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.
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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. |
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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