An unassuming name for an equally very basic eatery, Enişte lies hidden from view. It’s only a mere couple of blocks away from Harbiye that sees thousands of people walking by each day along the busy Cumhuriyet Caddesi that leads to the middle-class suburb of Şişli.
The family-run place is proudly Adana, and the food won’t disappoint. The Adana kebab (of course!) is particularly enjoyable, with very high quality lamb meat used, and no added veal. Quite often you get served mince from an older animal, with a very strong smell and after-taste to it. Not entirely unpleasant, but lingering. At Enişte’s, every time I have eaten there now, I have not been disappointed. A good order is the kebab and the lamb shish, and go halves. In true Adana style, there are plenty of side dishes served: a mixed salad, a plate of pickles, radishes, the cooked onion, and on request they’ll make you also some sumac onions (fresh) that I love a lot. You can’t get past their Şalgam, a slightly fermented red carrot juice, that matches the grilled dishes, or the open Ayran. Don’t let the rather unsensational location put you off, nor the very basic decor. The quality of the ingredients, and the rapid, friendly service makes this such an attractive option when I’m near Taksim and in need of a substantial meal for a very reasonable price. It’s like taking your senses to a small trip to Adana itself. With the two meals as mentioned above and two drinks, you’ll end up paying 45TL.
0 Comments
Fermented millet… Millet? Most of us may have only ever encountered millet in pet shops being sold as budgerigar food. Other grains for example wheat or rice, or a combination are also used. The cereal of choice is cooked, and later yeast and sugar added, then left to ferment for 2-3 days. A few different recipes for homemade boza can surely be found on the internet in its eclectic thoroughness. But if you are in Istanbul why would you bother when you can get a generous glass full for 3 TL. I couldn’t get a clear answer about the roots of it - some mention Mesopotamia, some Albania, but all the sources talked about a 1000-year long tradition of this wonderful brew. Because the thing is that it needs to be fermented. Brewed. So if you are wondering now. Yes, it has some alcohol content, but at around 1% you would need to binge really hard to get a buzz. One of the theories of where the name stems from is Persian: buuze darı (darı being the millet component). In the Ottoman days Istanbul was dotted with 300 shops, and over 1000 boza sellers supplied their wares in the streets (rare now but near Eyüp mosque is one I know of). That meant there was some serious quaffing going on this town. Frequently shops were owned by Albanians. Being a Bozaci must have been a fickle business back then as the arrival of a new sultan could mean the (for want of a better word) licensing laws would change, making it illegal over night. History suggest the alcoholic content was going up steadily (increasing with the intensity of a longer fermentation process) until it punched at a whopping 9% alcohol content. Booze indeed. A special concoction “Tartar Boza” containing opium was completely outlawed. One conjures up stories of rollicking fun. Nowadays Turkish people are still keen to tell you about the health benefits, the strengthening characteristics, aiding milk production in lactating mothers, and other benefits to physical and mental health. And to virility. An old story gets told with a wry grin of the Boza sellers making their rounds late at night. With their cries “Bozaaa” windows would open, and buckets on ropes lowered down the street. The tradesman would take the coins and place the precious product inside, the bucket pulled up again. Fueled by carbohydrates and sugar, and drunken on passion, a long sultry night could commence. Istanbul’s most famous place for Boza is in Vefa (in Fatih) which can be easily reached from Taksim by the buses heading to Aksaray. The bus stop is near the old city walls, and as you descend deeper into the old city quarters to find Vefa Bozacısı, to order this historical old drink, it doesn’t get any more ‘Constantinoplesque’. The business, established in 1876 by Hacı Sadık Bey, is still in the hands of the same family. Up high in a corner, proudly displayed, a copper mug, the very cup Atatürk drank out of. The shop has another income stream in selling natural lemon juice, pomegranate sauce and vinegars, and the wares displayed in glass bottles are adding to the charm of this old shop, housed in an historical building. I was definitely overdue for this visit. Vefa is practically a household name. Just a lack of opportunities, and time boldly galloping away at a steady pace meant I had actually never been to the store. We went on a Sunday midday, the weather brazing, the shop was full with families. The order procedure is simple: before going to the boza shop, buy a bag of leblebi (roasted chickpeas) from the Leblebici opposite. Then head over, take a portion from the counter - either served in a glass, or a take-away cup, and add any amount of cinnamon you wish. The freshly roasted leblebi get dropped in, and you are ready for a century-old treat. It is referred to as a drink, but the thick consistency means it requires a spoon. Yellowish in colour, it is quite thick and has a subtle tangy sweetness that is not cloying, but ever-so-pleasant. As we stood around spooning our probiotic treat, the backdoor swung open, and a worker brought in a carafe with a fresh batch, a beautiful copper vessel with an elegantly curved spigot. There was definitely another reason not to replace a trip to Fatih with buying the pre-bottled versions. These are poor copies, said to be full of powdered milk and starch. I pondered on this Istanbul icon. The setting, the art of fermenting shown here, aromatic cinnamon and roasted chickpeas making a drink that could easily replace a hankering for soup or a dessert, and has a most satiating effect, filling the stomach pleasantly for hours. Perhaps it’s the lingering memories of long-forgotten days embedded in the cobblestone, the grandeur of old Istanbul town that adds the last vital sprinkle to the brew. (Please see these links for more information about historical background: hurriyetdailynews and travelatelier.com) Börek. I probably shouldn’t love you as much as I do!
It packs a hefty cholesterol punch, a substantial ingredient being butter (or at times I suspect margarine) as well as oil. Börek is based on yufka, the Turkish cousin of Phyllo pastry, or Filo by which name it made its way into western shops. There is nothing particularly Turkish about this dish. It is found in some variation all over the Balkans. The Albanian type is renowned around Istanbul - typically very piquant, filled with meats and eggplants. To find out more is a project on my To Do list. There are quite some variations in the fillings you can get: kıymalı, that is ground meat mixed with onions spreading a non-too-subtle smell. Various cheeses, spinach, potatoes, or a combination of all of them. One type known as water (su) börek is a little bit different in its preparation as the yufka sheets get quickly parboiled in hot water first, then assembled. The consistency therefore is not unlike that of Italian Lasagna pasta. Mostly they get baked in large trays, then cut with a wooden ruler, others are portion sized, shaped round or oblong, and taking their names from those shapes: for example Sigar or Gül (rose). Oh, the magic moment when you walk into a Börek shop and they pull a tray fresh out of the wood-fired oven, using a long-handled baker’s peel, the kürek. Whichever came out last will well influence my order. This is the sort of food you can eat at all hours. Indeed, it is available just about around the clock, and a Börekçi is never too far away. Of course when you live here, you’ll have your trusted places to frequent. In my case I have my local, where the food is ok, but nothing worth writing home about. But he is a few houses down my street and so it’s a bit like an extended living room. You go there, purchase a portion of the pastry of your choice, some tea and then indulge in small talk. And then there is another place near Istiklal Street where it’s the opposite. There is no social aspect, the purpose for visit an unalloyed culinary pursuit, or to fill a growling stomach. It is a budget food, and you will often enough see elderly ordering “3 Lira worth”, or similar. My particular favorite is the plain type, or translated to Turkish Sade Börek but more often referred to as Kürt Böreği. Several sheets of pastry form a crunchy dish. The thick dusting of powder sugar will transform this into a satisfying small meal which I consider breakfast, or lunch, or an in-between mid afternoon snack, or at a push even dinner. My usual MO is to order a half portion of plain and a half portion of white cheese filled börek. Together with 2 glasses of large tea it will come to around 6-8 TL. When I was back in Australia recently I really missed the simplicity and versatility of börek (and the economical price too). I know some places sell it, but it’s more of a novelty than for example country cousin Pide (Turkish pizza) or some listless derivations thereof. And I couldn’t help thinking how it could take on the Aussie pie in its category of readily available, low cost snacks.
When one arrives in this bonny city where history greets visitors from every corner, it is only natural to seek an ‘authentic’ meal in the Sultanahmet area in Fatih. There, the restaurants cater for the tastes and wallets of the passing through foreigner in themed restaurants that try to evoke images of village cooking and Anatolian authenticity. I avoid places like that, but in fairness, these places are quite nice to look at, and their proximity to historical splendour is of course attractive for someone who is trying to cram in as much Istanbul as they can in a few days.
There are many shops where one could get her sugary baklava fix, because isn’t that a famous dish? Just don’t ask the Greeks. The recent sharp decrease in visitors is palpable. The forecourt between the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sofia, normally abuzz with travelers, is for now no more populated than a market square of a lesser known city. For dishes like baklava, prepared on huge baking sheets, then waiting for prompt consumption, this slow trickle means that now they just don’t sell them as fast as nuts, butter and crunchy yufka pastry would require. But the finest kadayıf in town is neither found in Fatih nor in Taksim. Kadıköy? That’s a fair guess too, but again, no. Surprisingly, my most loved source is from a suburb that would take one 30 minutes to reach from Taksim by public bus. It’s in Alibeyköy, not a place where sightseers will stray unless they got lost in the Eyüp Sultan area and keep stumbling north. And the establishment is called Beyzade. Beyzade is a title given to the sons of noble families. As Alibeyköy is named indeed after the son of a dignitary by name of Gazi Evrenos: my digression into history and language explanations are somewhat validated. So one could connect all sorts of sugar-coated clichés of the fairytale side of the Ottoman empire to an outing at Beyzade. Focusing solely on social life, culture, the grandeur of the upper castes: it was a life of opulent aesthetic constructions, arabesque ceramic tiles, hamams, of music and cultural renaissance. And of Cafe houses (if you were a man). The food traditions from those days are still very prevalent in the modern Turkish cuisines today, proudly carried forward. One of the peaceful fragments lingering from those bygone days. I don’t mind. Beyzade proudly draws attention to its origins, something you will see over and over when you walk past shop fronts and restaurants in Turkey. And why wouldn’t you, coming from Gaziantep, one of UNESCO’s world gastronomy cities, where 60% of its working population are employed in the food industry (source). Gaziantep, the ultimate home of so many of Turkey’s favourite dishes. Gelin Bohça is a name that is quite frequently used for pastry dishes, and the interpretation of what this means differs widely. Literally it is the parcel, the pieces, that a bride brings into the marriage. Beyzade’s Gelin Bohça is a beautiful rendering of kadayıf. Like in a Şöbiyet (a type of baklava filled with clotted cream, and absolutely to be consumed the day it's made), a sheet of kaymak mingles amidst the generous layers of pistachios.
What surprised me pleasantly the first time I ever ate from Beyzade is how light-handed they are on the use of sugar. After over two years in the Middle East and Turkey I have become accustomed to the sweetness that is the hallmark of local desserts, or a sweet palate generally. I am now well prepared when I am offered tea, and pre-empt any tests of sugar tolerance with the request of “no sugar, please”. That was more an issue in North Iraq where tea generally came out primed, ready to deliver a sugar shock. Or perhaps I should say where your half glass of sugar was dissolved by some tea?
But Beyzade pastry shows a constraint on the sugar, letting the other ingredients take the limelight. Pistachios and the clotted kaymak cream are of outstanding quality, fresh looking and tasting. The tel kadayıf (pastry strings) have a wonderful crunch, and are ever-so-gently met, dew like, by the syrup. Add a glass of tea, with or without sugar whatever your taste bud’s behest, and for a short moment let your imagination run wild: be transported to some olden days, too perfect to have ever existed. Colorful woven carpets, the distant sound of a reedy ney flute and a fork full of old-times culinary perfection.
Rice with beans and boiled meat.
It sounds hardly like you'll be dressing up and expectantly dashing to this restaurant with the aim of 'dining out', does it. Rather it's more something you associate with mother's household staple and an old (edible) family friend, and you just eat it, and swear nobody does it better than her. Perhaps Kalkanoğlu is the uncle (or aunty) of many Istanbulites. How else could you explain the existence of a food business since 1856 in a suburb bursting at the seams with restaurants? And, strictly speaking, a culinary one-trick pony at that? The answer lies in exactly the plate of pilav. The rice is very robust, telling stories of being boiled in a rich beefy broth. The beans are soft and delicious as a result of a long cooking process. The kavurma (braised meat), finally, falling to pieces-tender complete the unpretentious delight. If one didn't know at the outset, by the time you start seeing the ceramic underneath the generous portion, one will realise that this is a Trabzon restaurant. The yellow butter residues are a dead giveaway. And nice Trabzon butter they use, too! Not that you will be needing more food, but the way the flavours all combine to make a hearty meal makes you reach for the Karadeniz village-style bread and mob up every single last bit. Damn the torpedoes, and the cholesterol anyway. The family has passed down their pilavcı (Pilav maker) tradition from generation to generation, on last count 5 times, and they keep their successful recipes close to their chest. But it's safe to say that butter is a major ingredient. We went on a Sunday mid afternoon, and the place was full. The service is very efficient, quite likely due to the lack of complications when ordering: you can order rice, beans, meat, or a combination of the three. There are a couple of other dishes to choose from like Kuymak - this being more a breakfast food - but looking around every patron really ate the same. Like a fine wine matching something flashy, their open, fresh Ayran complements the Black Sea wonderfulness. If you are looking for a meal reminiscent of eating in your mother's kitchen (and with a general sweeping statement that they can all cook), and you're in Taksim, a place abundant with (often quite average) eateries, make sure to check out Kalkanoğlu. And if you don't trust this one blog entry, I refer you again to their track record. They have well and truly earned their rights to call themselves tarihi, historical. A 160-year old Istanbul institution, going strong and likely to be there when your grandchildren are looking for a simple, hearty lunch, evocative of workday sustenance around a village kitchen table. Cost: kavurma, pilav & kurufasulye 12.5 TL Winter months are fish eating months in Istanbul. There are many possibilities to get a ‘fish fix’ - one can wander down to the Eminönü fish stalls set up on the Haliç (Golden Horn) shores near the Galata Bridge, on colourful, fake historical boats screaming “Tinsel Touristy!!” at the approaching visitor. We all know it, it seems, but everyone is happy to just keep going with the charade, and queue for Balık Ekmek (Fish bread), that can we washed down wonderfully with şalgam*, a piquant drink made from turnips, tasting not unlike the brine from pickled gherkins. Or one could walk across Galata Bridge over to Karaköy and sit down in one of the fish restaurants, most having terraces that look out over the Golden Horn, where it enters the Bosphorus. I am honest, they are not my sort of place. I avoid any place that caters too obviously for tourists only, service can be quite fake and superficial.. I once went into one of those places upon my visiting mother’s request. I was very underwhelmed with the food, which was later somewhat balanced out being overwhelmed by the bill. Beşiktaş offers many small fish restaurants, especially around the vicinity of the Balık Pazarı (fish bazar). It’s generally a pleasant place to visit, and has a number of attractive choices for a quick meal, some renowned amongst Istanbulites who will form spectacular queues if the food is right. Between two people, we ordered the hamsi tava (fried anchovies pan), the Karadeniz Mezgit (whiting), and as an afterthought a half portion of fried mussels that come with a garlic sauce. I particularly enjoyed the mussels and I’m a huge fan of Hamsi anyway. You eat them whole, the bones and head too small that they require removal. So it’s no picking around. Just grab some between slices of bread, some lemon and salt, and down the shute they go. The Mezgit were a bit more finicky eating, needing halving and removing the bones. I didn’t feel that the result was worth it, for my taste they were a bit insipid. Perhaps the mussels and the luscious garlic sauce were too much of a tough act to follow. You couldn’t exactly accuse Hamsi of having a shy, modest flavour. It will linger long after you have eaten, and removed the fishy smell with washing hands and rubbing cologne on. This meal got me through the rest of the day, without wanting another meal (bar something sweet later on, to have with tea). Cost 2 ppl: Half portion Mussels, 1 portion Hamsi, 1 portion Mezgit, 2 types of salads, drinks - 48TL *This drink deserves a dedicated entry, so that’s all I will say for today. The fishmonger is right next door to the restaurant Walking into İnci Pastanesi appeals to me two-fold: despite being in this location on Mis Sok. only since 2012, it feels like temporarily stepping out of 2017. Somehow even the new premises makes one feel like this establishment has mercifully ducked the foible of ‘modernisation’. There is no music playing, but I can almost hear Glenn Miller or Billie Holiday when I walk in the door. It’s also about the memory of a particular dish. One that was highly fashionable in my childhood, my formative pastry-eating years. It echoes back coffee-and-cake-Sundays of my childhood. Or so it is stuck in my mind. To me profiteroles are as 70s retro as Abba. In fact, İnci has been around since 1944 and used to be in the Circle D’Orient building on İstiklal Cad. It was founded by a Greek/ Albanian immigrant, Lucas Zigoridis. The story is quite well documented. Inside the cafe is plenty of information about the shop’s history. Much can be found online as well, for example read this article on culinarybackstreets. Eating profiteroles is like putting the needle on a scratchy old vinyl. The aesthetics of a simple old thing from the past. And the warm feeling that comes from an interaction with a well-worn item, the intense familiarity, the monochrome memories it may trigger. The photos may show a bit of a glut of chocolate sauce. The friend with who I went always insists on asking for extra chocolate sauce. He's the profi on profiteroles. Besides he's the local guy. Who am I to argue, with local knowledge, Turkish food expertise, or more chocolate sauce? To me, they are fine as they are, and the standard serving is generous enough with the sauce, in case you are wondering. But if you are a big chocolate fan, ask for daha fazla çikolata sosu, lütfen. The plate has a sort of quaint homemade feel about it. And that’s exactly why I love going. There is nothing fancy or sophisticated about the presentation either. Pastry balls, a creamy filling, a slathering of chocolate. What’s not to love? Choux pastry dishes of days gone by came in shape of eclairs, and in Germany we simply filled it with cream and named it “Windbeutel” (Wind bag). Treats almost self-effacing, humble affairs. Modern day cooking shows of course dragged choux pastry onto our TV screens and into our lives, introducing us to the ostentatious calorie pyramid ‘Croquembouche’, now seemingly a must-have at kid’s birthday parties if a mother doesn’t want to risk completely ruining their daughter’s 8th birthday with a mere ladybug shaped vanilla cake. But back in Istanbul, back to Inci, and here plates of portioned profiteroles await on the counter. You can find this sweet all over town, in other cake shops, restaurants, and such is their popularity, even in those horrid pre-packaged plastic tubs and sold in supermarkets, complete with mini spoon. But there is something about eating profiteroles at Inci’s, knowing that thus a 70+ year old tradition is being continued. Along with an afternoon treat, enjoy 15 minutes of nostalgia and cozy ye-old-world-feel that clearly moved along with the proprietor, their name, and their recipes to the newer shop. The proof is in the pudding, or indeed in the whole profiterole. 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. 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
Categories |