I'm going to come straight to the point (without the burden of having to uphold a reputation as a food critic): I don’t get modern cuisine: fancy dishes presented like art. Lucid portion sizes that sit cheerily on smears of some sauce, relish, puree, consommé, coulis or jus created from fine ingredients. Three minuscule Picassoesque crimson speckles fighting for recognition to earn their place on the serving dish, as not to be interpreted as an accidental drip from the cook’s wooden spoon while plating up. When in fact those flecks of colour form a 'substantial' part of a dessert with some bombastic name that had raised your expectations on ordering: it may be the Elderflower/June Cherry Clafoutis component, the one upon the beechwood-smoke infused nut timbale will be rested before being joined by a green leaf. Menu descriptions with great flourish. With a price tag to match.
Colours, form, consistencies - all worked to perfection, created like a symphony to harmonise with one another to tantalise all senses. However, the orchestra so small. So very small. And while we are talking about ‘small’. I confess to another thing: Molecular gastronomy is not just something I don’t get. I'm going to call it out. It’s frivolous sisyphus work. I’d sooner appreciate some chef pushing a bowl of peas uphill with his nose, hands tied behind his back, than applauding their much famed, baroquesque concoctions. Every time I hear about this phenomena I am instantly transported back to the Chemistry classroom of my High school in the 80s. I want my food cooked, not deconstructed and reconstructed as part of a lab experiment. Scientists-gone-begging chefs that squeeze still-intact natural ingredients through syringes. Unrecognisable dishes in foamy or powdery consistency, somehow an immaculate strawberry turned into a strawberry sand storm makes this fruit more noteworthy. Breach births of dishes like ice-cream, perfectly enjoyable before encountering its weird Frankensteinian watershed, making me question the whole process: Why on earth...? I like my food to be natural, simple, and moreover, I eat for sustenance not entertainment. I need my meal to be somewhat substantial. For many years I have rated the Turkish and Lebanese kitchen as my most favourite cuisine, even whilst living in Australia. It ticks all of the above boxes. While I also enjoy occasional sojourns into Asian cuisine (especially Thai, and even the heavier Indian one), they are just too distinct and ‘out there’ that I could possibly eat it every day. Turkish cooking to me is standard fare, my comfort food. My breakfast choices, my homecooked food, it’s all naturally Turkish inspired now given that I live in the heart of Istanbul. Not in the sense of trying to “cook Turkish today”. I naturally gravitate towards their preparation methods. Shopping at the bazaar automatically fills my fridge with the right ingredients anyway: at any time you can find types of cheese, olives, cucumbers and tomatoes, dolma, and eggplants. The rest is just a natural progression. And the Turkish kitchen is not squeamish when it comes to portion sizes. Perhaps it stems from the age-old culture of hospitality: wherever I am served food, be it with private people or at eateries, you somehow are made to be felt as if adequately filing your stomach is the main concern of the people in charge of the kitchen. Coming back to my introductory comments, perhaps to clarify: I have had a handful of fine dining experiences. Food jaw-dropping beautiful, so much flair and creativity is going on behind the scenes. It’s also the industry my son works in. But it frightens me a little bit. It is out of reach and intimating. I have neither cloth nor cash to partake in this world. And I’m a sort of elbows-on-the-table girl, twirling my fork around a plate while laughing with my dinner partner over some silly joke. There is a often some communication between the Usta and the Patron, the chef and the guest. They might be peeping out from behind their ovens to see you enjoy the first bite. You can flash them an appreciative hand gesture and get a big smile. Perhaps it’s because I’m a foreigner, but they often ask me outright how I liked my meal. It seems important what you think about their food, and it’s important to me to repay their hard work with non-monetary appreciation as well as the bill in the end. So here’s to celebrating - and blogging about - mainstream, bourgeoise, family style eating. And for my blog: writing about food from a country that is brimming with pride in its regionality, that uses fresh local produce, and offers fare so immensely accessible to everyone. A Turkish proverb states Köylünün kahve cezvesi karaca amma sürece. The coffee in the pot of the villager is black and unpretentious, but it is constantly available. Surrender your culinary needs here and allow a local to take care of it, and you won’t be disappointed.
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Ayvayı yedik. “We ate the quince”. But it’s also used idiomatically and translates to “We’re in trouble”. Quince is such an odd fruit, isn’t it? Uncooked, it’s a completely hostile produce. It has furry skin, hard to slice, and the tannin its contains makes it practically inedible. At best you would be left with a mouth-puckering grimace. But add some water, sugar and assorted spices, and let it simmer for two hours and out comes heavenly Ambrosia. The Turkish cuisine has perfected exactly such a dish: Ayva tatlı - quince dessert. A humble name to match the simplicity of its preparation. Come November, they start appearing all over Istanbul: it's the beginning of quince season. You can buy them fresh in the bazaars, where the bargains and offerings piled on wooden tables are always dictated by what the farms and fields yield at the time. In many Lokanta places as well as dessert shops, it's the time of the year where this poached wonder is laid out on display again. But there is really only one place where we treat ourselves to this dish, the Queen of wintery desserts. Across the several metres-high gates of Galatasary High School you will see the entrance into Balık Pazar, and enter Sahne Sokak under a wrought-iron gateway. Wandering down this alley way, you find a colourful collection of shops: displays of fish (fresh and dried), spices, pickles, fresh vegetables, coffee pots, cheap jewellery and other knickknacks. It’s a multi sensory treat: the smells of fish, food cooking, mussels mingling with the friendly “Buyurun” calls from restauranteurs. It’s of course a colourful spectacle, too. My favourite spice trader is located in there, in the quieter side street of Dudu Odaları Sokak. And that’s exactly where we are heading for our quince dessert. Sakarya Tatlıcısı is a sweet shop that is famous for Ayva tatlı. According to TripAdvisor it has been operating there since 1942. Next to Bread sweets (Ekmek Kadayıfı) and other treasures, there is one tray in the window that catches one's eye: plump quince halves that are radiating a lush sweetness. Lusciously glazed by the syrup they have been cooking in, thickened on its own accord, thanks to the skin and pips releasing pectin in the cooking process, they have a lovely blushed red to them. Other sweet shops have been known to add artificial food colouring to their quinces, but at Sakarya's it’s all natural. Patience is a good chef when one deals with the uncongenial raw quince. Slowly, over time, the red will deepen as molecular reactions take place, the woodiness transformed to a firm, yet gentle texture.
The result is stunning: simple fruit, unaccompanied by any baked component, has a rare effect on me to be this satisfying. It has a rich sweetness without being cloying, and it’s pure joy to let a bite simply melt in your mouth. I love rolling it around to enjoy all the undertones of rose, lemon, and something quite indescribable, with a consistency of butter. The Kaymak (clotted cream) balances the sweetness of the quince, and adds to the luxurious textures, making for even silkier eating. Add a glass of unsweetened tea and … eyvallah, ayva! Going with a friend, a quince enthusiast, we share one portion, reasoning "if we want anything else, we will order more". We always feel satiated after our 1/2 portion. Ayvayı yedik. We ate the quince. Are we in trouble? Walking around a little bit after to burn off the few calories, I tend to think I've cheated the old proverb again. Type: Dessert (sit down or take away) Cost: 17TL for one portion and two teas "Let's go and eat boiled sheep's head." Serkan didn't exactly sell me the idea straight away. I had seen them before, especially in the Kurdish regions as part of their much loved national dish of Sêr û Pê (Head and foot): the severed heads, swimming in a pot of grey broth, unblinking eyes glazed over looking up at me, looking down, inspecting the carnage. My first close encounter with intact cranium as ingredient was still vividly in memory: the beast looked like it had been caught completely unaware by its final curtain call, just as it was ruminating its morning feed, with grass still stuck between its teeth. Walking out of the neighbourhood of Tarlabaşı and towards Dolapdere, you will soon see a small blue cart parked off the side of the footpath, the type with three bicycle tyres that can be seen everywhere, forming the income for countless families. We didn’t think of asking how long the man had been making his Söğüş Kelle in that spot, but my friend has known of this place for at least 15 years. It looks and feels like “an institution” on wheels. A wooden board, well worn down where the knife with quick, skilled strokes has been chopping ingredients by the hundreds of kilograms, vouches for the veracity. Sheep heads, boiled and chilled, are waiting in the bottom compartment. There was a lot of trimming going on, the bulk of what's about to go into a crunchy Istanbul ekmek bread loaf is the tongue and cheeks. (The brain is removed beforehand and used for Mezze dishes.) Even as the Usta was chopping the meats, I dropped my compunctions. It looked decidedly delicious. This reminded me of eating cold leftover roast pork on a Sunday night. Lean meaty chunks, and some fattier bits, all being diced in the rounded pit of the chopping board, scraped out by the force of daily use. Onion and parsley had already been placed in the roll. The idea is similar to Kokoreç - to which I have become a recent convert. Except the main ingredient is sourced from the other end of the animal, and served cold. Meat, diced finely, spiced and served in ekmek, in portions of 1/4, 1/2, 3/4 or a whole. Unlike Kokoreç that is a symphony of different animal parts as well as vegetables, Kelle is very simple, straightforward. “Honest”, the real foodies may call it. The only spices added are oregano, salt, pul biber (chilli flakes) and some cumin. The same skilled hands, 1-2-3 wrap the half loaf into paper, and it’s ready to go. Turkish fast food! I had expected a stronger ovine smell or taste, but it’s actually very nice eating, feeling very clean on the palate. It is definitely a meaty meal, there was no skimping out on the Kelle ingredient, it is a generous serve. Where cold roast beef meets a slathering of mustard in the west, here it is greeted by merely the onion and parsley, and along with the spices it tastes like a wonderfully balanced ‘elinde” snack (in one’s hand), to be consumed right by the cart whilst talking with the Usta about everything and nothing. Type: Street food Cost: 10TL for 1/2 bread Vegetarian: No! Preparing the ingredients The final touches. And ready to be eaten... |
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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