing due to the cost of alcohol. And it isn’t to fill your belly, it’s really a social outing. A little less formal, one can go to establishments mainly in Beşiktaş and Kadıköy that sell panfried anchovies and such like, that I have written about before. It must be that time of the year again. As I made mention then, ’just fish’ can also be bought extremely cheaply in form of balık ekmeği (fish bread), for example from ‘popup’ grills by the piers of Karaköy. I love them a lot, so quintessentially Turkish: the resourcefulness with which someone crafted himself a portable shop, the knifemanship when cutting tomatoes and onions on extremely limited surfaces, the wonderful smells coming from fish that is grilling over charcoals that could easily carry one away to an imaginary remote beach with a campfire, the fish just having been hauled from the ocean. On the other side of Galata Bridge, the same can be bought from established businesses, either of faux Ottoman empire river boats or from the restaurants located underneath the bridge. There the tradition of balık ekmeği, has been around for a long time, but I am not a big fan of the hectic atmosphere there and the jostling over interested/ hungry-looking passers-by. Either way, it’s a Turkish take on fast food, and you’ll eat your meal either standing on your feet, or in a mad rush on a small stool. Palukçu ('The Fish Monger' - pronounced in the way Black Sea people speak) So when I entered Palukçu last week, I knew I had found my brand-new favorite: A sit-down restaurant that offers a versatile, but simple enough menu. As you enter the shop, you can take a look at the uncooked fish. I had already made up my mind, it was to be anchovies after the long summer break that spells ‘fish abstinence’. Because nothing says ‘September’ more than ‘Hamsi’. The service was efficient and very friendly. Şehremini / Çapa is located just inside the old city walls ie if you have gone to Topkapı, you’ve already missed it. But it’s a few tram stops away from Aksaray. Not very many tourist will likely end up there. Bu it’s so well worth it. Unaccompanied fish, and well worth the disappointment! There is no alcohol license in this place (Çapa is a fairly family-oriented part of Istanbul). The fish is fresh, but what stood out was the attentive and friendly service from all personnel. It truly was noticeable. Once seated, our orders were swiftly taken. A great big bowl of salad appeared, the waiter adding pomegranate sauce only after it was served, everything being fresh and appetising, and not swimming in some oily marinade. The typical Istanbul bread of course couldn’t be missing, but there was also a bread made from cornmeal (and probably semolina), much welcomed as a flour-free alternative. The main act of the night, the anchovies, were delightful, the portion generous. I will definitely be back again. The quality of the fish, the price of the meal, the way the place is run, and the welcoming atmosphere are worth the tram trip (or the extended walk) to Palukçu. The absence of alcohol may mean those fishes’ dying wish to for their last big swim to be in rakı may not be granted. They may make their peace with (and in) ayran, water, or şalgam (as I drank), but their final act was anything but inconspicuous. A seriously lovely plate of seafood. Well done, Palukçu!
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The outside perception of Turkish food is that it's all very much the same. I agree partially, in that the ingredients are always from the same Ye old 10 faithful: tomatoes, peppers, pepper paste, garlic, yogurt, beans and (insert your favourite one here, you will be absolutely right ; and this is the new interactive style of food blogging).
So some days it can be hard to write an enthusiastic blog entry for a site solely dedicated to Turkish food. However, there is this regional pride that can be found in whatever city you are going. Prior to visiting any place, I do my research. Of course on the sightseeing opportunities, check my maps, accommodation and how to get there. But every single time I also google "CITY yemekleri". More interactive reading at this point, and a little activity before we continue: Try this with any Turkish city you care to think of, and you will find a website dedicated to the delicacies of that particular place. I had been in Kars for a few days already, not able to find any gourmand's page-turner. Sure, I treated myself to the local goose, almost a must. Goose is pretty rare in Turkey. I used to be no fan of it, every childhood Christmas ruined by this oversized bird being pulled out of the oven on the 25.12 - the magic already fading once that Advent-feeling fell off somewhat, and long anticipated presents had been unwrapped. But perhaps age turned me again, or the lack of German dumplings (that I so detest). Instead, here goose is served with slices of fresh onion and tomatoes, side meze and of course flatbread. I particularly enjoyed the slathering of butter and grated Kars cheese that came together with the freshly-baked bread. If I'm honest, it stole the show of the actual main dish. The goose was delicately cooked, the flesh a deep purple colour, not to the well-killed desiccated state that is customary in my native Germany. It was all very nicely done and presented, but I wouldn't want to go back a second time, especially given the high cost of goose. Or perhaps I was just in a particularly expensive place, one of Tripadvisor's 3-dollar sign places.
Bozbaş
The next day I walked past a little family dinery. I had noticed the Tava a few times before, the flat, slightly domed pan, in which cubes of meat were being cooked. Tava kebab was just the starlet from the front window, but upon entering I was greeted by many stainless steel tubs of unknown foods. An elder gentleman greeted me warmly. He was so happy to answer my questions, going through all the concoctions, ladling out samples to show me the ingredients. Many old familiar friends, of course, Kurufasulye (beans), minced meat dishes - nothing I can't find in Istanbul. A tray of metal cups caught my attention. Is this local?, I asked. Yes, it is. Cubes of meat, chickpeas ... The colour and presentation intrigued me. It was to be this: Bozbaş. I agreed to a plate of rice too, his upselling skills very finely honed. When served, they brought a little basket of flatbread. I first wanted to reject it. Both the elder gentleman and the cooker usta stood near my table, and said something I didn't understand. So they helped along, rolling the two breads tightly, then plucking them to pieces into a soup bowl. Finally the oil and liquid was drained from the aluminium cup, poured over the bread. This was a meal to my heart's content. Exactly something my Bavarian farmer family would have done. The now-drained mix of meat and chickpeas were tipped into a second plate. I was ready to go. It may have been 'same same' for many people - the usual consistency of güvec, Turkish casserole. But it was fragrant, very reminiscent of Iranian food cooked by my friend. Indeed, when I saw recipes and photos of Patatesli Erişte Pilavı, it looks exactly like something that I've seen many times from various Iranian friends. I guess, Kars is a lot closer to Tabriz, then say.... Ankara, to explain the resemblance to other cuisines.
This Bozbaş definitely had that extra 'Kars twist'. Slightly yellow, I guessed turmeric. The staff were all happy with my obvious interest in the food. Plus it was an otherwise slow day in this restaurant. So it was revealed, it contains saffron - I'm guessing the cheaper 'fake' variety, as it had a slightly turmeric-like by-taste, ever so pleasant. The meat was quite oily in parts, otherwise cooked to a tender softness. It was a wonderful meal to eat while outside Kars was being quietly covered in a white snow blanket, and a biting cold gripping the city.
On researching this food, I found that it is also a dish of Azerbaijan, Armenia (no surprise, given where we were), and Georgia. Also logical. Kars has seen so many wars, attempts to conquer, to bully, besiege and re-capture. It was torn and tossed between empire s and kingdoms. And here is this wonderful food that is cooked, eaten, enjoyed here and yonder. If food could unite us, like a flag could, if it could define who we are - like a common language, city, county or country boundaries - surely any artificial lines drawn into sand would simply cease to exist. Here would be the people of the Bozbaş. It's probably prudent to return, and travel the extra few kilometres across the border (that is actually not open, one must approach via Georgia). I want to sit on the other side of this invisible cold curtain, and find the same dish again. It might mean that I write an addendum to this article. It would be a most wonderful mission. One of my big pleasures about visiting various locations around Turkey is to be go and sample the local specialities. Turkish people take a lot of pride in their yöresel (local) food, which will always be based on what is available in their region. To speak of 'Turkish Food' truly is a folly after living in this place for a longer time. So finally in Kastamonu, and I was very curious about what I would find. Unfortunately this late in the year, there was no Kuyu kebab available, the local version of Büryan, a meat that gets very slowly cooked over hours in a fully enclosed tandir. So, for my Southern Hemisphere readers: a sort of hangi. A local lady who I met on the minibus into town had recommended Münire Sultan Sofrası to me. I would find a range of local specialities. I arrived just on lunchtime, stomach growling after a 24-hour stretch without food. I had last eaten at home, emptying the fridge of the last perishables, and being a bit too optimistic about cramming the last third of a yoghurt tub (lest we throw out Manta - waterbuffalo - yoghurt). The ensuing afternoon was spent with many regrets, and the night time with a self-induced fast, knocking back the offers of packaged cakes that one gets offered on these long distance bus trips. But now I felt famished, and ready for some Kastamonu food. The service was slow, the place packed, not a free table inside. I was waiting outside, and eventually my waiter arrived. Cheerful, friendly .. I decided to entrust my Kastamonu food experience, along with my empty stomach, into his hands. Explaining I'm curious about typical local food, and instructing him not to bother me with anything that I can get in Istanbul, he gave me a sort of Turkish equivalent of "leave with me". My physical journey had begun, my epicurean one was about to follow suit. First he brought out Ekşili Bulgur Pilavı , 'sour bulgur pilaf'. Siyez Bulgur The famous siyez bulgur that Kastamonu is renowed for, is a very old grain, and was grown in this way by the Hittites (a culture that declined in 1200 BC!). Unlike the Hittites, unlike most foods today, siyez (Einkorn) survived the Frankensteining of all foods, and is still based on the 14 chromosomes that Allah, God or evolution intended it to have. Indeed it looks different too. Somewhat like the stuff we know from supermarkets, yet again so much simpler. Pilav serving The dish came out in sample size for which I was grateful. It was far from anything fanciful, looked like something that you would get from a farmer's wife, after coming in from a hard day's work (toiling the soil and tending your crop that had never heard of GM). It came accompanied by turşu , the Turkish pickles, equally honest looking. The taste of the pilav not particularly 'striking' of any description, or particularly distinctive that I can put in words. But it was just such a nice, comforting thing to eat. Millenia of human food memory?! The sort of meal your mother makes frequently. Eaten without much thought, sustenance. So entirely reminiscent of old days, healthy food, not some fanciful mutant that defies the law of ageing processes that any living organism lives by. With the weather this late October starting to bring the first signs of winter days ahead, this was a wonderful comfort food. Next I was about to be introduced to the next two local darlings: bandurma and tirit. Bandurma I was suspect of the turkey ingredient at first (in Turkey btw, it's Hindi - Indian chicken, a cute linguistic twist, and cause to musing of how the different language groups try to place this bird with its rather unsightly face in the kitchen of other countries). Normally not a fan of this meat anymore. But when in Kastamonu.... So it took me by surprise when I started on the long flakes of turkey meat that were leaning against a sizeable mound of lavaş bread, like flintlocks propping each other up. The lavaş is rolled up, cut, dusted with hazelnuts, before meeting their master: Butter. Very moreish and it took some restraint not to eat them all, such wonderful indulgent mingling of simple things. But I had the Tirit to tackle yet, and a guilty conscience that yelled at me from the inside "Whatever happened to your carbohydrate abstinence?"
Tirit Tirit got a bad start, was I now really quite full, having wolved down the first two morsels being as hungry as I had been. In some ways Tirit was reminiscent of Iskender kebab (a dish where shavings are served on top of bread, and covered in sauce and hot butter). This, course 3 so to speak, was going to be a slow dance, the sauce consisting entirely of yoghurt and garlic. As for garlic, what better place in all of Turkey to eat it - with Taşköprü just up the road, famous for this bulb of pungent delight. I really liked this dish a lot too, stronger and more bolder in flavour, the mince sitting atop a pile of cut up simit and doused in said sauce. Guilt now mile-high, I couldn't get through my half portion of tirit either. I wasn't sure to feel worse about leaving food behind or eating so much bread. And being full, so full. However, I have my little blog, amateur food observations, often badly neglected, but a much loved past time. And what sort of food blogger would I be to come all this way and not being able to talk about the most Kastamonunian foods? It's my duty to lean out the window a bit (or over a plate piled high with bread by one description or another) and see what it's all about. And I shall come back for the Kuyu kebab... one of these summers! If I time it right, to combine it with a visit to the Taşköprü Garlic Festival. There's at least two reasons I can think of. image source kulturportali.gov.au Simits from Kastamonu - I had heard a lot about this little guy. Of course they are a constant in Turkish life, and every city has its own take on this inexpensive street food that can be bought from carts that will never been too far away from wherever you walk. I used to eat them a lot in Istanbul, before I put a bit of a lock on my carbohydrate intake. Biting into my first local simit ... I actually paused from walking, looking down on this wreath-shaped revelation. Reminiscent of a mixture between a bagle and a Bavarian "Laugenbreze" but minus the salt. Outside all "çıtır çıtır". Even if you don't speak a word of Turkish, this is the most apt, Onomatopeiean term for 'crunchy'. Within its çıtır çıtı walls lies a padding of aromatic dough. The difference between this local variety and for example the Istanbul cousin is, they get dunked into a solution that contains apple pekmez (a boiled down thick liquid similar to the Dutch 'apple butter' that can be found in Western supermarkets.) It gives them a fine aroma, a hint of sweetness. And a nice gloss after baking: the finished product looks almost shiny. It's a subtle, understated treat, the sort of modest friend you will seek out every day and love for his quiet ways. That one. It took a lot of self-control to not walk from one Simitçi to the next, to purchase more, with the smell of dough, a warm sweetness and woodfires wafting through the cobblestones alleys, conjuring up images of trays of shiny simit piled high, trying to beguile me, to betray my resolve. It was midday and the efforts of this Simitçi were on making pide. Still, a pile of still-warm simit in the background, and those were the object of my desire.
The Kebab that will conquer your taste buds Bursa sits across the Marmara Sea, a relatively quick trip from Istanbul with the “sea bus”. The Marmara Sea eventually spills into the Aegean Sea near a narrow strait that is well known to Australians: the Dardanelles, site of the fateful Gallipoli shore. Bursa does have its own rich history, much like the metropolis Istanbul to the north, a meeting point of ancient traders, silk industry, of conflict and conquering, and at one stage it was even the capital of the Ottoman empire. The historical centre has some interesting alleys and Han places, but it seems to be encircled by soulless neighborhoods, and the outlying regions are all heavily industrial. The ferries arrive over 30km outside the city centre, forcing one into first an uncomfortable bus ride followed by a tedious train trip. In short, I’m not the biggest fan of Bursa. But we gave it a go again, with the (rare) luxury of both my friend and me having a full day at our dispersal - my fellow “Food Hunter” as we have come to jokingly call ourselves. He simply doesn’t have weekends, or really ever more than half a day to himself. So across the Marmara Sea we went. We arrived in Mudanya and were greeted by haman-like conditions. We inched our way into town in the fashion described above, and finally arrived in the centre. Having had freshly returned from the internationally acclaimed, astronomical gastronomy stronghold of Gaziantep, my expectations were modest. Our vague goal was merely to eat Bursa İskender Kebab, and otherwise just play it all by ear. But a few pleasant surprises were in store along the way. Mehmet Tanju Geye While we were strolling through the Okçular Bazaar, by now starting to entertain the idea of getting lunch soon, we noticed a little eatery from underneath our giant umbrella to shield us from a rather heavy downpour. At first glance it seemed to be one of the ‘dövme’ ice-cream places that the Anatolian town of Maraş is famous for, the continous kneading and prodding technique with a large metal petal christening this sweet (dövme meaning beating). Those can be found - and especially heard - all over Istanbul, with their rhythmical beating of the ice-cream in a catchy stakkado, culminating in the ringing of some cowbells that dangle above the head of the Dondurmacı (ice-cream man). In Istanbul they also often wear the historical fez head covering (once outlawed by Atatürk) , further trying to catch the attention of the passer-by. But there was no commotion coming from the shop of Mehmet Tanju. Still the shop was full. There was an option to just buy ice-cream, but it was evident that the one attraction here was their pairing of kazandibi ("burned bottom") with ice-cream. The former is a historical mastic-flavored custard with the burning of the bottom being a feature rather than a cooking disaster. It’s done with precision, don’t think “burning milk taste penetrating the dish”. Rather it adds some caramel notes in flavor, and textual stability to a delicate dessert that seems to caress the serving plate much like a woman’s breast would rest in the hands of a gentle lover (who would have thought one would need a PG rating on a food blog? A first for me). And let me tell you, the pairing was a beautiful alliance. Later that day to be challenged, but I’ll get to that. Iskender Half a portion of Kazandibi were not going to throw a pair of food hunters off the scent of a good İskender kebab. İskender is Turkish for “Alexander”. And while there is a bunch of references in Turkey that trace back to Alexander the Great (for example the town of İskenderun near the Syrian border), the kebab isn’t amongst that. Rather, it takes its name from its inventor İskender Efendi. I had had this a couple of years back, standing in the queue of some eatery in the centre of Bursa (the name escapes me now), and remember my first mouthful of this wondrous take on kebab. Shavings of lamb, adorned by grilled tomatoes and chillies, and no sooner does the waiter put the plate down in front of you, another one will arrive with a long-handled pan, drizzling… no, pouring sizzling hot browned butter over this symphony of flavors. The meat rests on a bed of pre-cut pide cubes that will have soaked up all the liquid: the juice from the cut meat, some tomato-ey drizzle, and the butter. I remember back then, the bread was as morish as was the meat. For Turkey, this is not a cheap feed, and sets you back 35 Lira for a portion - there are options to order 1.5 or even double portion. The obligatory two glasses of tea later, and now it was getting late in the afternoon. So it was time to move on out so we would be seeing a little bit more of Bursa. We strolled through more bazaar streets, and past the stalls of a number of political parties, their supporters in a heightened state of campaigning, this being the final days of the election lead-up. We left the scenes of music blasting from huge loudspeakers, with songs dedicated to individual politicians, and promises of brighter futures, and dived through a gateway finding ourselves inside Koza Han. Hacı Şerif Being completely ignorant of the food scene of Bursa, the laminated ad we saw meant nothing to me. A cup of semolina which has some ice-cream at its centre. Alright… But the punters at Zomato were unanimously voting on this dish. An untainted 5-star rating. We were intrigued. We were there, we might as well….? (Must be said that both food hunters were at this particular point somewhat mindful of the delights of various Turkish cuisines settling down unflatteringly around the midriff section). It was around 6pm, the weather far from inviting to stay outside, after the rain the oppressive humidity had returned. Yet the outside tables were all full. The same litmus test as for Mehmet Tanju Geye kazandibi dessert? So we ordered. This is a combination of irmik helvası and dondurma - semolina halva with the same ‘beaten ice-cream’ described earlier. The semolina halva is usually eaten on its own, and is closely connected with religious holidays as well as post-funeral offerings. It is cooked lightly, notably there’s an absence of milk. Instead it mingles with cinnamon and browned pine nuts and has a flavor reminiscent of toasted grains and nuts. First some ice-cream gets ladled into the cup, and then followed by warm halva, pressed down firmly to form a compound casing around the cold core. Eating it, the contrasting temperatures make for interesting sensations in your mouth. Competing, yet combining forces. Semolina always brings back childhood memories for me. In my native Germany we too sprinkled cinnamon on it, and added what fruits our gardens or ice boxes yielded at the time. I connected with this small cup of simple goodness as it was somehow so relatable to me. No frivolity, no whimsical cooking method or exotic ingredient. My father, a great lover of both Griessbrei (German for halva) and even more of ice-cream would have eaten this by the bucket load. I really wanted to share this moment with him, this exact food in this very setting. I felt a pang of nostalgia for a minute, all triggered by this small cup of afternoon dessert in front of me, unknown up to that moment and yet so familiar. Somewhat melancholically I pulled out my phone to take photos and started putting mental notes together in my head for this blog. Our tour to Bursa was a way to celebrate my birthday (at 50, one of those imagined milestone moments with trigger potential), to discover something new, and coincidentally, through the food I found, it was a silent sojourn of who I am and where I come from. And all that in a dear-to-my-heart, but entirely foreign land, far removed from all my kith and kin. Before we get to the actual story, may I stop you here? Let’s play a little word association game for those who haven’t necessarily travelled to Turkey before. What do you think of when you hear “TURKEY” -kebab? -carpets? -tea? or indeed -coffee? …… Turkish coffee? It is a strong connection that people are making between Turkey and Turkish coffee. The reality is though that coffee is always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Even the word for breakfast “kahvaltı” suggests that coffee would follow sometime after the event, but not being a component of the actual meal. Turkey, ahead of Morocco and Ireland, is the top consuming nation of tea in the world.* As a fun side fact, I can reveal that I’ve prepared an entire pot of çay, sitting next to me as I’m writing this blog. In my old western life I allowed myself unfettered coffee consumption. Even later as I restricted myself it still came to 4 large mugs a day. A cup of tea was something I got around to drinking perhaps once a month, or for medicinal purposes. I was truly a ‘coffee person’.
The local interpretation of a standard coffee is mostly awful: a sachet of instant coffee that combines with powdered milk and a load of sugar to a powerful triumvirate of evil, ready to deliver a staggering blow to the tastebuds. It’s desperate times for caffeine addicts. Over the last few years coffee houses have been springing up all over Beyoğlu and indeed are starting to conquer the more conservative quarters, as well. The quaint district of Balat lying quietly near the Golden Horn is truly a case study for the changing face of Istanbul. But walk through the very westernized Taksim or Kadıköy, and you find ubiquitous Starbucks, Gloria Jeans (on the decline), Caffe Nero and the Australian Ministry of Coffee franchises. Loveless waiting halls adorned with cliched artwork, coffee drunk from plastic cups, but the allure of free WIFI and toilets attracting people en mass, many young students to peruse the facilities for studying. Perhaps, I quietly concluded, it’s a mimicry of an imagined “superior” western lifestyle. But luckily the tea culture is persisting, and small tea houses with their tiny stools and tables boldly occupying sidewalks and public spaces are an intrinsic part of the culture. In these places one replenishes energy during a mid-day slump, sits down with a friend for tabla, or discusses life’s pleasures and misfortunes. But Turkish coffee is often a neglected affair and have tainted the reputation for me. I have had many disappointing encounters. Hastily prepared, mud-like from top to bottom leaving a gritty feeling in the mouth coupled with an unpleasant bitterness. I live in inner Istanbul, the ‘belly’ of the city as the Turkish will have it, spoiled for choices. But I consider drinking Turkish coffee at less than a handful of places and typically make my own at home, my trusty cezve Turkish coffee pot one of the few household goods I call my own property. Turkish coffee should not be harshly bitter beyond a pleasant level reminiscent of a dark chocolate. Indeed, the old proverb states that there is 40 years of memory inside a cup of bitter coffee. Bir acı kahvenin kırk yıl hatırı vardır. Such are the powers of bad coffee. It should have a foamy head, called köpük, and make for very invigorating, deeply satisfying sipping. Mandabatmaz is an unassuming tiny coffee shop off the famous main pedestrian mall. To borrow the opening paragraph of their website: the smell of coffee spreads from a shop, hidden from sight in Istiklal Caddesi. This coffee is something different from the smell of other coffees that humans have known for thousands of years. The tiny cup reveals a coffee that bears utmost strength, cheered up by the essence of a thousand flavors coming from the streets of this magical city. The advertised strength of this brew is reflected in the name of the place: Manda batmaz. Manda is the Turkish word for (water) buffalo, and finds its way into the language on different occasions, standing for strength or abundance. The verb batmak means "to sink', the declension of batmaz means "can't be sunk". The logo shows a silhouette buffalo standing firmly on top of a cup of coffee. The popular saying brags that the köpük (foam) of a proper cup of Turkish coffee is so strong that it is able to hold a horseshoe. Not to be outdone by old proverbs, in 1967 a family decided to attempt and float an entire buffalo on their product. I can’t confirm the veracity of the buffalo finding safe footing inside a cup of Mandabatmaz coffee… Purely for reasons of availability of such large beasts in inner Istanbul, not to cast aspersions on the magical properties of this coffee. But I can confidently recommend this place for a very serene sit-down, not far from the famed Istiklal Street and its thousand essences and flavors, yet a long way from the hustle and bustle. This sedate narrow alley exudes a sort of 1967 charm, with it. A complete absence of coffee growing-themed stock images, where WIFIs haven’t invaded our social lives yet, and the only music in the air is the chatter of the various pairings and groups from the little tables, as they wait for their coffees to arrive. The service is friendly and leaves you feeling welcomed and unrushed. An aspect that many places lose once they gain their 4.5-5 stars on sites like Tripadvisor. And, noticably, the cost of a cup of coffee also seems to hail back to a bygone time. So I give this experience every tick in my book. Find this place and for 20 minutes lock yourself away from a fast-flowing world, and as the coffee you’ve ordered requires some patience and deliberateness in preparation, enjoy this experience with whomever you are lucky enough to share this moment with. And to reveal my exquisite small culinary ‘value adding’: Around the corner is J’Adore, a tiny Belgium artisan chocolaterie. 5TL will afford you four pieces of handcrafted chocolate (Vişne and Kastane my two favorites, cherry and the chestnut praline). These chocolates and the made-to-perfection coffee make the loveliest of couple. Always bridesmaid, never the bride? Not when I set aside a moment to visit this quiet side street. I will dance at your wedding, and yours alone! When your coffee, two small pieces of chocolate, and above all, the friend opposite you become momentarily the focus of your world. Ramadan in Turkey, from the perspective of a non-Muslim? I tried the fast two years ago, to experience it, not for religious reasons. Now I am just mindful of fasting people around me, which means to refrain from drinking water in public, or you just give up your seat on the bus to someone who you know is observing Ramadan. You get a sort of eye for it. Once iftar has come, the time sun sets and the imam prayer calls signal it’s time to break the fast, Istanbul stirs to life. There is great life in the streets. First you’ll hear the clattering of pots and plates through the open window of houses. There are the communal setups that are paid for by the councils, where people assemble to receive a boxed meal. The streets and parks are so lively, families out for picnics, and one can smell köfte grilling. I have no reference or a western equivalent to compare it to. Ramadan also means festivals - and it’s always worth to take a trip to Feshane at 2am to walk around amidst the families, trying to find something sweet, or buy a traditional sherbet. Two years ago the festival moved from the historical exhibition hall to across the road, to Eyüp Sultan. I still bemoan the fact that the original Künefe maker from Hatay hasn’t been back in town with his giant rotating tel kadayıf fancy noodle making machine. It was getting quite late in the night, even for local standards. In a quiet side alley was a small setup which I would have overlooked if it hadn’t been for a giant flag advertising for the business. ADANA SU BÖREĞİ. Adana style water börek. This is a type of pastry where the sheets get dropped in hot water first, essentially cooking much like a lasagna noodle. Only that the pastry is far more delicate, rolled out with the tapered oklava rolling pin to a paper-thin sheet. Far from entertaining the thought of ordering, but curious to see, I approached. A tray had just freshly come out of the oven. Resistance was futile in the face of such seduction. Normally I opt for the cheese version, but the fresh tray was with mince meet (kıymalı). It is prepared with some fine spices, and dried blue grapes - with the cooking process and picking up of meat juices now fully rehabilitated to their perky fresh conditioned - peaked at me like a pair of black eyes.
Eating this dish is a torturous pleasure of diet guilt juxtaposed by not wanting it to end, of biting into crunchy textures and mellower lower sheets of yulfka, the flavors of butter permeating throughout, and of the hearty meat mix. I couldn’t help but compare it with an Australian meat pie. Don’t get me wrong, a good old pie is a wonderful thing to bite into and some bakeries have certainly lifted the game on this food type. But in reality the majority of pies get consumed from football ground canteens, or bought from the frozen section and reheated. The pastry is thick and sturdy, designed to hold in the stodgy, nuclear hot mince mix thickened with cornflour. It’s a far cry from Su böreği (sorry to say). Or perhaps I'm just not patriotic enough. I will live with the consequences. Bir porsiyon daha, lütfen! One more portion, please. İncir reçeli, I run with the Turkish name because “Unripe fig marmalade” sounds like a shelf warmer. As in most countries except the regulated, commercially zoned, catasterised western world, people are forever sitting in the streets selling wares. The same of course in Istanbul, even though some areas that are very populated are policed against such activity by the zealous Council inspectors, the Zabita. It’s not unusual to see a ‘flying trader’ absolutely flying down a busy street, running from this law enforcement, out on the beat in twos or even larger groups, but generally not the stuff that Olympic sprinters are made of. The hapless merchants risk fines when caught, and their wares always confiscated and taken away. So they run. At times the stock, spread out on cardboard, a piece of cloth, or presented in a suitcase, abandoned to save one’s hide. Neck or crop. Others able to clutch their contraband under their armpits whilst betaking themselves to flight, periodically checking over their shoulder on how well the get-away is coming along. Film-like scenes. Walking past these makeshift pavement bargain shops is nothing unusual, and I pay little attention. And so I strolled along, barely noticing this village woman waiting in the curbside near, of all shops, a Manav (a fruit/ vegetable grocery). She had on sale some flowers and a small number of plastic bags, containing bright green somethings. My brain didn't registered all this until I had passed. I stopped. They were really *this* green, that it had me intrigued. What is this? I walked back to inspect this unknown thing to me. They were unripe figs, peeled and pierced, and ready to be cooked. As I had no idea of what to do with it, we entered into a conversation. She explained patiently and very friendly of how to prepare them, stressing upon me over and over the importance of pre-boiling them and squeezing them, one by one, to remove the bitterness. Otherwise they would be inedible. We then got to the bit where she explained about the marmalade making stage. I joined in, affirming this, asking that. She got excited, pointing at me. Hah, hah, you’ve done this. You know how to make marmalade. Two country women, kind of, meeting in inner Istanbul, in the very middle-class, almost bordering on fancy Harbiye, having a conversation about home-cooked preserves. It takes one to know one. It was a beautiful moment, and I cursed the limits of my language. She was a gypsy type woman (as indeed I learned since, exactly this trade of green figs is a common way for them of making an income at this time of year), but that didn’t mean she didn't know about the wonders of Know-it-all Google, and she referred me to the internet should I have any more questions once I get them home. I opted for the big bag at 15 Lira, and to make it “20 Lira straight” asked her to throw in a smaller bag (normal curbside milk-crate counter sales price 10 Lira). As it was late in the day, she more than happily obliged, and I walked away with 3 kg of unripe, very bitter little figs, ready to take home and try my hands on my first proper Turkish marmalade. And boy, did it work! I don’t “do” measurements, but here’s the process: I cooked them twice, around 10 minutes each time, and made sure to squeeze them all as instructed. Now I understood also the neat little puncture holes, they were to ensure that the water can drain. They look a little deflated, but don’t worry, the next infusion with liquid will pump them right up again to their plump glory. This cooking process filled the house with a love fragrance of the greenness of the fruit along with a sort of bitter almond hint. I was slightly infatuated with this smell. Next I prepared a water/ sugar solution, using a lot less sugar than what marmalade making probably requires (2:4) - but I’m on a bit of a roll to watch my ‘hip gold’ (that’s German for “love handles”). I cheated and added a bit of pectin. I am not a big fan of the runniness of Turkish marmalades. Also added cloves and a piece of cinnamon. Let it bubble away. The juice of a couple of lemons. Then I added my sad, twicely squeezed figs, still ever so green, and let it cook for another 10 minutes or so, most coming back to life except the ones that I had squeezed to death. But they make for good testing objects during the process. Then off into the jar, and proceed as normal. This morning I had some on ricotta, and oh… be still my beating heart. I don’t regret going with less sugar, they are very subtle, and the clove and cinnamon is coming through nicely, complementing the figs. I will enjoy these in the next few weeks as summer is looming, bringing with it the next crop of delights, to be bought from a roadside makeshift stall. A new place has just rather quietly opened its doors near Osmanbey Metro station. The branding and interior decor is minimalistically slick (almost hipster), placing itself in the market of urban, sophisticated diners. The centre piece of this place is their lava stone grill, with a much smaller traditional charcoal grill placed next to it. There is seating in the entry-level area as well as upstairs, and it’s all kept very open. If you manage to get a spot by the upstairs bannister, you will have a clear view into the kitchen and can watch the chef at work. As the name suggest the cuisine is Hatay-based, and you will be spoiled for choices. It has all the classics on the menu plus many dishes I didn’t recognise. All manners of kebab, pirzola (cutlets), kanat (chicken wings), ciğer (liver), Antrikot, Tuzda Tavuk (chicken in a salt crust), to name just a few. We were only moderately hungry, so we ordered only one Muhammara meze that arrived alongside a complementary kısır, a bulgur dish native to Hatay that is traditionally served to guests, and Balon Ekmeği, balloon bread, not that it needed translation. The bread was wonderfully light, and the top dome deliciously crunchy, and we dug into it unrestrained. From the vast choices of mains we settled on a Sını kebab and the house special Daş Kebab. Sını kebab is a mince dish that cooks in a Sını or tepsi, a deep dish, and was kept moist by an oil-based, yet light tomato liquid. At the tail end of a head cold, I enjoyed the richness of the meat packed with garlic and spices, without being hot. The Daş kebab was also served in a ceramic dish. The meat was pre-grilled, then added to mashed roasted eggplants, closed by a layer of pastry and slowly cooked. Come to think of it, this was the closest Turkish cousin to an Australian meat pie. I loved fishing out big spoonfuls of eggplant mash and mopping up the last bits of Muhammara, a great combination. The mains were huge, the pans almost the sort you would set out in front of a family. Unless you are a really big eater, I would recommend ordering 2, 3 meze dishes, and share one main course. With the place barely open a week, we were treated to complementary künefe which was nicely cooked and despite the state of advanced stomach fullness very much enjoyed, and to the famous Hatay Kömbe Kurabiye biscuits, baked with butter, cinnamon, allspice, cloves, sesame and many more aromatic treasures. They get intrinsic patterns thanks to wooden moulds that shape them uniformly. We couldn’t manage these cookies anymore, and I packed them to take them home. As I am writing this blog entry on a rainy cool evening, I am eating the Kömbe that are wonderfully crumbly, fresh, and the spices reminiscent of a German Christmas. If you are looking to eat traditional Antakya food but in an unflinchingly modern setting void of any references to Ottomans or the homeland, this place is worth a visit. Halaskargazi Cad. No 76a, Osmanbey-Şişli Sifir Bir (01) is a popular TV series that is set in Adana. Tales of drive-by shootings, drugs and violence in the street capture audiences both in Turkey and outside the country. 01 represents the license plate of Adana, and Adana represents the idea of a dangerous place in people's minds here in Istanbul. But the town that - in food terms - lends its name to the spicier version of the two most popular kebabs based on mince that has been hand-cut (Urfa being the milder version), is also connected to freshly friend sweets swathed in syrup. Halka can be found all over Istanbul, a quick sweet bite, sold cheaply from street carts. Burma is a very similar idea, and to be honest, I'm not too sure about their exact difference. It will probably take another round of testing, eating them side-by-side. (It's not an easy life being a food blogger in Turkey). Yet other variations are Tulumba, and then there are walnut variations like taş kadayıf. This shop is located in Fatih. I passed by mid-afternoon, and there was very frantic frying going on. The wares went out the door like the proverbial hot chips. As I smelled the waft of hot oil and sugar, I vowed to abstain. "You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me? Then who the hell else are you talkin' to?" They must have. A few minutes later I held a sugary kringel-thing in my hand, encased by some paper. "A bit of a sugar hit to help me walk back" was the excuse. And with that evidence I join in the popular opinions on Adana being a hotbed of danger: it comes in a few shapes and sizes, and is always lavishly dipped into sugar syrup. |
AuthorInnate curiosity, learned (discovered) deep love and appreciation for Turkey, a bit of time at my hands, and always hungry: voila, a food blogger! Archives
September 2019
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