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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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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