Cuisine in Istanbul is as much ceremony as taste. Women, always
in white, kneed flat bread (pide), rolling and firing the dough in front windows, before your eyes, never looking up. Ice cream vendors stand in their kiosks
wielding a long steel paddle – delicious dondurma is springier, chewier, than
the Italian-style gelato favoured in the West. But pounding, mixing and serving
it with his paddle, the vendor creates attention by striking a bell with its
other end as he sings, or shouts. Batik ekmek (fried fish) sizzling on gold
encrusted boats, crazily bobbing in the harbour, makes a delicious sandwich
served from a counter on the dock…
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| Dondurma Vendor |
A favourite for lunch is kumpir – a huge creamy baked potato
stuffed with your choice of ingredients, although the vendor is willing to
help. Carol was hungry but recovering from feeling ill. “I just fancy a potato
with just butter and cheese,” she said. The guy swept his hand across twenty or
more ingredients: chopped turkey, sausages, hot sauce, chillies, tomato, onion,
and various mystery vegetables; “Is that all?” he said, in disbelief. I took
mine with butter, cheese, tomato, onion, sausage and hot sauce, in the hope of saving
face.
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| Serving Water Jug Stew |
There were two trees set in the sidewalk close to our hotel,
and jammed into the fence that surrounded each one were broken clay pots; mounds of them dotted the city and I’d often wondered about them.
Turns out they are used in the preparation and serving of a water jug stew.
Vegetables, broth, and meat, most often lamb, are cooked then sealed in the
clay pot. It’s heated over an open flame at the table before the pot is cracked
open and the dish served.
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| Fancy Pitcher of Beer |
We were always on a mission. Day after day we ignored the
invitation to eat at the restaurant beside those trees; maybe it was the lack
of alcohol that failed to click. Most hotel restaurants serve liquor but street
side cafes often don’t. Not all establishments are alcohol-free; I managed to
snap two guys on International Street sharing a beer from the Turkish
equivalent of a pitcher – complete with its own tap.
Then one lovely, tiring day the waiter held a fresh pide
loaf out to us as we passed: a flatbread inflated like a balloon. We sat and
within seconds a meze plate of hummus, peppers, baba ghanoush, tabouleh and
feta sat beside it.
By then, we’d learned to drink the Turkish way (I had
Turkish tea, black with sugar; Carol had Turkish apple or ginger tea). We also
had alcohol in our room for a digestif, of course… We ate delicious roast fish
and souvlaki.
Our waiter, Rakim, had us laughing as he turned his charm on
every passer-by. He’d spoken to us every day since we’d arrived, walking down
the street beside us, asking about our day and talking up his wares. ‘Come and
join me; you look tired; we have the best waiters in town, etc., etc.’ I’d
tried to ignore him but it had seemed rude and gradually he’d become an
acquaintance. As we ate, he sat with us and as we finished our meal he made
Carol a carnation, from a napkin – she still has it!
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| Boats cooking Batik Ekmek on the Golden Horn, Istanbul |
