tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149456962024-03-13T22:51:35.757-07:00Tastes of Mavi BoncukUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-89635715634210892272009-08-02T10:10:00.000-07:002014-11-22T09:39:24.147-08:00Keşkek-Wedding Pulse<span style="font-size: 85%;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4NsxaqK7h8E/SnXKh3OFgVI/AAAAAAAACbo/XrytlO24jzA/s1600-h/keskek" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4NsxaqK7h8E/SnXKh3OFgVI/AAAAAAAACbo/XrytlO24jzA/s400/keskek" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365417214189338962" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 279px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4NsxaqK7h8E/SnXKdFR2MEI/AAAAAAAACbg/ga2Tdb1Zh68/s1600-h/keskek2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4NsxaqK7h8E/SnXKdFR2MEI/AAAAAAAACbg/ga2Tdb1Zh68/s400/keskek2.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365417132063862850" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 333px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 250px;" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Kashkak, keşkek, kashkeg, kishkak, kashkek, etc. is a sort of meat and wheat or barley stew found in Turkish cuisine. The word kashkak is a Persian diminutive of kashk, to which it is related. It is documented in Iran and Greater Syria as early as the 15th century, but is no longer eaten there. Keşkek is a wedding breakfast for Anatolia in Turkey.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Keşkek is called "Haşıl" in Northeast and Middle Anatolia regions in Turkey. It is a common meal frequently consumed during religious festivals, weddings or funerals.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Bibliography</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Françoise Aubaile-Sallenave, "Al-Kishk: the past and present of a complex culinary practice", in Sami Zubaida and Richard Tapper, A Taste of Thyme: Culinary Cultures of the Middle East, London and New York, 1994 and 2000, ISBN 1-86064-603-4.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ingredients</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> * 1 tablespoon sunflower oil</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> * 1/4 tablespoon salt</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> * 3 tablespoons margarine</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> * 2 large onions</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> * 1/2 tablespoon cinnamon</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> * 1000 gr. mutton neck</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> * 1000 gr. soft, white wheat</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Directions</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">355 cal (6 servings)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Soak wheat in cold water and allow to stand for 8 hours. Put the wheat, the mutton neck cut into 4-5 pieces, and enough water to cover, into a saucepan, and boil till the wheat and meat become tender. Strain the necks and bone them. After straining the wheat, add the meat and salt and blend well with a wooden spoon. Dice the onions and saute in sunflower oil till golden. Drain the onions and add to the meat and wheat, adn blend with a wooden spoon till the mixture becomes pasty. Top with melted butter and cinnamon before serving.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Kashkek is a traditional Turkish dish which is still served, especially at wedding feasts, in many regions in Anatolis, and more recently, in luxurous restaurants which serve Turkish specialities and have included kashkek on their menues.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-80495226518601246302009-08-31T21:00:00.000-07:002014-11-21T08:24:07.103-08:00The Heat of the Matter<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4NsxaqK7h8E/SpydGDS-pNI/AAAAAAAACeA/tCPlVsgBLHw/s1600-h/ma-turkish-peppers-608.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4NsxaqK7h8E/SpydGDS-pNI/AAAAAAAACeA/tCPlVsgBLHw/s400/ma-turkish-peppers-608.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376344782463214802" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 250px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Source: http://www.gourmet.com/magazine/2000s/2009/05/heat-of-the-matter-turkish-peppers<br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">The Heat of the Matter</span><span style="font-size: 85%;"> | Originally Published May 2009 </span></h1>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">In a sun-soaked valley in southern turkey, hospitality still rules and chile peppers are a constant presence in people’s lives.</span> <span style="font-size: 85%;"><span class="firstletter" id="dropcap_i"><br />I</span>t’s dusk in Şanlıurfa, 30 miles from the Syrian border in south-central Turkey. From our hotel terrace, we watch birds glide through the apricot-gold light that slants onto the building below, a shrine to the birthplace of Abraham. The first notes of the call to prayer float up to us, a single voice becoming a syncopated cacophony as a dozen muezzins from other mosques join in. This moment, I think, is why I love Turkey. Okay, maybe this moment and the food. In fact, I could swear I detect on the breeze the slightly harsh, sweetly vegetal aroma of the peppers that brought me here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">These are not just any peppers. They are, you might say, an obsession. And obsessions are unpredictable. Sometimes one springs full-blown into your consciousness; at other times, it grows slowly, almost unnoticed, until a friend says to you, “Do you have to put those Turkish peppers on everything?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Well, just about.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">In every café and kebab joint in Turkey, you will find Urfa and Maras, two dried, flaked red chile peppers, set out on the table. Urfa, named for the city, now called Şanlıurfa, near which it is grown, is a deep oxblood red, with an earthy, rather smoky flavor that contains, oddly, an echo of tobacco. Cherry-red Maras, which takes its name from the nearby town of Kahramanmaraş, has a brighter flavor, brash and fruity but with a very faint edge of bitterness. With both, the complex initial taste is followed by a mild, slow-building heat that lingers tantalizingly in the mouth. Added to a dish, these peppers deepen and broaden all the other flavors. Leave them out, and the food seems somehow flatter.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Over the course of several visits to Istanbul and coastal Turkey, I had become addicted. Back home, I found myself tossing the peppers into stews, rubbing them onto chops before putting them on the grill, and generally making them part of my daily cooking routine. A little pinch of Maras in that vinaigrette? Sure. A sprinkling of Urfa on the poached eggs? Why not?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">After a while, though, even that wasn’t enough. As with artisanal products from all over the world, these peppers taste of the sun, air, and soil where they were grown. What is it, I wondered, about that place that gives them their unique character? I wanted to get to know the culinary equivalent of the peppers’ families. I needed to go to the source. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">“We live always with this pepper; it is the constant in our lives,” says Ömer Aksoy, a representative of pepper producer Harran İsot, plucking a perfectly red Urfa from a low-growing plant. “The first batch we pick green and eat raw; the last ones, just before the rains begin, are the hottest—those are for flavoring.” In the morning, he explains, young children will clean a couple of peppers, take them to the <em>fırın</em> (communal oven), put them on the side to roast, then bring them home and eat them for breakfast, slathered with butter. But his personal favorite way to eat the fresh peppers is in a condiment called <em>salça</em>, which he translates as “pepper marmalade.” A classic folk product, it’s made differently in each region. Although there are mass-produced versions in some places, here it is made by hand, exactly the way it has been made for centuries, and only for use in the home. The villagers, he explains, like to spread it on bread and sprinkle it with ground hazelnuts or walnuts as a snack, or top it with a couple of fresh eggs for breakfast.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Sounds good to me. “Can we get ahold of some?” I ask. After a quick cellphone call, he says, “They will be making it today in Yaylak, a village not far from here. Let’s go.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Driving to the village through the barren landscape of the Bozova Valley, we stop to watch Urfa peppers being harvested in a small field. Because they ripen at different rates, there are three or four separate pickings each season, which means the process cannot be mechanized—or at least, no machine has yet been developed that can search a plant and select only the ripe peppers. So, like many fruit and vegetable crops all over the world, the Maras are picked primarily by migrant workers, most of whom live in temporary huts adjoining the fields. Moving slowly across the rows, bent over, carefully plucking the red specimens and placing them in large white sacks, the workers are friendly but businesslike, eager to fill as many sacks as possible in the relative cool of the morning. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Except for the tractor idling at the side of the field, we could be back in the early days of the Ottoman Empire. But, as in modernizing countries everywhere, technology is very likely to be making changes, and very soon. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">This had become clear to me on the previous day in Kahramanmaraş. The day began with a tour of a plant where the peppers, after being picked, sorted, stemmed, and dried—either the old-fashioned way, out in the sun, or in specially designed commercial ovens—are chopped and ground. The resulting small flakes may then be mixed with up to 30 percent seeds, as well as some salt and oil. The highest quality, however, is mixed with only a tiny amount of salt and oil and sold (or used personally) as is. Urfa peppers, I learned later, are also briefly fermented after drying, which gives them their dark color and smoky flavor.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Then we went out to see the Maras peppers in the field. Strolling through the rather haphazard rows, a grower explained the timeless appeal of his product. “This dry climate, which has just enough rain, is ideal for them,” he said proudly. “That, and the soil, give them their flavor. People have grown them in other places, but they don’t taste the same.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Just then a man dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and gray pants walked briskly across the field to join us. Kemal Belpınar turned out to be from a local branch of the Turkish Ministry of Agriculture, and he excitedly told me about possible future projects: increasing the crop by using hybrid seeds from Spain; starting the peppers in the richer soil of Adana and transplanting them here; perhaps even adopting a method pioneered by the Israelis of treating the peppers with chemicals so they all ripen simultaneously and therefore can be picked by machine.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Despite my efforts to appear approving, I think he saw the dismay in my face. To me, it seems like they are starting down a path—standardization, mechanization, selecting and growing plants for ease of harvesting and shipping rather than for flavor—that we in the United States went down long ago and are now trying to reverse. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">But there is no evidence of this trend in Yaylak. As we drive into the village, we see no other cars, only donkey-drawn carts. Indeed, the sole mechanical device immediately in evidence is a kind of oversize meat grinder set up on the porch of a tiny store. This, it seems, is for making <em>salça</em>.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">I ask what preparation is necessary before the peppers are dumped into the grinder. After a long, muttered conversation among several of the men, we are led into an interior courtyard. There, a group of women (noticeably absent from the small crowd that has gathered in front of the store) sit around a cloth spread out on the dirt. Grabbing peppers from piles behind them, they split them open with a whack of a wooden mallet, clear out the seeds with their fingers, then rip the peppers in half and toss them into blue plastic buckets. Visibly uneasy in our presence, they nevertheless work with the grace and fluidity born of repeating the same motions they have made tens of thousands of times before. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">When the buckets are full, the men take them around to the front of the building, where a boy of about 16 switches on the grinder. He begins to dump in the peppers, and almost instantly my lungs are seared with fumes so harsh that even when I walk 20 feet away, I can’t stop coughing. It’s like the vegetable equivalent of tear gas. The boy, meanwhile, calmly feeds bucket after bucket of peppers into the maw of the grinder, not so much as blinking at the fumes. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">The next step on the road to <em>salça</em> will be to add a bit of olive oil to the puréed peppers, then spread the mixture out in large round metal pans on the rooftops, where it will dry and thicken in the sun over several days as it is scraped and turned. “It is the sun that gives our peppers their sweetness and that dries the paste,” says Aksoy. Finally, salt and extra-virgin olive oil are stirred in, and the coarse paste is ready to eat.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">I am promised a taste, but first there is another stop. “They are going to slaughter a lamb for you in Hacılar,” Aksoy announces. Only strenuous protests manage to persuade him to call and dissuade our hosts. But when we arrive, after a stroll through another field of drying peppers, we are ushered into the home of a village elder. There, in a large room layered with thick carpets and lined with pillows, the boys of the family lay out a feast: fresh-killed chicken, its flavor astonishingly deep and clean; rice pilaf larded with currants and pine nuts; still-warm whole-wheat flatbread with an amazing texture, at once grainy and tender; thick homemade yogurt studded with cucumber from the garden outside the door; <em>çoban salatası</em>, the classic “shepherd’s salad,” here flavored with sweet-sour pomegranate molasses; a huge platter of sweet green grapes; the salted yogurt drink known as <em>ayran</em>; and, of course, tea. It is only after we begin eating that we remember that this is Ramadan, and none of our hosts are able to share so much as a glass of water along with us. Yet they urge us to eat. “We like people with an appetite,” says one of the man’s sons.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">It is an incredible meal, and an equally inspiring setting. I ask Aksoy about the room, much fancier than the rest of the dwelling. “It is the <em>misafirhane,</em> the guest chamber,” he replies. “This is where peace is created. When a guest comes, they give everything they have.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">After we leave the room and start to say good-bye, another boy comes to us with a small bowl of <em>salça</em>. I take a dab and put it in my mouth. There is no heat, just an unusually sweet and pure version of the Maras’s bright flavor, with a slightly musky, vegetal undertone. In a second, though, the heat blooms, not just in the back of my throat but throughout my mouth. It’s not intense, but it’s strong enough to make me laugh. The villagers gathered around all laugh, too, an expression of shared pleasure but also of pride. This is perhaps the best gift they could have given—my obsession has been justified.</span><br />
<div class="inline-related-links" id="inline-related-links">
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">Related links</span></h3>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: 85%;">Get recipes for <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/recipes/2000s/2009/05/lamb-stew-with-turkish-flavors">Lamb Stew with Turkish Flavors</a> and <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/recipes/2000s/2009/05/calamari-with-beans-and-maras-papper">Calamari with Beans and Maras Pepper</a></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: 85%;">Watch a full episode of <em>Gourmet’s Diary of a Foodie</em> on <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/diaryofafoodie/video/2009/02/311_chile_peppers"><em>Chile Peppers: Playing with Fire</em></a></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: 85%;">Read John Willoughby’s account of <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/magazine/2000s/2007/02/rhapsody">southern Turkey schooner vacation</a></span></li>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-30540182824893666442014-11-21T06:58:00.000-08:002014-11-21T08:23:25.656-08:00Tastes of Mavi Boncuk is now part of Mavi Boncuk.<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tastes of Mavi Boncuk</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">is now part of <a href="http://maviboncuk.blogspot.com/">Mavi Boncuk.</a></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Go to <a href="http://maviboncuk.blogspot.com/">Mavi Boncuk</a> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and search for </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">food related items </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and Tastes of Mavi Boncuk</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-31592355317157874642012-11-29T08:31:00.001-08:002014-11-21T06:58:36.077-08:00A Baghdad Cookery Book<div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n-Lhq2dxiuQ/ULeN5pY2bBI/AAAAAAAALJY/DjcZ0pgTME8/s1600/baghcook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n-Lhq2dxiuQ/ULeN5pY2bBI/AAAAAAAALJY/DjcZ0pgTME8/s400/baghcook.jpg" height="400" width="286" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><a href="https://prospectbooks.co.uk/books/1-903018-42-0">A Baghdad Cookery Book</a></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Muhammad b.al-Hasan b.Muhammad b.al-Karîm, Charles Perry (tr.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">ISBN-10 1-903018-42-0 ISBN-13 978-1-903018-42-2 Published Dec 2005 127 pages; 187×138 mm; paperback; illustrations </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Kitâb al Tabîkh, composed by a thirteenth-century scribe we usually call al-Baghdadi, was long the only medieval Arabic cookery book known to the English-speaking world, thanks to A.J.Arberry’s path-breaking 1939 translation as ‘A Baghdad Cookery Book’ (reissued by Prospect Books in 2001 in Medieval Arab Cookery).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For centuries, it had been the favourite Arabic cookery book of the Turks. The original manuscript, formerly held in the library of the Aya Sofya Mosque, is still in Istanbul; it is now MS Ayasofya 3710 in the Süleymaniye Library. At some point a Turkish sultan commissioned very a handsome copy, now MS Oriental 5099 in the British Library in London. At a still later time, a total of about 260 recipes were added to Kitâb al Tabîkh's original 160 and the expanded edition was retitled Kitâb Wasf al-Atima al-Mutada (my translation of it also appears in Medieval Arab Cookery); three currently known copies of K.Wasf survive, all in Turkey – two of them in the library of the Topkapi Palace, showing the Turks’ high regard for this book. Finally, in the late fifteenth century Sirvâni made a Turkish translation of Kitâb al Tabîkh, to which he added some recipes current in his own day, the first Turkish cookery book.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-73942993203992588372012-06-06T08:13:00.006-07:002012-06-06T08:13:55.263-07:00Istanbul's Bosphorus feast boasts an international menu<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Istanbul's Bosphorus feast boasts an international menu</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sakhr Al Makhadhi</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.thenational.ae/lifestyle/travel/istanbuls-bosphorus-feast-boasts-an-international-menu#full">Source</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Jun 1, 2012 </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If proof of a city's culinary prowess came from its Michelin rating, then Istanbul would be just a minnow. It was only last year that the city earned its first Michelin star. But this Spice Route hub has never needed outsiders to tell it how good it is. Locals have known for centuries that this is one of the world's tastiest food cities.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It's late at night and I don't have a reservation, but in a place like Istanbul, it really doesn't matter. My midnight food walk starts at Taksim Square, a meeting point, a traffic roundabout, and - for many visitors - a first taste of Istanbul. This is where buses from the airport arrive, and it used to be a bit of a backpacker haunt. Underneath florescent tubes in glass cabinets is the student meal of choice - the wet burger. If you like cheap meat in soggy bread, then this is the dish for you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have my eyes on something far more satisfying. But first, I need to brave the crowds on Istiklal Caddesi. This is Istanbul's main shopping street, and despite the late hour, it is heaving. I am shoulder to shoulder, being washed along in this great sea of people who seem to be going nowhere and doing nothing. Then I spot it - the unnamed tea shop halfway along the street. It is a struggle to get out of the traffic flow, but I manage and duck into the Formica-table dive and order a plate of kiymali. The chef chops up the huge spiral of flaky pastry filled with mince meat at super speed and brings it over with a sweet mint tea. It is greasy, crumbly, and incredibly filling. I'm not going to finish the plate, because this is only the first course.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I reach the end of Istiklal, the crowds thin out before the cobbled street leads down to the Bosphorus. The Galata Bridge is a fish-lover's heaven. Seafood restaurants line the lower passageway across the water. Pick your fish from the displays outside and then take a table by the water. I'm in search of something even more simple, though: balik ekmek.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I reach the other side of the bridge, I spot a neon-lit boat bobbing up and down by the water's edge. I walk up to the boat, hand over my cash, and a whole mackerel in fresh, crusty bread is thrown over to me. This is lively, street-side dining. Grab one of the tiny tables, squeeze some lemon juice on to the fresh fish, and then wait for one of the passing juice sellers to catch your eye.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For dessert, I walk behind the nearby Orient Express terminus, now sadly marred by a petrol station built right in front of it. It is here that I find Hafiz Mustafa, one of the city's oldest patisseries. It has been around since 1864, when it may have welcomed travellers stepping off the train from Paris. I head upstairs to the beautifully tiled tea room for their amazing dark chocolate-covered baklawa. Sugar doused in sugar, the perfect end to a night filled with food tastier than what I have eaten in some Michelin-starred restaurants.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next morning, I am out early to grab a simit, a crunchy bagel, that is the Istanbullus' commuter breakfast of choice. I pick up my one lira breakfast from an old man selling his wares out of a beautiful antique red cart at one of the Bosphorus ports. At one time, the simit men of each neighbourhood would collect their bread from the local firin (bakery), and then cart it around the streets, plying for commuter trade, a bit like newspaper boys going on their morning rounds.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One of the most important was the Cihangir firin, hidden downhill from Istiklal Caddesi. But it fell into disrepair, and was bought by one of the city's most exciting chefs. Dilara Erbay is the woman behind one of Istanbul's most celebrated restaurants, Abracadabra. There were queues out of the door every evening. But Erbay was uncomfortable with the success. She wanted to go back to her hippie roots for her new project, so she moved into Cihangir, a boho neighbourhood of artist squats, workers' cafes and streetside fruit and veg stalls and set up Datli Maya.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All of her ingredients are bought locally. Today, she's serving an artichoke kofte. A few days earlier, she made octopus biryani. But it is the kebab that really grabs my attention. Freshly baked, doughy bread from the oven down below, tender lamb, and fresh vegetables. It's everything that late-night European snack that goes by the name of "kebab" is not. I follow this with pide, a flat bread covered in homemade goats cheese brought by one of the chefs from her hometown in south-eastern Turkey. It is washed down with the finest glass of lemonade I have tasted outside of Damascus. "I rebel against industrial production. I don't call myself a chef, it's an insult," she says with a laugh. "They're kitchen slaves, I'm not."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And if she's not a chef, then this is not a restaurant. At Datli Maya, to get to your table, you need to walk behind the oven, climb a tiny, winding set of stairs, and pass through the heart of the kitchen. It feels like you are eating in your friend's bedroom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Every week, Erbay holds a themed food night. "Last week we had a whole stuffed baby goat, cooked in the oven for five hours," she says. "We put it on Facebook and the event sold out straight away."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Erbay keeps her prices low to make sure locals who rarely eat out can afford to take a place next to international, jetsetting fans of Istanbul's rebellious superstar chef.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You are more likely to find the rich kids eating further up the Bosphorus. Just down the road from the villas of Bebek is Arnavutkoy, the place where the Porsche drivers come to spend their money. This little cobble-street hamlet is known for its fine dining. So it is no surprise that Time Out magazine's best restaurant in Istanbul is here. What is surprising is that this year's winner, Antica Locanda, is an Italian eatery.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chef Gian Carlo Talerico is something of a purist, and he says it's been a battle to convince Turks to stop asking for pizza. "Other Italian restaurants are Italian by name only, the pasta is overcooked. I make it al dente, some people don't like it, but that's the way it is," he says with a shrug. "I fight every single day."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The food was worth the arguments. The simple starter of boiled asparagus in butter and parmesan is delicate, and is served with the sweetest, lightest olive oil I have ever tasted. Talerico's special recipe of roasted and caramelised chicken breast in raspberry sauce is one of the highlights of the menu. But it is the bucatini, a Genoa penne served with a homemade pesto creme that is the best dish I have eaten in Istanbul. And yes, I am aware how controversial that statement will be in one of the world's great food cities.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The trouble is that Arnavutkoy is a 30-minute taxi ride out of town. It is unlikely to be discovered by tourists reluctant to stray far from the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia. The area with the most tourist sites, Sultanahmet, is foodie-hell. It is populated by tourist-trap restaurants serving set "tourist menus". These are thrust into your face by over-eager staff standing on the street. The one exception is Karakol, hidden inside the Topkapi Palace. And unlike the nearby restaurants, Karakol seems determined to stop me getting in.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"You'll have to get past the armed guards," Hilmi Akcay, assistant manager of the Karakol Restaurant tells me cryptically. "Call me if you have any problems." It sounds more like a message to a spy than an invitation to dinner.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Nervously, I walk into the deserted Topkapi Palace grounds after closing time. "Stop," a guard orders me. "The palace is closed." When I give him Akcay's details he reluctantly lets me through. After three and a half years of hard work, this former Ottoman police station was converted from an abandoned building into an elegant eatery. And fittingly, they're serving the type of food that would have been on the menu back then. "When people think about Turkish cuisine, it's all about kebabs," says Akcay. "Our owner found dishes from the original Ottoman recipe books."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It is the cheese sea bass that is the winner for me. Caught fresh from the Bosphorus, it's cooked with shrimp and tomato sauce and served with melted local feta. Alongside ancient dishes like that is, unfortunately, a range of dull mezzes because tourists are unadventurous, apparently. There aren't many tourists around, though: the place is deadly quiet. Maybe they were scared off by the guards.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At the Istanbul Culinary Institute, the atmosphere is very different. Chefs are shouting across the open-plan kitchen and the evening cookery class is about to begin. In addition to hosting amateur classes for visitors who have fallen in love with the local cuisine, the Institute is home to one of the city's best chef schools.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Even if you don't want to get your hands dirty, this place is an education in local food. The à la carte changes every month, and the set menu every day. "It's a very busy menu for a restaurant like ours but we want our students to practise with as many dishes as possible," says founder Hande Bozdogan.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"This is an apprenticeship restaurant but some of the stuff you find here is maybe better than what you can find in a top level restaurant," she says. The result is a crowd of local diners who are in search of some of the city's best food, rather than Istanbul's most showy surroundings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And just maybe, this chef school will earn the city a few more much-deserved Michelin stars.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If you go</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The flight Return flights on Etihad Airways (www.etihadairways.com) from Abu Dhabi to Istanbul cost from Dh1,830, including </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">taxes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The stay The new A’jia Hotel (www.ajiahotel.com; 00 90 216 413 9300), right by the water’s edge, on the Asian side of the Bosphorus is a lovely white-washed Ottoman mansion. Double rooms cost from €275 (Dh1,300)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The restaurants </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The set menu at Datli Maya (www.datlimaya.com; 00 90 212 292 9056) costs 20TL (Dh40). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Main courses at Antica Locanda (www.anticalocanda.com.tr; 00 90 212 287 9745) are 32TL-50TL (Dh64-Dh100). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dinner for two at Karakol (www.karakolrestaurant.com; 00 90 212 514 9494) costs around 150TL (Dh300). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You can eat for 50TL (Dh100) per person at the Istanbul Culinary Institute (www.istanbulculinary.com; 00 90 212 251 2214), with one-to-one cookery classes from 480TL (Dh961)</span><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-53906331006034589642012-03-10T19:22:00.000-08:002012-03-10T19:36:16.629-08:00Is This the Next Paris?<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mavi Boncuk | </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.gq.com/food-travel/travel-features/201202/alan-richman-istanbul-food-review-middle-east?currentPage=1">Is This the Next Paris?</a></span></span></h1>
<i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Over the past decade, Istanbul—the mesmerizing ancient capital that straddles two continents—has boomed, restoring itself to the global stage as a portal to Asia and the new Middle East. </i><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Alan Richman wanders the streets, bazaars, and waterways, and discovers a city and a dining scene poised to conquer the world </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">BY ALAN RICHMAN | </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">PHOTOGRAPHS BY JULIEN CAPMEIL </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">February 2012 </span><br />
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<img alt="" class="featureimg" src="http://www.gq.com/images/food-and-travel/2012/02/istanbul/istanbul-628.jpg" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; display: block; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Left: Istanbul glimmering at dusk, as seen from the terrace of the restaurant Leb-i Derya. Right: Eggplant salad, simple and elegant, from the restaurant Borsa. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Where do you wish to dine when night descends?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Paris, perhaps. Not an unreasonable idea, although that means subsequently returning to a hotel room smaller than a Devil's Island prison cell and the next morning awakening to a city whose residents wish you were not so annoyingly different from them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Let me suggest Istanbul, the most engaging city I know. Turkey isn't what it once was, when the Ottoman Empire grabbed a wedge of Europe, a huge chunk of Asia, and a northerly slice of Africa. But it is undergoing a revival, reasserting itself. Name your nation—Syria, Iran, Israel, even the European Union. Turkey's leaders seem happy to tell the whole lot where to get off.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Not coincidentally, dining in Istanbul gets better all the time. It's not yet ideal. Modern culinary trends clash with Ottoman-era dishes. Islamic prohibitions against pork and bloody rare meat rankle. Yet Istanbul is proof that power and prosperity are precursors to a flourishing cuisine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No city I know offers more wonderful settings in which to dine. From the rooftop restaurants, which are in abundance, you can look down on edifices that are undeniably heart-wrenching yet remarkably vibrant: Ottoman Empire palaces, soaring mosques, all of them illuminated first by the setting sun, then by floodlights, and finally, and most appropriately, by a crescent moon.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Or you might prefer a table situated along a cobblestone passageway in Sultanahmet, the heart of the old city. I have a preference for the restaurant Balıkçı Sabahattin, where alley cats beg for scraps of your grilled sea bass and white-shirted waiters chase them away with spritzes of bottled water, inflicting momentary terror. (The cats recover swiftly and return.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I also appreciate a well-set outdoor table only a few feet from the banks of the Bosporus, a strait more impressive than Paris's moody Seine. At Feriye Lokantası you might see small dolphins on a pleasure trip from the Black Sea leap into the air for their own amusement as well as yours. (A confession: I've never observed this, but the woman seated across from me swore she did, and our waiter said that on warm nights, after work, he sometimes went for a dip with them.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You've heard the expression "location, location, location." Istanbul has it like no other city. Geographically, it is partly in Europe and partly in Asia, a beneficial accident that Turkey leverages to the maximum. Over the course of centuries, everything flowed into Istanbul, especially food. But it has always been the water and the nearness of it that elevates and distinguishes the city.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The allure of the Bosporus is immeasurable. It divides the continents. It connects the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmara. And it is more majestic than whatever river lazily flows through whatever city you have until now adored.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Might that be Rome? Lovely place, but to be honest, dead. Rome has a nice history. Istanbul has a more textured one. First it was the focal point of the Roman Empire, then the Byzantine Empire, and finally the Ottoman Empire—pretty much the Triple Crown of sovereignty—and it remains filled with irresistible bits of kingdoms past. Rome has the Coliseum, of course, but it's a skeleton. Istanbul has the Hagia Sophia. It's been burned, looted, disfigured. It looks prehistoric. It feels omnipotent. It has all those mosaics. And it boasts a rather sweet snack bar within its walled grounds.</span><br />
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<img align="bottom" src="http://www.gq.com/images/food-and-travel/2012/02/istanbul/istanbul-inset-01.jpg" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 20px; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>A quiet moment amid the many cafés and bars that line</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Nevizade Street.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Istanbul was founded around 660 b.c. as Byzantium. It became the capital of the Roman Empire by decree of Constantine the Great in the fourth century, grew into the most glorious city in the world under Emperor Justinian, was sacked by crusaders in the thirteenth century, and fell to Turks in the fifteenth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I came along a mere quarter century ago, yet even then the city seemed to exist in the past. Cars passed over the Golden Horn, an inlet of the Bosporus, by means of a pontoon bridge built in 1912. Politically, the country had to tolerate a cadre of army generals who occasionally imposed military rule, maybe to stop communism or maybe just to show that they could.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The army was in command on that first trip, in the mid-1980s. When I argued with a taxi driver who had overcharged me, we took our dispute to the highest court of appeals, a soldier with an automatic weapon standing guard on a street corner. He ruled in my favor, and that began my love affair with Istanbul. I fell hard for çöp şiş, roughly translated as "garbage kebab," which consists of skewered lamb scraps and lamb fat, cooked over an open fire. Çöp şiş has remained the only two words of Turkish I know. On that trip I also ate the most perfect street food of my life, deep-fried mussels cooked in a monstrous wok, slipped into soft bread much like a miniature Parker House roll, then slathered with homemade walnut-studded tartar sauce.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Even now I search for those mussels. They continue to elude me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Today, Turkey insists on recognition as an international leader, and it's hard to say such influence isn't deserved. While I was passing through Egypt in September, the prime minister of Turkey, Recep Tayyip Erdo˘gan, flew into Cairo. He was greeted with the reverence and passion that John Kennedy once attracted. I later met the general manager of Cairo's Kempinski Nile Hotel, who said of the ongoing Egyptian revolution, "If we follow Turkey, we will look like Turkey in ten years. If we don't follow Turkey, in eight months we will look like Palestine."</span><br />
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<img align="bottom" src="http://www.gq.com/images/food-and-travel/2012/02/istanbul/istanbul-inset-02.jpg" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Lamb shank, ready to be devoured, at Borsa.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The woman, days away from her wedding, wore a tank top with the message SEXY LITTLE BRIDE. Istanbul might be a Muslim city, but clearly ayatollahs aren't running the place. She, her fiancé, a few of their friends, and I were riding up the Bosporus in a restored wooden powerboat, nibbling catered mezes brought on board and drinking rakı, the anise-flavored spirit. They'd invited me for a ride, to be followed by dinner, and they were arguing with pleasure over possible venues. "A few more glasses of rakı and he won't care," I overheard one of them say about me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As our boat glided past the hundreds of mansions known as yalı that sell for $10 million to $20 million and line the Bosporus, I realized I would not have another chance to dine with people of such affluence. So I selected the restaurant that nicely represented their lifestyle: Borsa, which has a branch at Istinye Park, a mall of high-end brands including Ladurée, the Paris macaron shop.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Eating, I have always believed, is the perfect and perhaps only way for an outsider with limited time to gain knowledge of a foreign country. Rarely has anyone been so thoroughly an outsider: I neither speak nor read Turkish, and I have no friends there. I do know something about Turkish cuisine, though. It's not quite one of the best in the world, but it's close.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That prosperity and stability are essential for a food culture to thrive is inarguable. Look around the region: Israel, which once had the least interesting restaurants on earth, is developing a promising Mediterranean diet entirely its own; Lebanon, historically celebrated for its table, is just starting to restore its culinary reputation after thirty years of war and neglect. Egypt is a disaster politically and economically, and the food there is tragically bad</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Turkish dishes are immensely likable for their unrivaled freshness and elegant simplicity. Significantly, countries with first-rate cuisines almost always boast long histories of infatuation with food, and that's certainly true of the Ottoman Turks. Proof can be seen in the paintings of the gaily dressed and overfed sultans and harem women of the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries. They might well have been the inspiration for the balloons that now float over holiday parades.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There is, however, that high-level culinary dissonance. The modern version of fine dining in Istanbul is straightforward, whereas the palace cooking of the Ottoman Empire was more elaborate. Much of this heritage disappeared in the 1920s, when Atatürk, the founder of modern Turkey, replaced Ottoman script with a variation of the Latin alphabet. This rendered thousands of recipes handed down from the Ottoman Empire unintelligible, lost in translation. When I first visited Istanbul, the cooking felt repressed. I liked the fish, the vegetables, and the çöp şiş. Not much else impressed me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Today chefs, restaurateurs, and cookbook authors are attempting to revive the Ottoman-era recipes, most of which are too convoluted for my palate. The best dish I've tasted is breast of chicken stuffed with pistachio-flecked basmati rice and placed on a bed of spinach, the way it's stylishly served at Feriye Lokantası, the dolphin-friendly establishment on the banks of the Bosporus.</span><br />
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<img align="bottom" src="http://www.gq.com/images/food-and-travel/2012/02/istanbul/istanbul-inset-03.jpg" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Tomato salad topped with walnuts at Borsa.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The meze that we were eating on the powerboat is an essential staple of the Turkish table. It is not, as commonly thought, simply a collection of miscellaneous starters; it is a way of life that incorporates eating, drinking, and socializing. The meze wasn't brought on board because we had to be fed; it was there to promote hospitality and make me feel welcome, which it did.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Kebabs are almost as significant. They are pervasive, but to nonbelievers like me they possess a fatal flaw: Islamic law forbids eating meat that is not drained of blood, and I didn't have a kebab in Turkey prepared any way but well-done. However, I did notice observance of the religious prohibition against pork starting to crumble. The House Hotel Ni¸santa¸sı, where I stayed, served a strapping if imperfect version of eggs Benedict—I imagined the chef shaking with fear as the bacon crisped in his pan.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At Borsa we were seated outdoors, on a deck, under an oversize umbrella, at a huge table covered with a white tablecloth. It was very classy and cool, much like the Hamptons. Yet the food could not have been more traditional.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The first dish was a salad of walnuts, tomatoes, onions, red peppers, and pomegranate juice that I was told originated in the agricultural area near Incirlik Air Base, a NATO facility that my hosts portrayed as an American air base. In Turkey, America remains a fairly neutral presence, as it is not elsewhere in the Middle East. (Diplomatic note: Turkey proudly considers itself an independent political and geographical entity, not a mere component of the Middle East.)</span><br />
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<img align="bottom" src="http://www.gq.com/images/food-and-travel/2012/02/istanbul/istanbul-inset-04.jpg" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Just a small bit of the daily catch from the Black Sea, as </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>sold at one of the local markets.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our second course, lahmacun (also known as Turkish pizza), consisted of herbs and chopped lamb atop flatbread; I ate it often on this trip, but no version was nearly as savory and crunchy as Borsa's. Baked eggplant, cooked with onions, tomatoes, and green peppers, was smoky and sweet and so spectacular my eyes watered with happiness, but I pretty much had the identical reaction to every variation on eggplant in Istanbul. Next came a peasant dish native to farmers near the Black Sea; it was made from corn flour, cheese, and yogurt. Turks are addicted to yogurt.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">About when I was starting to think this dinner might be memorable, out came the overcooked meats. It probably says a lot about my despair when I say that the most tempting meat dish was the Roasted Bony Lamb Shank, which was, at least, tender.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The people dining with me were not looking toward Islam for relief from corporeal woes. So when we chatted about the possibility of a religious revolution and subsequent rule by Islamic law occurring in Turkey, they insisted it could not happen. "It is a great question, one we talk about all the time," one of them said. I pointed out that they were outnumbered by millions of other potential voters, the rural poor who have moved to Istanbul. "Turkey simply cannot be a country like Iran," one of them added. "Turks do not know Islam as a political model."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They noted that the language of Turkey is not Arabic. They pointed to the intense consumer culture in their country. So many malls. So many Starbucks. So many reasons not to embrace radical Islam. One woman told me that young Turks had become seduced by the idea of walking around carrying their coffee in take-out cups. Junk food, an American export, apparently helps, too. "Junk food is kind of joyful in Turkey," she added. A few days later, happy to check it out, I had the so-called Ottoman Meal at Burger Turk. The lamb patty was average, the slices of tomato in my sandwich excellent, and the fellow at the counter tried mightily to upgrade me to a one-liter Coke. The reputation of Americans for consuming vast quantities of sweetened beverages apparently has spread worldwide.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Since I first started traveling to Istanbul, my favorite restaurant has remained Balıkçı Sabahattin, located in that cobblestone passageway in the old city. The restaurant is easily found by asking directions from almost anyone, since the locals all know of it. They will direct you there after insisting they know a fish restaurant just as good that costs much less. They are mistaken; no grilled fish in Istanbul is better.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The restaurant, I was told, now accommodates about 200 diners, although I have no idea where. I've always eaten at one of the tables that line the alley. It's not quite level, but the slant isn't so dramatic that your stuffed grape leaves will roll off your plate. Overhead is a grape arbor. Alongside the tables are potted fig trees. Other pots hold radishes, garlic bulbs, even watermelons. The tables are oversize, the waiters attired rather formally. Have the meze, in particular the smoked eggplant, which is miraculous, and the whole snapper on the bone, masterfully grilled. The snapper is even better than the fillet of sea bass, which everybody but me prefers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The first days of my visit to Istanbul came during Ramadan, and two women took me with them to break their fast at Hamdi, a well-regarded kebab restaurant. An American who joined us said she was uneasy at the notion of attending a dinner to celebrate religious traditions she perceived as alien. She was edgy as we entered—"intimidated," she later admitted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our table was on the top floor, which is partially outdoors and was entirely filled with those breaking the fast. My personal concern was less spiritual than hers: Smoking was permitted in the space, since it was technically open to the night air. A license to smoke is not to be taken lightly in Turkey. Indeed, the fellow sitting at the table closest to me didn't put out his cigarette during the meal; actually, he rarely took it from his mouth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had braced myself for lessons in orthodoxy, but they did not materialize. One of the women, a 33-year-old lecturer in international relations, explained how the Westernization that has defined Turkey for the past quarter century was in the process of ending as her country became more independent from the United States and Europe and more involved strategically throughout the region. Her friend, less academically inclined, regaled us with stories of the Turkish obsession with yogurt. She admitted that she had badly upset her hosts in Italy by putting yogurt on her pasta.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The view from our table included well-lit mosques displaying proverbs written out in lights and strung between minarets. It's a religious indulgence the secular government permits only during Ramadan. The uneasy American admired these expressions of devoutness, sensing their spirituality. The sayings closest to us read "There is no God but Allah" and "Love each other and be loved."</span><br />
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<img align="bottom" src="http://www.gq.com/images/food-and-travel/2012/02/istanbul/istanbul-inset-05.jpg" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /><span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>The 400-year-old Blue Mosque. (Unlike the grounds of </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>the city's other architectural marvel, the Hagia Sophia, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">it has no snack bar.)</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We ate a huge multicourse meal in ninety minutes, making us one of the slowest groups in the room. Turks eat fast, and in this case with good reason: They were starving. The lecturer offered a more nuanced explanation: "In Istanbul, life is fast; we cannot spend the time. Here is not like Spain, Greece, and Italy." After we left the restaurant, the now dazzled American woman said, "There was something so spiritual about the dinner, all of us together, like we were in a church. And we ate at the moment of sunset, which was uplifting, joyful. I was shocked to feel so in touch."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As is my nature, I had paid too much attention to the culinary and not enough to the ceremonial aspects of our meal. I am not unaffected by Islam. I might not even be neutral. But I never feel anything but happiness while in Turkey, and I considered the illuminated expressions of brotherhood to be sincere. It's the overcooked kebabs that got to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At Hamdi, I only liked the ones containing chopped meat. The chunks of skewered lamb or veal were barely palatable, whereas the kebabs made with ground veal and lamb were marginally juicy, like a well-prepared meat loaf. I particularly liked those that had a combination of the two meats and were accented with pistachios or spiced with a mix of sweet peppers, paprika, and black pepper. Other than the American woman's wholehearted approval of Islamic ritual, nothing about the meal surprised me more.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">···</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Istanbul isn't just one city but a metropolis of water, connected by ferries to islands and—if you plan wisely—multiple food opportunities. I made two such voyages. One took several hours and brought me to the island of Burgazada in the Sea of Marmara. The other was brief, an excursion across the Bosporus to the Asian side of Istanbul and the district of Kadıköy. The trip had much in common with a subway ride through Manhattan. The machines dispensing tokens rejected my bills, and I desperately begged change in coins from passersby. And the ferry was inhabited by hawkers not much different from those who haunt New York's transit system. On this trip, I was educated in vegetable peelers. The hawkers energetically sent potato skins flying.</span><br />
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<img align="bottom" src="http://www.gq.com/images/food-and-travel/2012/02/istanbul/istanbul-inset-06.jpg" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Fresh grouper at Mikla, simply prepared.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After reaching Kadıköy, I happened by chance to wander into a long, narrow market street while in search of the restaurant Çiya, known for its authentic rustic dishes. The street, unfettered by signage, turned out to be Güne¸slibahçe, where the restaurant is located. On sale here were eggs with yolks as golden as the threads on a sultan's caftan—each vendor had a few eggs cracked open and displayed in their shells. I also encountered baked skulls, hot, fragrant, and steaming. I caught the eye of a butcher and nodded, my way of asking what they were. He said what I expected, only more colorfully. "Baaaa," he bleated. I also stopped at a baklava shop, where I bought a small sack of those preposterously sweet and luscious pastries—Güne¸slibahçe Street seemed to have everything. Turkish baklava is the finest confection to emerge from the holy trinity of nuts, phyllo, and honey. Still, it's sweet, insanely so. If you wish your baklava less sweet, head for Beirut.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The mezes at Çiya were basic, flavorsome, and sold by weight. The hot dishes were served steam-table-style, but they were ambitious enough that I'm certain they would have been wonderful if made to order. I pointed to a concoction that turned out to be rice, chicken, and almonds stuffed into a pastry shell, baked in a cup, then turned over onto a plate, in essence a poultry upside-down cake. It was cold. It would have been superb had it been warm.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My second journey, the one to Burgazada, was to meet a married couple introduced to me by friends in New York. She is a Turk. He is an American. They had picked this island for our rendezvous because of its serenity, which is not insignificant in Istanbul, thought to have a population approaching 17 million. My only mistake was taking the trip on a busy Friday, when the ferry was packed and I had to protect my standing-room spot next to the rail against all challengers, at one point using my leg to block a small boy trying to squirm into my territory. (Hey, I'm from New York.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our lunch was at the restaurant Yasemin, where we sat a few feet from the Sea of Marmara and ate grilled octopus mixed with stuffed green olives; fried clams the equal of those I've had in Ipswich; and sensationally crunchy torpedo-shaped börek with a cheese filling. I'd been seeking these since my arrival. Börek (fried pastries) are a Turkish staple that are stuffed with any number of fillings, but Yasemin's were precisely the kind I find most satisfying. With them we drank a soda called Muslim Up, which is simultaneously intended to combat Western imperialism and to promote Palestinian causes. It made me belch.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The woman advanced a theory, not original to her, that the salvation of Islamic relations with the Western world was possible, thanks to economics. I was reminded of something the lecturer at Hamdi restaurant had said: "If China can have communist capitalism, why can't Turkey develop Islamic capitalism?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She told me that young Muslims wished to prosper in business and use the money to aid their community. "So many want mansions as well as turning the world Islamic," she said. She claimed that this market-driven neo-Islamic movement coincided with the compassionate conservatism of America's Republican Party. I assured her she was wrong, since America's Republicans don't want to share their wealth with anyone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We were finishing a sea bream, grilled to such succulence I had lost track of everything except the wonder of fish, when the owner of the restaurant asked if we'd like coffee or tea. "Coffee," I said. "Very well," he replied, "but you will not make your ferry back if you have coffee. If you want to wait for the next boat, I'll be happy to give you coffee." I ran for the boat. I really don't think much of boiled Turkish coffee anyway. (Yes, the coffee in Paris is better.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Back on the European side, I went to visit the only person I knew in Istanbul, a carpet dealer with a small shop behind the Blue Mosque. On previous visits, I would be followed everywhere by men shilling for carpet dealers. They would offer to guide me to the only honest salesman in the city, who happened to be their brother or their uncle. On this trip, it didn't happen, not once.</span><br />
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<img align="bottom" src="http://www.gq.com/images/food-and-travel/2012/02/istanbul/istanbul-inset-07.jpg" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /><br />
<i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The meze spread at Balıkçı Sabahattin, featuring eggplant </i><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">salad.</i><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The mystery deepened when the dealer near the Blue Mosque seemed less pleased to see me than in the old days. He said he was thinking of closing down because people like me had stopped buying. He was selling no more than one carpet a month to Americans. I was my usual helpful self. I explained to him that we Americans were no longer buying rugs for our homes because we no longer had homes; they were all in foreclosure.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That night I visited the most highly publicized restaurant in the city, 360 Istanbul, which is located atop a once grand apartment building and offers this promise on its website: "Coupled with an ingeniously engineered and extensive wine menu, you can rest assured that we will have the perfect combination of wine and dish to achieve a gastronomic orgasm." You won't find semisexual stimulation like that in many Muslim countries. I ordered a drink called the Sultan's Aphrodisiac—note the continuation of the theme—so sweet it should have been named the Sultan's Diabetic Coma.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our table was a good one. From it I could see the Topkapı Palace, the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sophia, the ferry docks, everything that makes Istanbul unparalleled. The menu consisted of a little of this and a little of that, dishes from a multitude of countries. I had a zucchini-flower dolma so heavy I wasn't certain our flimsy table could bear its weight, underdone noncrispy Crispy Duck Spring Rolls, carpaccio-topped pizza with a crust so soggy it might as well not have been cooked, and then, finally, Short Rib of Beef "Love Me Tender." The meat was caramelized on the inside yet magically crunchy on the outside, the only succulent beef I ate in Istanbul. With menus as haphazard as this one, the odds are decent that one dish might turn out to be delicious, but the chances are not good that you can guess which one it will be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Such a collection of global comfort food is, I fear, becoming a worldwide restaurant trend. I think of it as neo-Continental cuisine, familiar food intended to appeal to tourists distrustful of the food in the countries they're visiting. In essence, it's bar food that's moved up in class.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Much more promising to me was the presence of a genuine celebrity chef in Istanbul. Mehmet Gürs has a Turkish father and a Finnish-Swedish mother and grew up in both Istanbul and Stockholm. I knew he was the real thing when I phoned his restaurant, Mikla, located on the eighteenth floor of the Marmara Pera Hotel, and learned he was away at a Scandinavian food conference with other celebrity chefs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mikla was the loftiest restaurant I tried, by any definition. Gürs has labeled his cooking the "new Anatolian cuisine," Anatolia being the major land mass of Turkey. It turned out to be among the best in Istanbul. And the top-of-the-mountain views from the restaurant were exceeded only by those offered at the restaurant's small chic bar located one floor above. With scenic outlooks, every floor counts.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My table—this was the only restaurant where I'd identified myself beforehand—was the most spectacular in the house. It was glass-enclosed and reminded me of an infinity swimming pool or a flying carpet. It seemed to hover unsupported in space. I ate raw grouper, bright and cool, sliced thin and topped with chopped Kalamata olives, chives, lemon juice, and olive oil, a thoroughly modern and vivid Scandinavian-Mediterranean preparation; mild anchovies encased fossil-style in crisps, reminiscent of a dish from Copenhagen's Noma; grilled grouper with all manner of vegetables, eight or nine of them, each cooked separately and differently, a triumph of kitchen technique and effort; and slow-cooked lamb shoulder, possibly prepared sous vide, accompanied by an exotic pesto. Elements of it were familiar—I'd tasted pomegranate molasses, a Middle East staple, before. But prunes? This was prune pesto spiked with pomegranate molasses, something entirely new.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I asked Gürs's assistant for the number of the table where I dined so I could request it on my next visit, but she said it was like an unlisted telephone number, not given out. I did not despair. In Istanbul, you need not dine at an uninteresting table, because you can always find a restaurant that will offer you a wonderful one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alan Richman is a GQ correspondent.</span><br />
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</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-42244418690416937522008-11-30T11:15:00.000-08:002008-11-30T11:45:54.719-08:00Lamb Kebabs with Eggplant | Kösk KebabiLamb Kebabs with Eggplant | Kösk Kebabi<br /><br />SERVES 4<br /><br />This is an adaptation of a dish we were served at Kösk, a restaurant in Konya.<br /><br />3⁄4 lb. boneless leg of lamb, cut into 2⁄3" cubes<br />1 1⁄2 oz. lamb fat, preferably tail fat, cut into 2⁄3" cubes<br />1⁄4 cup olive oil<br />1 tsp. coarse salt, plus more to taste<br />5 slender, pale purple eggplants (about 1 1⁄4 lbs.)<br />1⁄4 cup butter<br />1 large green pepper, cored, seeded, and finely chopped<br />2 medium tomatoes, cored, peeled, and finely chopped<br />1⁄3 cup lamb stock (see Panfried Lamb Kebabs with Bulgar Pilav, step 1)<br />1⁄2 cup cilantro leaves<br /><br />1. Toss together lamb, fat, and oil in a shallow dish. Refrigerate for 24 hours. Drain, transfer to a bowl; discard oil. Add salt; toss to combine. Thread 1 piece fat between every 4–6 pieces lamb onto six 15"–20" metal skewers; set aside.<br /><br />2. Preheat oven to 400°. Arrange eggplant on a baking sheet in a single layer. Roast until soft, about 30 minutes. Let cool slightly; remove and discard skin. Transfer flesh to a medium bowl; mash smooth with a fork.<br /><br />3. Melt butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add peppers and cook until softened, 8–10 minutes. Add tomatoes and cook until most of the liquid has evaporated, 8–10 minutes. Add eggplant and salt to taste; stir to combine. Transfer to a serving platter. Preheat a grill to medium. Grill kebabs, turning and basting with stock occasionally, until golden brown, about 5 minutes. Slide meat and fat off onto eggplant mixture. Garnish with cilantro.<br /> <br />This recipe was first published in Saveur in Issue #95Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-52158168775149899402008-11-30T11:13:00.000-08:002008-11-30T11:14:37.505-08:00Lamb and Yogurt Soup | Tutmaç Çorbasi<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Lamb and Yogurt Soup | Tutmaç Çorbasi</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">SERVES 4 – 6</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">When adding the yogurt mixture to this soup, we were taught to stir it in only one direction, a technique used to prevent curdling.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">FOR THE PASTA:</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">2⁄3 cup flour</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1⁄2 tsp. salt</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 egg</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">2 1⁄2 cups vegetable oil</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">FOR THE CROUTONS:</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1⁄2 cup flour</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1⁄4 tsp. salt</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 egg</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">FOR THE MEAT AND BROTH:</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1⁄2 lb. boneless leg of lamb,</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> cut into 1⁄2" pieces</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Salt</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 tbsp. clarified butter</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 cup thick strained yogurt</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">2 tbsp. flour</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 egg</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">3 cloves garlic</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">3 tbsp. butter</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">2 tsp. dried peppermint</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1. For the pasta: Put flour, salt, egg, and 1 tbsp. water into a medium bowl; mix to form a dough. Transfer to a lightly floured surface and knead until soft and pliant, 8–10 minutes. Halve dough, cover with a damp towel, and let rest for 20 minutes. Roll each piece of dough into an 8" × 12" rectangle. Cut each rectangle into small 1⁄2" pasta squares and let dry, uncovered, until no longer sticky, about 45 minutes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">2. Heat oil in a large deep skillet over medium heat. Working in batches, fry pasta squares, turning often, until golden brown, about 3 minutes. Transfer pasta to a paper towel–lined plate; let cool. Reserve skillet with remaining oil.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">3. For the croutons: Put flour, salt, and egg into a medium bowl; mix to form a dough. Transfer to a lightly floured surface, divide into 4 pieces, and shape into 4 long 1⁄4"-wide ropes. Cut each rope crosswise into 1⁄4" pieces. (Sprinkle with a little flour to keep from sticking.) Reheat reserved oil in skillet over medium heat. Working in batches, fry dough pieces, turning often, until golden brown, about 1 1⁄2 minutes. Transfer croutons to a paper towel–lined plate and let cool.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">4. For the meat and broth: Put 2 1⁄2 cups water into a medium pot; bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Add lamb, return to a boil, and skim off and discard any foam on surface. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer, covered, until tender, about 1 hour. Remove from heat and stir in 1⁄2 tsp. salt; set aside.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">5. Put 3 1⁄3 cups water, clarified butter, and 1 tsp. salt into a medium pot; bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Add fried pasta, reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer, covered, until soft, about 10 minutes. Drain in a colander and discard liquid.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">6. Whisk together yogurt, flour, egg, and 1 cup water in a medium bowl. Mash garlic and 1⁄2 tsp. salt to a paste in a mortar with a pestle; add to yogurt mixture. Bring meat and broth back to a simmer over medium heat. Slowly pour yogurt mixture into broth while stirring gently in one direction, then add drained pasta. Bring soup to a boil and cook for 15–20 seconds. Remove from heat; let bubbles subside. Repeat process until soup is slightly thicker than maple syrup, 3–4 times more. Season with salt to taste; transfer to a large serving bowl. Heat butter in a small skillet over medium heat. Add mint, swirl to combine, then pour over soup. Garnish with some croutons; serve any that remain on the side.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">This recipe was first published in Saveur in Issue #95</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-3988112453923907332008-11-30T11:12:00.000-08:002008-11-30T11:13:20.567-08:00Panfried Lamb Kebabs with Bulgur Pilav | Tava Kebapli Bulgur Pilavi<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Panfried Lamb Kebabs with Bulgur Pilav | Tava Kebapli Bulgur Pilavi</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">SERVES 4</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">You can also use the stock made in step 1 to baste the Lamb Kebabs With Eggplant.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">4 1⁄2 lbs. lamb bones</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 medium onion, cut into sixths</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 carrot, cut into 1" chunks</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 tbsp. rice</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">3 black peppercorns</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Salt</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 1⁄2 cups fine bulgur</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1⁄2 cup plus 6 tbsp. clarified butter</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 1⁄4-lb. piece boneless leg of lamb (from the largest end),</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> tendons, sinew, and fat removed and discarded, cut</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> crosswise into 1⁄2" slices</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ground cinnamon</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1. Put bones and 10 cups water into a large pot and bring to a boil. Skim off and discard any foam from surface. Add onions, carrots, rice, and peppercorns, reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer for 1 hour. Season lamb stock with salt to taste; strain through a fine sieve into a large bowl. Discard solids.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">2. Bring 2 cups of the lamb stock to a boil in a small pot over medium-high heat. Season with salt to taste, add bulgur, reduce heat to medium, and cook, covered, for 3 minutes. Reduce heat to medium-low; cook for 5 minutes. Uncover, drizzle with 1⁄2 cup butter; reduce heat to low. Cook, covered, until all liquid has been absorbed, about 20 minutes. Fluff with a fork, cover, and keep warm.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">3. Pound lamb slices one at a time between 2 pieces of plastic wrap with a meat mallet, to a thickness of 1⁄8". Heat 2 tbsp. butter in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Sauté 3 slices lamb until golden brown, 2–4 minutes per side. Wipe out skillet and repeat twice with remaining butter and lamb. Sprinkle with cinnamon and salt. Serve with Rose Petal Salad with Parsley and Mint, if you like.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">This recipe was first published in Saveur in Issue #95</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-54343184683028781752008-11-30T11:10:00.000-08:002008-11-30T11:11:38.501-08:00Rose Petal Salad with Parsley and Mint | Gül Yaprakli Marul Salatasi<span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:85%;" >Rose Petal Salad with Parsley and Mint | Gül Yaprakli Marul Salatasi<br /><br />SERVES 4 – 6<br /><br />We use only petals from organically grown roses for this fresh, tangy salad, sometimes tossing in some wild radish leaves, if they're available.<br /><br />1 medium-size organic rose<br />3 tbsp. vegetable oil<br />1 tbsp. fresh lemon juice<br />Salt<br />1 bunch of parsley<br />1 bunch of mint<br />1 head of romaine lettuce<br /><br />1. Gently pull the petals off rose, then cut off and discard the white bases from the petals and set the petals aside.<br /><br />2. Put oil, lemon juice, and salt to taste into a large bowl and whisk until well combined. Pick the leaves off parsley and mint and put them into the bowl of dressing.<br /><br />3. Trim and pull the leaves off lettuce. Wash and dry the leaves, thickly slice them, and transfer them to the bowl of dressing and herbs. Toss to coat well and transfer to a serving platter. Garnish with rose petals and serve immediately with the Panfried Lamb Kebabs With Bulgur Pilav, if you like.<br /><br />This recipe was first published in Saveur in Issue #95</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-58850844996328243822008-11-30T11:09:00.000-08:002008-11-30T11:10:10.779-08:00Almond Halvah | Badem Helvasi<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Almond Halvah</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> | Badem Helvasi</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">SERVES 4</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">This is an adaptation of a recipe we enjoyed while visiting Turkey.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1⁄2 cup high-protein all-purpose flour, such as King Arthur</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1⁄2 cup whole wheat flour</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">3 tbsp. blanched almond halves, toasted</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1⁄4 tsp. salt</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">8 tbsp. butter</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 cup sugar</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 tsp. rose water</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1. Stir together flours, 2 1⁄2 tbsp. of the almonds, and salt in a medium bowl. Melt butter in a medium pot over medium-high heat. Add flour mixture and stir with a wooden spoon until combined. Reduce heat to low and cook, stirring occasionally, until mixture darkens slightly and looks moist, about 30 minutes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">2. Meanwhile, put sugar and 1 2⁄3 cups water into a small pot; bring to a boil over medium-high heat, stirring to dissolve sugar. Allow syrup to boil for 2 minutes; remove from heat. Add syrup to flour–almond mixture and stir until well combined (the result should look like cookie dough). Cover pot and cook over low heat for 8 minutes. Uncover pot, transfer mixture to a serving plate, and smooth into a 7"–8" round with the back of a spoon. With a large soup spoon, press indentations around the edges of the almond halvah to form a decorative pattern, then sprinkle with rose water. Gently press the remaining almonds into the center of the halvah in a radiating flower pattern. Serve, warm or at room temperature, in scoops with Turkish Coffee, if you like.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">This recipe was first published in Saveur in Issue #95</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-50172693590265346632008-11-30T11:04:00.000-08:002008-11-30T11:06:05.571-08:00Turkish Herb and Spice Mix | Baharat Karisimi<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Turkish Herb and Spice Mix | Baharat Karisimi</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">MAKES 2 TBSP.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Seasoning mixtures of this kind are common in kitchens throughout Turkey. Use this spice mix in the recipe for the Marinated Grilled Lamb Loin Skewers.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 1⁄2 tsp. dried winter savory</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 tbsp. pickling spice</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1⁄2 tsp. ground cinnamon</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1⁄2 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1⁄2 tsp. dried mint leaves, crumbled</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1⁄2 tsp. ground cumin</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1 tsp. freshly ground black pepper</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">1. In a spice mill, grind together to a fine powder dried winter savory, pickling spice, ground cinnamon, freshly grated nutmeg, crumbled dried mint leaves, ground cumin, and freshly ground black pepper. Store away from direct sunlight in a small airtight container for up to 3 months.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">This recipe was first published in Saveur in Issue #27</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-31297555191661928632008-11-14T19:18:00.000-08:002008-11-16T18:20:36.881-08:00Baklava Diplomacy<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><div style="font-family: webdings;" id="index_headers"><!-- End Headers --> </div> <!-- start article content --> <div class="byline" style="font-family:webdings;"> <div class="contributors"> <p> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="contributor"> <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/profiles/tony_eprile/search?contributorName=Tony%20Eprile"><img src="http://www.gourmet.com/images/profiles/bios/prar01_eprile80.jpg" alt="Tony Eprile" /></a> <span class="name"> <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/profiles/tony_eprile/search?contributorName=Tony%20Eprile">Tony Eprile</a> </span> </span></span></p> </div> </div> <!-- start headers --> <div class="headers" style="font-family:webdings;"> <h1 class="header"><span style="font-size:85%;">Baklava Diplomacy</span></h1> </div> <!-- end of headers --> <div class="display-date" style="font-family:webdings;"> <!-- MM.dd.yy --><span style="font-size:85%;"> 01.15.08 </span></div> <!-- start article intro --> <!-- article intro --> <!-- start article photo --> <div class="captioned-photo" style="font-family:webdings;"> <div class="w"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img src="http://www.gourmet.com/images/travel/2008/01/trar_turkishbaklava01_608.jpg" alt="Turkish baklava" /></span></div> </div> <!-- end article photo --> <br />Turkish baklava<br /><br />Nadir Güllü is known in Turkey as the King of Baklava. The shop down the street from his factory in the Karakoy section of Istanbul sells a royal selection of extraordinary pastries, including chestnut, chocolate, and walnut baklavas along with the traditional pistachio. These honeyed delicacies bear about as much resemblance to those overly sweet and soggy confections sold in U.S. supermarkets as does Beluga caviar to lumpfish roe.<br /><br />Güllü is a fifth-generation baklava maker, from a family originally hailing from Gaziantep in south central Turkey, the center of pistachio cultivation. A long-dead ancestor learned the art of baklava-making from a master baker in Damascus.<br /><br />Today, Güllü’s factory is the largest baklava producer in the world, creating more than 55 different kinds of baklava and related phyllo pastries such as kunefe and burmali kadayif. The factory is kept more sterile than most surgical operating rooms, and it takes a seven-year apprenticeship to become a master phyllo roller. Each sheet of phyllo is thin enough to perform a puppet show behind it; forty sheets make a single tray of baklava.<br /><br />Güllü takes his role seriously, saying that he practices “baklava diplomacy,” forging alliances with suppliers in Greece, Israel, and elsewhere. He demonstrated to me how one should use all the senses when tasting his baklava: First plunge a fork into the top to hear that satisfying kssshh! sound that comes from fresh, crisply baked phyllo that is saturated with syrup but not sodden. Then there is the odor of pistachio, baked pastry, and (depending on the type of pastry) rose water. Finally there is the texture in the mouth: enhanced by a liberal slathering of rich, whipped sheep’s-milk butter, the whole confection is then rolled in freshly ground pistachio nuts to give added crunch and flavor.<br /><br />Not planning a trip to Turkey soon? The next best thing to a visit to Karaköy Güllüoglü is to order the frozen pastries and phyllo from the company’s outlet in Brooklyn: Gollugo Baklava.<br /><br />Photographs by Tony EprileUnknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-6337928988922169342008-11-14T19:16:00.000-08:002008-11-14T19:20:37.688-08:00Street Food<span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><div style="font-family: verdana;" id="index_headers"><!-- End Headers --> </div> <!-- start article content --> <div class="byline" style="font-family:verdana;"> <div class="contributors"> <p> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="contributor"> <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/profiles/john_willoughby/search?contributorName=John%20Willoughby"><img src="http://www.gourmet.com/images/profiles/bios/prar01_willoughby80.jpg" alt="John Willoughby" /></a> <span class="name"> <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/profiles/john_willoughby/search?contributorName=John%20Willoughby">John Willoughby</a> </span> </span></span></p> </div> </div> <!-- start headers --> <div class="headers" style="font-family:verdana;"> <h1 class="header"><span style="font-size:85%;">Street Food: Istanbul</span></h1> </div> <!-- end of headers --> <div class="display-date" style="font-family:verdana;"> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span>Originally Published</span> May 2005 </span><!-- MMMM yyyy --></div> <!-- start article intro --> <div class="item-list" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Great food abounds on the streets of this culture-bridging city. Hunting for the perfect trash kebab, John Willoughby tries it all.</span></div> <!-- article intro --> <!-- start article photo --> <div class="captioned-photo" style="font-family:verdana;"> <div class="w"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img src="http://www.gourmet.com/images/magazine/2005/05/maar_istanbul608.jpg" alt="" /></span></div> </div> <!-- end article photo --> <!-- start article body --> <div class="text" id="articletext" style="font-family:verdana;"> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="firstletter" id="dropcap_n">N</span>ormally a sane driver, at least by Turkish standards, Ihsan abruptly jerked the wheel to the right and swerved across three lanes of traffic on the busy Bosporus highway. I was seized by the sudden, horrible fear that I was about to die, not for love or patriotism or even money, but for a kebab. And a trash kebab, at that.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">It’s not as if we hadn’t already had <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/search/query?keyword=kebab&">kebabs</a>. Lots of kebabs. Really great kebabs. And even this skewered plenitude was only the beginning of what we had eaten on the streets of this always surprising city. In fact, the variety and quality of the food there echoes the magnificence of Istanbul’s not-so-distant Ottoman past, when eating was such an obsession that many of the 1,300 cooks in Topkapi Palace spent their entire professional lives perfecting a single dish.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Fittingly, it is in the warren of narrow streets outside the mammoth Grand Bazaar, in the historic Sultanahmet district, that Istanbul’s street-food scene reaches its zenith. That very afternoon, wandering among the bustling crowds dressed in everything from full-length black robes to business suits, Ihsan and I had stood in a long, snaking line outside a minuscule shop to take away the best doner kebab I have ever tasted. I thought I was satisfied, but about 20 feet later Ihsan stopped at a glass-topped cart for a stuffed mussel, nested in its shell over a mound of subtly spiced rice. As I ate my third, I noticed a woman sitting on the street behind me selling something I’d never seen before: long, translucent, bumpy, sausagelike shapes. They turned out to be an Ottoman sweet—ropes made of paper-thin grape “leather” that had been thickly stuffed with toasted walnut halves.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">We kept strolling, meandering, sampling. We tried <em>kokoreç</em>, a pleasingly fatty snack of lamb intestines fashioned into coils, grilled over charcoal, then chopped up and seasoned with dried oregano and the ever-present Maras pepper. Next came a sandwich of ground lamb cooked on a wide, round, black metal griddle. In one narrow alley, we came upon my absolute favorite, <em>çig kofte,</em> the hand-fashioned “cigars” of heavily spiced raw ground veal served on a leaf of romaine lettuce with a squeeze of lemon and a scallion. Even after that, I couldn’t resist a piece of <em>pide</em></span> bread simply grilled and skimmed with butter.</p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">When we finally emerged onto a main artery near the Egyptian Spice Bazaar, I couldn’t even look at the grilled corn and chestnuts on offer. But Ihsan said, “Well, it’s after nine. The <em>cöp şiş</em> stand should be opening about now,” and we took off on that fateful drive to the Asian side.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">As it turned out, Istanbul’s drivers are unusually adept at avoidance tactics, and we made it safely to the curbside, where Ihsan hopped out of the car to embrace Ercan, the tall, thin Turk presiding over the brazier. As they laughed and hugged, I inspected the skewers laid out over the glowing coals: There were cubes of lamb interspersed with small chunks of mutton fat, spicy <em>sucuk</em> sausage alternating with aged <em>kaşar</em> cheese, long skewers of diminutive lamb livers.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">This being Istanbul, where kebabs are practically a religion, this variety had its own very specific provenance. “We call them cöp şiş, ‘trash kebab,’” said Ihsan. “The style is from southeastern Anatolia, and they’re called trash because they started out as little pieces of whatever was left over from restaurants at the end of the day’s service. The stands still only open late at night.”</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">A few minutes later, we were headed back to the curb, a cold beer in one hand, and in the other, a sheet of thin flatbread wrapped around grilled lamb sprinkled with a sort of tomato relish. I took a bite: The deeply seared lamb, with its faint echoes of smoke and gaminess, was buoyed by the juicy brightness of tomato, the gentle bite of onions, oregano’s earthiness, and the complex, slightly chalky heat of Maras and Urfa peppers. Like the best street food everywhere, it was straightforward, robust, instantly addictive. “Now that,” said Ihsan with a sigh, “is a kebab.”</span></p> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-11997389860946120872008-11-14T19:12:00.000-08:002008-11-14T19:15:10.876-08:00An Insider’s Guide to Eating Like a Turk<!-- start article content --> <div style="font-family: verdana;" class="byline"> <div class="contributors"> <p> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="contributor"> <span class="name"> <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/profiles/jenny_white/search?contributorName=Jenny%20White">Jenny White</a> </span> </span></span></p> </div> </div> <!-- start headers --> <div style="font-family: verdana;" class="headers"> <h1 class="header"><span style="font-size:85%;">An Insider’s Guide to Eating Like a Turk</span></h1> </div> <!-- end of headers --> <div style="font-family: verdana;" class="display-date"> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span>Originally Published</span> October 2008 </span><!-- MMMM yyyy --></div> <!-- start article intro --> <div style="font-family: verdana;" class="item-list"><span style="font-size:85%;">The culinary customs of Istanbul can be confusing—to begin with, every type of food has its own restaurant—but once you figure things out, you’ll be rewarded with a culinary paradise.</span></div> <!-- article intro --> <!-- start article photo --> <div style="font-family: verdana;" class="captioned-photo"> <div class="w"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img src="http://www.gourmet.com/images/travel/2008/09/trar_istanbul_eatingturk608.jpg" alt="Istanbul restaurant" /></span></div> </div> <!-- end article photo --> <!-- start article body --> <div style="font-family: verdana;" class="text" id="articletext"> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="firstletter" id="dropcap_w">W</span>hen my parents came to visit me in Istanbul in the 1980s, they took one look at the tiny apartment I was sharing with another student and insisted that we go out for dinner. The conversation with my mother went something like this</span></p><div class="inline-related-links"><ul><li><span style="font-size:85%;">Explore the best <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/magazine/2000s/2005/05/istanbul-street-food">street food in Istanbul</a>, then make our flavorful <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/recipes/2000s/2005/05/turkish-lamb-kebabs">Turkish kebabs</a></span></li></ul> </div> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">“Where are we eating tonight?”</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">“Well, what kind of food do you want?” I asked. “Meat? Fish? Something with sauce?”</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Mother, irritably: “I want to sit in the restaurant, look at the menu, and then decide.”</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">“Sorry, but you have to decide now. Each type of food has its own restaurant.”</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">“Okay, something with gravy.”</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Duly instructed, I led them to my favorite <em>lokanta</em>. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">“I’d like a beer,” my father announced when we had settled in.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">“Sorry, the <em>lokanta</em> doesn’t serve alcohol.” </span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Despite the proliferation of foreign-style restaurants and chains in Istanbul, most Turks still insist on maintaining the authenticity not only of their food but of the entire eating experience. This can be confusing to the newcomer, but with even a little knowledge you will find the city a culinary paradise—which makes sense given that, as the capital of two successive empires and the cultural capital of the modern Turkish Republic, it has been the site of serious eating for thousands of years. The foods and customs of Istanbul’s traditional restaurants are also a window onto the tug-of-war between religion and secularism that permeates Turkish society. What is eaten where, and how, is not a casual matter here.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Alcohol, not surprisingly, is a primary indicator of a restaurant’s place in the social fabric. Those that serve wine and beer, in particular, are associated with Istanbul’s diverse ethnic and religious history and with today’s urban secular elites; those that don’t cater to the pious Muslim part of the population. This demarcates a fault line in Turkish politics and society so deep that some secularists won’t dine in a place that doesn’t serve drinks, and the pious won’t enter a restaurant that does. You can spot the difference right away by the presence or absence of women in head scarves. Lunch is less ideological than dinner—something like the Christmas Truce of 1914, when British and German soldiers shared cigarettes and a song in no-man’s-land before returning to their trenches.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">In Ottoman times, Greeks (called <em>Rum</em>, a corruption of Rome) and other Christians were the merchants and tavern keepers, while Muslims kept to the barracks and the bureaucracy. The prominence of hard-drinking Christians in the city’s culinary history is reflected today in the <em>meyhane</em> (literally, “wine house”), an emblematic urban dining locale that serves primarily fish and raki, a clear anise-flavored alcohol that, with the addition of a splash of water, turns into white “lion’s milk,” drunk throughout the meal as other cultures drink wine. Dining on fish while drinking alcohol is the quintessential hallmark of being urban and secular.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">The custom in <em>meyhaneler</em> is to first choose from a variety of cold appetizers (mezes) displayed on an enormous tray, then hot appetizers, followed by a fish, then fruit. In a precise culinary pas de deux, the classic <em>meyhane</em> starter is sweet melon with tart white cheese, followed immediately by raki with a water chaser. The variety of other mezes is endless but usually includes seasonal vegetables in olive oil or yogurt, morsels of seafood, bean pâtés, hot pockets of cheese in flaky pastry, calamari, and spiced liver.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">There is no more classic <em>meyhane</em> than Refik, located in Beyog˘lu, Istanbul’s vibrant nightlife district. The food here is delicious—the grilled “Albanian liver” sprinkled with tangy spring onions and the <em>börek</em> (savory grilled pastries stuffed with cheese or minced lamb) are particularly good—but even more important is the atmosphere. For more than half a century, owner Refik Arslan, now 85, has overseen the nightly transubstantiation of food, drink, and fellowship into <em>keyif</em>, a condition that British explorer Sir Richard Burton once described as a feeling of intoxication derived from a social state of connection.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">My own quintessential <em>keyif</em> experience happened some years ago. My friends and I were working our way through a glorious array of mezes and several bottles of raki when suddenly a rug merchant named Hasan began to sing. As his voice rose and fell along the complex scales of Turkish classical music, a hush settled over the room. When he finished, the laughter and clinking of glasses resumed, fish was ordered, more raki was poured. Before long, the next table—an amateur singing club out on the town—broke into song. When they were done, a man at another table piped up, and so it went the entire evening. We heard the shutters go down at the restaurants next door, but no one was willing to break the spell. Even the waiters stood entranced until two in the morning, when we spilled out into the deserted street. There’s a Turkish saying that goes, “What the heart wants is intimate conversation, the rest is an excuse.”</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Fish restaurants tend to be more sedate than <em>meyhaneler</em>, although there’s no rule against spontaneous singing. Ismet Baba is an airy shack perilously suspended above the water next to the ferry landing in the charming Asian village of Kuzguncuk, a famously tolerant neighborhood that’s home to artists and writers. Enormous windows give diners a view of the Bosporus Bridge and a parade of cargo ships, ferries, and fishing boats. There is no menu; the fish available that day and their prices are listed on a blackboard. Among the best are <em>barbunya</em>, red mullet flash-fried in cornmeal, and simple, grilled <em>kalkan</em> (turbot). The restaurant is always full, so come early in the evening and bring cash to pay your bill.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Fish rarely appear on the menus of so-called “meat restaurants,” which don’t lend themselves to song, but rather to conversation and serious eating. These places tend to specialize in <a href="http://www.gourmet.com/magazine/2000s/2005/05/istanbul-street-food">kebab</a>, a cuisine from eastern Anatolia, the skewered chunks of lamb rotating over a glowing charcoal fire that evokes the Central Asian nomadic heritage of the Turks. A few meat restaurants serve beer, but the traditional accompaniment is <em>ayran</em>, a refreshing, lightly salted yogurt drink.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">The Develi family from eastern Antep province has been in the kebab business since 1912. There are now several Develi restaurants in the city, but since a good view is an important ingredient of Istanbul eating, I recommend the one situated inside the Kalamı¸s yacht harbor, on the Asian side, near a seaside strolling path shaded by oleanders. Among the appetizers, a favorite is <em>ali nazik</em>, a smoky eggplant purée swirled with yogurt and topped with succulent lamb cooked in butter. You must also try the restaurant’s famed version of <em>çi˘g köfte</em>—spiced raw beef ground to a paste with bulgur, parsley, and Maras and Urfa peppers, then shaped into patties decorated with the imprint of the cook’s fingertips and served in a crisp leaf of romaine lettuce with a squeeze of lemon juice. The <em>kuzu tandır</em>, tender lamb cooked in a sealed clay jar, is also excellent, as is the <em>fıstıklı köfte</em>, grilled meatballs of lamb ground with pistachios. Kebabs come with a mound of arugula leaves, parsley, grilled long green peppers, and a juicy grilled tomato, and waiters circulate continuously with trays of delicacies newly hatched from the oven—tiny pizzas, stuffed eggplants, and balls of spicy ground lamb and walnuts.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Alcohol is not usually served in <em>lokantalar</em>, old-school restaurants that specialize in the sort of food mothers laboriously make at home in sturdy pots and casseroles: soups, stewed lamb, rice-stuffed squash, vegetable casseroles. Thirty years ago, <em>lokantalar</em> were the workingman’s kitchen away from home, located in the poorer parts of town. On a winter morning, behind steamed-up windows, you could make out men spooning up their breakfast soup or, in the wee hours, downing tripe soup to conquer their impending hangovers. Recently, “home-cooking” <em>lokantalar</em> have spread, in part to serve the tourist trade, but also because more and more Turks are eating out instead of making the time-consuming dishes at home.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">By far the best <em>lokanta</em> in the city is Hacı Abdullah, in Beyog˘lu, the neighborhood built by the Genoese and Venetians during Byzantine times. Chattering crowds teem along Istiklal Avenue, but step around the corner and the noise drops away. Old men sell shoelaces and blue beads to ward off the evil eye beneath Hacı Abdullah’s modest sign. Inside, men in suits have taken off their jackets, families are chatting, and women are lunching beneath the stained-glass dome that crowns the back room. Founded in 1888, this place follows the old Ottoman custom of turning ownership over from masters to apprentices in each generation. The present manager, Hacı Abdullah Korun, is a sprightly man in his late fifties with a neat salt-and-pepper beard. “We use only the best ingredients from the same suppliers,” he explained with the enthusiasm of a man who has devoted his life to good food. “Butter from Urfa, olive oil from Balıksesir, lamb and veal delivered from Thrace.” The tradition here, as in all <em>lokantalar</em>, is to eat a variety of appetizers in olive oil—tart grape leaves stuffed with rice, pine nuts, and currants; rice studded with dill and pistachios and wrapped in cabbage leaves; a stuffed eggplant or green pepper—then move on to one of the several dozen meat or casserole dishes, such as braised lamb shanks wrapped in eggplant. Dessert might be a fruit <em>komposto</em><em>lokanta</em>’s specialties, along with <em>kes¸kek</em>, coarsely ground mutton or chicken mixed with boiled and mashed wheat and chickpeas— a traditional meal served at Anatolian village weddings.</span> such as spiced stewed quince, ruby red with a fresh, citrusy flavor. Compotes and pickles are among this </p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">In Turkey, even the desserts are divided. Milk-based puddings are found only at shops called <em>muhallebiciler</em>; baklava has its own shops; and European-style cakes are sold only in <em>pastahaneler</em> (patisseries).</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">Down the hill from Beyog˘lu, a stone’s throw from the Galata Bridge, you will find Turkey’s best baklava. Elderly, bearded Hacı Mustafa Güllü sits behind the cash register at Güllüog˘lu while his son Nadir, a third-generation <em>baklavacı</em>, fields questions from the many foodies who make the pilgrimage to his shop and nearby baklava factory. So popular is his baklava, he told me, that a shipment on a bus was once stolen by passengers. In his cramped office, Nadir leads me through the baklava equivalent of a wine tasting. After handing me a plate with a single large piece of walnut baklava, he instructs me to look at it: “All five senses must be brought to bear. First the eye. Then smell. Then a sound like ‘kish’ when you bite into it. Then the palate. Then the stomach two hours later.” It had never occurred to me to smell my baklava, and I was taken by its rich, nutty scent. Fresh baklava is not overly sweet, but light and complex.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;">There are many <em>muhallebiciler</em> specializing in milk-based desserts, some quite old and well loved, but the memory of a place often doesn’t live up to the reality, especially when the shop has become a chain in the interim. That is not the case with Sütis¸, established in 1953, whose large, well-lit restaurants serve an enormous variety of milky desserts, as well as chicken dishes and doner kebabs. Emirgan, where the shop is located, is an easy bus ride up the European coast of the Bosporus, lined here with old Ottoman villas, tiny villages, and parks. From the outdoor terrace, there is a stunning view of the water to be enjoyed while you spoon up such sweets as baked pudding (<em>fırın sütlaç</em>), smoothly creamy under its scorched skin. After eating you can take a walk up the hill to Emirgan Park, where the sultan’s summer villas have been turned into cafés. No more sultans, and more choices, but the old rules still apply.</span></p> <script language="JavaScript1.2" type="text/javascript"> if (typeof drawDropCap == "function") { var arrExcludeDivs = new Array("article_itemlist"); drawDropCap("articletext", arrExcludeDivs); } </script> <!-- end content --><div id="yrail" class="py"><div class="yrcomponent"><div class="autosubs"><form method="get" name="prepopform" action="https://w1.buysub.com/servlet/PrePopGateway" target="_blank"><input name="handler.cds" value="handler.cds.3131." type="hidden"> <input name="handler.cds.3131.cdsOfferId" value="3131" type="hidden"> <input name="handler.cds.3131.errorView" value="null" type="hidden"> <script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.gourmet.com/services/cds/state/toolkit_cds_field_state"></script> </form> </div> <input name="handler.cds" value="handler.cds.3131." type="hidden"> <input name="handler.cds.3131.cdsOfferId" value="3131" type="hidden"> <input name="handler.cds.3131.errorView" value="null" type="hidden"> </div> </div> <!-- start zrail --> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-37212286405407017322008-08-22T21:09:00.000-07:002008-08-22T21:11:23.308-07:00Turkish Cheese<span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.mymerhaba.com/Turkish-Cheese-in-Turkey-1771.html"><b style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 51, 0);">Turkish Cheese</span></b></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> A jury made up of the food writers of the daily Hürriyet newspaper and gourmets chose the best regional cheeses in Turkey. We also benefited from the detailed information in Prof. Dr. Artun Ünsal's book.<br /><br />Erzincan Tulumu<br />It is cheese produced in the mountainous areas of Erzincan mostly from sheep's milk. The specialty is that the cheese is encased in an animal skin. Erzincan tulumu is produced in Bingöl, Erzincan, Elazığ, Tunceli and Erzurum, and is called "Dawn Cheese". It is white and creamy, fatty with a butter aroma, and has a somewhat bitter taste. Sometimes Erzincan Tulumu is produced from fat-free milk, which may slightly change its original taste. Tulum has a strong taste; as such it is not suitable for breakfast.<br /><br />Van Otlu Peyniri<br />This cheese is produced mostly from sheep's milk in spring when the sheep give birth and therefore the milk and the grass are plenty. Wild herbs from the surrounding mountains in Van (an East Anatolian city) are added to milk to make "Otlu" cheese, a pungent cheese. Sarmısakotu (literally garlic herb) is one of the most important factors giving the taste while the most important process is the yeasting stage. Apart from the added herbs, texture, and ingredients, it resembles white cheese. The cheese is edible 2-3 months after yeasting.<br /><br />Kargı Tulumu<br />This "tulum" cheese is made from autumnl milk in a goat's skin. The tastes of tulum cheeses vary according to the region and the milk used and Kargı tulumu is one of them. This creamy cheese is made in Çankırı and Çorum - Central Anatolian cities - and is the best among tulum cheeses.<br /><br />Kars Gravyeri<br />Kars is an eastern Anatolian city famous for its pastures and cattle. Kars gravyer cheese is made of high-fat cow's milk. It looks like French "gruyere" cheese, tastes like Swiss "emmental" cheese and takes a long time to produce. It usually takes 10 months to age. There are holes of 1-2 cm in the cheese, which is yellow while the outer crust should be darker. If the holes are both big and small and irregular, it means the cheese is not of good quality.<br /><br />Izmir Tulumu<br />The way of making tulum cheese in the Aegean region is different from the other regions in Anatolia. Saltwater is used in İzmir tulum. It is made from sheep's or mixed milk, contains higher fat than the traditional tulum and is harder and saltier than white cheese. Good İzmir tulum should have holes the size of a bird's eye. Otherwise it is considered defective.<br /><br />Eski Kaşar (old kaşar)<br />Kaşar (rich aged yellow) is a kind of cheese which Turks tasted and learned about after they settled in Anatolia. It is made from sheep's milk. The reason it is called Eski (old) Kaşar is that the cheese is aged in sacks in an icehouse for six months, after which it gets its taste. If it is made from pure sheep's milk. It can be kept for up to three years.<br /><br />Bandırma Mihaliç peyniri<br />Bandırma mihaliç cheese from Balıkesir - Bursa is among the regional cheeses. It is white with roundish holes, hard and crusty and made from high-fat sheep's milk. When grated it is as good as Italians' Parma (parmesan) cheese. Mihaliç is also quite long-lasting.<br /><br />Beyaz Peynir (white cheese)<br />Beyaz peynir (white cheese) is one of the most favorite kinds of cheeses in Turkey and every region has a different way of producing it, such as leaving it in saltwater or hanging it up and letting it filter. White cheese of Trakya (Thrace) and Marmara region, which is usually from sheep's milk and has a soft texture with high fat, is among the favorites. White cheese has various types such as high-fat, low-fat and even diet.<br /><br />Karadeniz tel peyniri<br />This cheese is the product of Eastern Anatolia and the Eastern Black Sea region and is made from fat-free milk. When rubbed between the hands, it separates into fibers and therefore is called tel (fiber) cheese. The color is light yellow and since it is fat-free and rich in protein, tel peynir is recommended to those on diets.<br />Çerkez füme (fumed)<br />Çerkez Füme is especially produced in the eastern Marmara region. It is light yellow or cream-colored with a thick crust. Çerkez füme is a low-fat cheese with a beautiful aroma. After some special processes, the bottom and top of the cheese are salted and the outer surface is fumed with smoke coming from pinewood or thick pitch pine in special fuming rooms. This process makes the cheese both tastier and longer-lasting.</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-40169015309229203322008-08-22T20:59:00.000-07:002008-08-22T21:09:08.778-07:00The Traditional Cheeses of Turkey: Middle and Eastern Black Sea Region<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The Traditional Cheeses of Turkey: Middle and Eastern Black Sea Region</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Authors: Ufuk Kamber a; Goknur Terzi b</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Affiliations: a Department of Food Hygiene and Technology, Faculty of Veterinary Medicine, Kafkas University, Kars, Turkey |</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> b Department of Food Hygiene and Technology, Faculty of Veterinary Medicine, 19 Mayis University, Samsun, Turkey |</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> DOI: 10.1080/87559120701764555</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">journal Food Reviews International, Volume 24, Issue 1 January 2008 , pages 95 - 118</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Abstract:</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Our research in the Black Sea Region revealed 34 distinct types of cheese, making it the richest region in Turkey for its types of cheese. These types of cheese are: Aho Cheese, Ayran Cheese, Ayran Kırması Cheese, Civil Cheese, Cokelek of Cabaltı Cheese, Eridik Cheese, Giresun Bitter Cheese, Gorcola Cheese, Imansiz Cheese, Kadina Cheese, Kargı Tulum Cheese, Karın Kaymagı Cheese, Kescedil Cheese, Kolete Cheese, Kuumllek Cheese, Kup Cokelek Cheese, Kurci Cheese, Minzi Cheese, Minzi Kurut Cheese, Ogma Cheese, Tonya Kashar Cheese, Broken Kashar with Lor Cheese, Sor Cheese, Sut Kırması Cheese, Tekne Cheese, Teleme Cheese, Telli Cheese, Telli Creamy Cheese, Tulum Kashar Cheese, Yayla Cheese, Yer Cheese, Yumme Cheese, and Yusufeli Molded Villagers Cheese. This publication covers the making, physical structure and appearance of local cheeses and the chemical and microbiological properties of some of the cheeses.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-36855155516973808712008-03-30T22:34:00.000-07:002008-03-30T22:35:29.024-07:00Best of Turkish Restaurants<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Best of Turkish Restaurants</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Hünkar</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The site is at Nişantaşı and open everyday between noon and midnight. Reservation is a must for groups. Soft music is played from CD. The owner Feridun Ügümü deals with the customers personally. The homemade dishes are delicious moreover stew with quince, kol böreği and hamsili pilav (pilav with anchovy) are among the specialties to be tasted. The price is 35-45 million TL per person.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Borsa-Boğaziçi</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Borsa is at Lütfi Kırdar Convention Center and open every day between 12:16:00 and 18:00-23:00. Reservation is a must. Soft music is played from CD. Hünkar beğendi (eggplant pureé), keşkek, vegetables with olive oil, especially pilaki (dried beans with olive oil) are strongly recommended.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Beyti</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Beyti was founded in 1945 and moved to its new site with 11 halls, 3 terraces and 5 kitchens located in Florya in 1970. It is open everyday from 11:30 to 24:00, except Mondays. Reservation is required. Beyti kebap and kuzu tandır (lamb meat cooked in a special oven)should not be missed. Experts say that it is the "pride" of Turkish cuisine in meat. The price is 25-40 million TL/person.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Hacı Salih Lokantası</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">It is located next to famous shoe store Gutan at İstiklal Caddesi. Haca Salih is open everyday between 12:00-19:00. There is no liquor service. Fixed menu can be applied for groups. Hünkar beğendi (eggplant pureé) and kadınbudu köfte (a kind of fried meatballs) are the specialties of the site. The price is 15-20 million TL/person.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Kanaat</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">This centennial restaurant at Üsküdar Square is open every day from 06:00 to 23:00 and serves for 24 hours during Ramadan. Except Ramadan period there is no need for reservation. There are no liquor, music and fixed menu and credit cards are not accepted. Uzbek pilaf with meat, elbasan tava and Turkish sweets are the specialties. The price is about 15-20 million TL/person.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Çiya</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Çiya has three stores facing each other at Kadıköy Çarşısı and open everyday between 11:00-22:00. Except Ramadan reservation is not required. Şiveydiz, Şakiriye, Yuvarlama and Patlıcan Tatlısı (eggplant des) are worth trying. The owner Musa Dağdeviren personally deals with the customers. You have a chance to see the salads, main courses and sweets at first and then choose accordingly. Moreover you can also prepare your own plate. There is no liquor service. The price is about 15-20 million TL/person.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Feriye</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">It is a historical site next to the garden of Kabataş Lisesi and has a stunning Bosphorus view. It is open everyday between 12:00-15:00 and 19:00-23:00. The terrace is extraordinary during summer nights. Reservation is required even for lunch. Live music by piano. Fixed menu can be applied for groups. Kağıtta pastırma and nemse böreği is among the specialties. The price is 55-60 million TL/person</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Hacı Baba</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">This is an old Beyoğlu restaurant famous with its Turkish cuisine. It is well known among tourists and therefore the customer profile is "multilingual"! Hacı Baba is open everyday from noon till 22:00. The experts appreciate their serving at least forty different meals everyday. The price is about 25-35 million TL/person.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Kaplan</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">This restaurant is located at Kaplan Village in Tire - İzmir and run by Hürmüz and Lütifi Cakır. The price is 10-15 million TL/person. Classical and Turkish music is played. Şiş köfte, melengeç, otlu bazlama and kabak çiçeği (squash flower) dessert are the specialties. The experts say that it is the best place where the local vegetables of İzmir are used.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">İkbal</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">This restaurant is at Centrum Afyon and open every day between 07:00-22:30. The price is 15-20 million TL/person. Liquor is not served. Kuzu fırın (lamb meat baked in a special oven), çoban kavurma (meat roasted in its own fat with green pepper and tomatoes) and ekmek kadayıfı are the specialties.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-13795499210974864952008-03-07T10:37:00.000-08:002008-03-07T10:39:21.423-08:00Hans Derschwam | Stuffed Grape Leaves<span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">Stuffed Grape Leaves</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">The reference was made by Hans Derschwam in his travelogue to Turkey in the 16th Century. This German manuscript describes a dish of grape leaves filled with meat and plums. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><br />Item mutton. Chopped small, a spoonful is put on a wine leaf and put together like a krapfen. In it, one also puts cut sour plums, and boils the whole thing simply in water. Serve hot.<br /> </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">The word “krapfen” means “stuffed fritter” in German and conveys the idea to fold over the leaves and enclose the filling. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-51596368013761740632008-02-18T08:54:00.000-08:002008-02-18T08:55:42.863-08:00Kadıköy: a gourmet’s one-stop shop<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Kadıköy: a gourmet’s one-stop shop</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Kadıköy was in Ottoman hands long before the city of Constantinople fell. It predates Byzantium and was settled by the Megarians (Greeks) in 675 B.C. and named Chalcedon.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Chapters of İstanbul's history often tell the story of Byzas, the founder of Byzantium, consulting the Oracle of Delphi, who advised him to establish a colony "opposite the Land of the Blind." The suggestion was that the pioneers on the Asian side at Chalcedon must have been blind not to recognize the superior position of the peninsula across the water.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">In İstanbul today the debate continues. Where are best places to live, work and shop? The Asian or European side? Üsküdar or Beşiktaş, Kadıköy or Beyoğlu? The argument goes on and there seems to be no winner; those that shop for all things food related in Eminönü vow of the superiority of the Spice Bazaar and its surrounds. Those that shop in Kadıköy adamantly state that they can get whatever they want from their immediate neighborhood. But are the shoppers of Kadıköy ignorant, "turning a blind eye" to everything the peninsula a boat ride away has to offer? Are they subjected to inferior produce and choice because of their insistence that the Megarians of Chalcedon started something that has survived to this day? Absolutely not! Today Kadıköy's very modern pedestrian mall sits on the old market site and a couple of blocks away from the ferry stops is one of İstanbul's most colorful, vibrant and accessible shopping spots.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Güneşlibahçe Sokağı (Sunny Garden Street) is the place to head to, although other shops on the way are worth a visit. Many traders have been in business since the early to mid 1900s and the more famous ones really need no introduction. Baylan Pastahanesi (patisserie) has been famous for almost all of its 47 years, and both Cafer Erol and Hacı Bekir Şekercisi (sweet makers) need no introduction, their presence in Kadıköy dating from 1945 and 1937 respectively. Kadıköy's own Mısır Çarşışı (Spice Bazaar), a tiny shop on the way up to Güneşlibahçe Sokağı has been operating since 1916. The interior has retained the décor of old, and the products available reflect all that a spice bazaar would traditionally offer -- spices, herbs and concoctions for both the kitchen and the home pharmacy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">But if the street's name does not draw a serious foodie up to the colorful, bursting strip of gourmet food shops, then nothing will. The intersection just past the Mısır Çarşışı is where the buzz begins. The fish sellers advertise their wares out loud, the constant throaty hum adding to the noise of a busy trading place. One is visually bombarded with every color from the perfectly displayed fruit and vegetables of the grocers dispersed throughout the marketplace. But the curious gourmet will turn right at this corner and meander along the next couple of blocks, visiting a number of smaller places along the way:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The muted vinegar aroma of Özcan Turşları (pickles) at No. 7 Güneşlibahçe hits you as you near their door. Inside the usual fare of pickled anything and everything awaits, but lined along the walls on narrow shelves are a range of sauces and vinegars that have only recently regained popularity in kitchens around the world. Verjuice (verjus), the extract of unripe grapes, was well-known in the Middle Ages and used in most sauces. Labeled as "koruk ekşisi," this pale golden-green viscous liquid may be the next gourmet accessory.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Over on the right hand side of the street on the next corner is Gözde Şarkuteri. Always busy with never less than half a dozen people lined up to place an order on a Saturday, the variety and quality of their produce acts like a magnet for customers. Seasonal sweets fill the front display cabinet, perhaps bright burnt oranges of kabak tatlısı (pumpkin dessert), ruby red of ayva tatlısı (quince dessert) or the molded un helvası (flour helva) -- all an irresistible attraction. Whether to buy for a snack on the run or as inspiration to try making it at home, Gözde is worth lingering over.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Cross the street and continue to Petek Fırın (bakery) and Çarşı (market bakery) on the left and stop and buy from their ranges of sweet and savory offerings. In between the two is Tariş Ayma, a trading company for the expanding Tariş brand. In the food lines the company produces very respectable vinegars (üzüm sirkesi), some aged in casks, olive oil (zeytinyağı), pomegranate sauces (nar sosu), sultanas and raisins (kuru üzüm) and dried fig (incir) products.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Immediately across the road is the welcoming Altınaoluk Zeytinyağlı at 24-26 Güneşlibahçe. They sell much more than olives and olive products. Cheese helva, a cake-like alternative to the traditional sesame helvas, contains walnuts and is baked in the oven. The shop assistants testify to there being no better dessert. Any number of unusual products are available, both local and international, but the most interesting include sumac ekşisi (sour sumac juice) and carob, date or mulberry pekmez (molasses).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Walking further along the market street, the Dicle fishmongers on the left house a very impressive selection of fish, with a tank from which one can choose the freshest, firmest flesh for dinner. The opposite corner is a good place to stop for a rejuvenating snack. Borsam Taş Fırın will serve hot, crispy lahmacun within minutes, so you can crunch it down with a side of ayran while thinking about the last few shopping stops.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Before the next corner ahead on Güneşlibahçe, Eta Bal offers yoghurt and honey to go for YTL 4. Yoghurt and honey complement one another perfectly, but the quantity of each is crucial. At Bal, in an effort to sell the honey, they will drown the yoghurt and a mouth-watering thought can turn into an overly sweet sugar rush. Catch them before they fill the cup to savor the creamy tang of yoghurt mellowed rather than drenched by honey.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">With appetite sated and blood glucose restored, the scent of tea and coffee wafting from Brezilya Kurukahve will refocus wandering senses. Since 1920 this establishment has been grinding coffee; the ancient looking press still sits proudly by the front door. Inside, teas and coffees from Turkey and around the world assault the olfactory sense, but the array of dried fruits and related products will dazzle your eyes. The dried fruit pestils tempt with their heavy, caramelized colors and the desire to try them all is difficult to control.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">At this point, the choices for what to do next are numerous. Go back and visit the same shops and pick up that verjuice you were unsure what to do with, head down toward the marina and check out the activity on the water, wander on to Çiya, probably Kadıköy's, if not İstanbul's best-known restaurant amongst gourmets, or just go home and cook up a storm!</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-72004045884591774892008-02-02T15:48:00.001-08:002008-02-02T15:48:54.515-08:00Atina Bali | Honey of Athens<span style="font-size:85%;"><a style="font-family: verdana;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_4NsxaqK7h8E/R6UAvrbKmpI/AAAAAAAAA6g/N5Ck-TwbQS0/s1600-h/Honey.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_4NsxaqK7h8E/R6UAvrbKmpI/AAAAAAAAA6g/N5Ck-TwbQS0/s400/Honey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162533366960659090" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Mavi Boncuk |</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">For the palates of Istanbul gourmets the top product during the Ottoman era was honey from Athens. Price (narh) records during the times of Sultan Ibrahim records wholesale price of 11 akces and a retail control pegged at 13 akces. Raw, unheated Athens honey was recorded 14 and 16 akces respectively. Honey from Crete was considered the second best. Ankara honey repleced both sources after the loss of Greece and Crete.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Athens honey was produced in two areas. "Weeping Pine Honey" from Evia, East of Athens, an amber color honey and "Heather Honey" from Sterea Hellas, Central Greece Collected in November in the area of Strerea Hellas, North of Athens, with explosive sweetness and strong aroma. Crete as a place rich in plants like thyme, sage, oregano, pine trees, acacias, eucalyptus and citrus fruits produced mostly "Wild Thyme Honey" even if thyme honey is mixed in small quantities (5%) with other types of honey, it managed to influence their perfume.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Some writers confuse this honey with honey [1] from Black Sea. Possibly with honey produced in the Camlihemsin area. This (Mad Honey) Deli bali is a mono-crop honey made from the spring flowers of the rhododendron (R. ponticum) that thrive on the humid Black Sea mountains. The nectar of the blooms contains andromedotoxin, a substance that can cause all sorts of weird effects in humans. Honey is an excellent local buy wherever in Turkey. Some of the mono-crop honeys to look out for are cam (pine), portakal (orange blossom), akasya (acacia) and kestane (chestnut). Whole natural honeycombs and nuts suspended in honey are also worth tracking down. Generally, the darker the colour, the more intense the flavour.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The European Union relies on Greece, one of the world's biggest bee settlements, to produce 14,000 tons of honey each year. The country is the European Union's third-top producer of honey. EU imported some 200,000 tons of honey each year and Turkey, which produces 70,000 tons of honey each year [2], exports only 18,000 to Europe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">[1] Prokopius, mentiones Athenae village (4th. century AD) of Rhizaeum, named after Athenai, a woman who ruled in the area. (Prokopius, Peri Ton Polemon, VIII. II. 1-33; AKKB 201). Renamed Pazar in 1928 as part of Çoruh province until Jan 2, 1936 and is now part of Rize province.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">[2] Turkish product ranked 10th with 15,000 tons in 1970 ranked 4th in the world in 2000 with 63,500 tons (China 253, US 101, Argentina, 91)</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-75310574271183687872007-12-31T10:43:00.000-08:002007-12-31T10:59:13.622-08:00The History of Coffee by Mark Pendergast<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">The History of Coffee by Mark Pendergast</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Creation Myth (c. 600 CE) Kaldi, an Ethiopian goatherd, is puzzled by his hyperactive goats; they are eating leaves and berries from a strange tree with glossy green leaves. Coffee is discovered. Cultivation soon spreads to Yemen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">c. 900 Arab physician Rhazes first mentions coffee in print, as a medicine.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">c. 1400 In elaborate ceremony, Ethiopians roast, grind, and brew coffee beans. Coffee as we know it is born.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1475 Kiva Han, the world's first coffeehouse, is opened in Constantinople.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1511 Khair-Beg, governor of Mecca, bans coffeehouses when seditious verses are written about him there. The ban is reversed by Cairo sultan.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1538 Ottoman Turks occupy Yemen and parboil coffee beans (to render them infertile and maintain their monopoly) and export them from Mocha, hence coffee's nickname "mocha."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">c. 1600 Pressured by advisors to condemn infidel coffee (imported through Venice), Pope Clement VIII instead blesses it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1616 Dutch pirates spirit away coffee trees to a greenhouse in Holland. Around the same time Baba Budan smuggles fertile seeds to Mysore in India.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1650 A Lebanese Ottoman Jewish student named Jacobs [1] opens first [2] European coffeehouse at Oxford University, England. Over the next half century, coffee takes Europe by storm; coffeehouses are called "penny universities."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1658 The Dutch plant and cultivate coffee in Ceylon, later in Java and Sumatra, ultimately giving coffee the nickname "java."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1669 The Turkish ambassador to Paris, Soliman Aga, introduces coffee at sumptuous parties.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1674 In London, the Women's Petition Against Coffee claims that coffee renders their men impotent; men counter that coffee adds "spiritualescency to the Sperme." The following year, King Charles II fails in his attempt to ban coffeehouses.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1683 After their failed siege of Vienna, the Turks flee, leaving coffee beans behind. Franz George Kolschitzky uses the beans to open a café, where he filters coffee and adds milk.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1689 Café de Procope is opened in Paris opposite Comedie Francaise.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1710 Instead of boiling it, the French pour hot water through grounds in cloth bag for the first infusion brewing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1723 Gabriel Mathieu de Clieu brings a coffee tree to Martinique; most of the coffee in Latin America descends from this tree.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1727 Francisco de Melho Palheta seduces the governor's wife in French Guiana; she gives him ripe coffee cherries to take back to Brazil.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1732 Johann Sebastian Bach writes the Coffee Cantata, in which a rebellious daughter demands her coffee.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1773 During the Boston Tea Party, rebellious American colonists throw British tea imports overboard; coffee drinking becomes a patriotic act.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1781 Frederick the Great forbids most Prussian coffee roasting, saying, "My people must drink beer."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1791 A slave revolt on San Domingo (Haiti) destroys coffee plantations, where half the world's coffee had been grown.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1806 Napoleon declares France self-sufficient and promotes chicory over coffee.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1850 James Folger arrives in San Francisco during the Gold Rush and makes his fortune from coffee.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1864 American Jabez Burns invents an efficient, self-dumping roaster.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1869 Coffee rust fungus, hemileia vastatrix, appears in Ceylon and soon wipes out the East Indies coffee industry.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1871 John Arbuckle opens a coffee factory in New York and makes millions from his pre-roasted, packaged, and branded Ariosa coffee.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1878 Caleb Chase and James Sanborn form Chase & Sanborn.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1881 The New York Coffee Exchange opens.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1892 Joel Cheek invents Maxwell House Coffee blend in Nashville, Tennessee.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1900 Hills Brothers introduces vacuum-packed canned coffee. Tokyo chemist Sartori Kato introduces instant coffee; it is sold the following year at the Pan American Exposition.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1901 Italian Luigi Bezzera invents first commercial espresso machine.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1906 In Bremen, Germany, Ludwig Roselius patents Kaffee Hag, the first decaffeinated coffee. In France, it is called Sanka (from sans caffeine).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1908 German housewife Melitta Bentz makes a coffee filter using her son's blotting paper.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1911 The National Coffee Roasters Association is founded; it later becomes the National Coffee Association.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1918 The U. S. Army requisitions all of G. Washington's instant coffee for troops in World War I.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1920 Prohibition of alcohol enacted in USA, making coffee and coffeehouses even more popular.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1938 Nestle introduces Nescafé, an improved instant coffee, just before World War II. Maxwell House follows with its instant brand.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1946 U.S. per capita coffee consumption reaches 19.8 pounds.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1960 The Colombian Coffee Federation debuts the character of Juan Valdez, the humble coffee grower, with his mule.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1965 Boyd Coffee introduces the Flav-R-Flo brewing system, pionerring the filter and cone home brewer.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1966 Dutch immigrant Alfred Peet opens Peet's Coffee in Berkeley, California, at what is considered the beginning of the specialty coffee revolution.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1970 Italian Luigi Goglio invents a one-way valve to let coffee de-gas without contact with oxygen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1971 Jerry Baldwin, Zev Siegl, and Gordon Bowker open Starbucks in Seattle.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1975 The Black Frost in Brazil decimates the coffee harvest, leading to high prices over the next two years.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1982 The national charter for the Specialty Coffee Association of America (SCAA) is created; specialty coffee companies are invited to join as "charter members."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1987 Howard Schultz buys Starbucks and begins to turn it into a worldwide specialty coffee chain.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1988 In the Netherlands, the Max Havelaar seal certifies Fair Trade coffee. Transfair USA follows suit in 1999.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">2006 Specialty coffee accounts for 40% of the U. S. retail coffee market.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">2007 The 25th anniversary of the founding of the Specialty Coffee Association of America is celebrated. Coffee is the world's second most valuable legal traded commodity, after oil.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Notes<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">[1] Not to be confused with Johann Jacobs who opened a coffee and tea shop in Bremen, Germany, in 1895.<br /><br />[2]</span></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >The first person recorded in history to brew coffee in England was an international student named Nathaniel Conopios from Crete, who was studying at Balliol College, Oxford. This simple act, which happened in May 1637, was recorded by both scholar John Evelyn and historian Anthony Wood. Although shortly afterwards Conopios was expelled from college, his influence had a lasting effect on Oxford, as it was in Oxford that the first English coffeehouse was opened in 1650 by Jacob, a Lebanese Jew. Even though Jacob moved to London a few years later to repeat his success, he had begun a trend that saw many more coffeehouses open in Oxford during that decade.<br /><br />John Evelyn, who was at the college at this time, recorded the strange occurance in a diary entry in May 1637: "There came in my time to the College one Nathaniel Conopios, out of Greece, sent into England, from Cyril, the patriarch of Constantinople… He was the first I ever saw drink Caffe, not heard of then in England, nor till many years after made a common entertainment all over the nation."<br /><br />Around the same time as Conopios, Robert Burton, an Oxford don, made a reference to coffee in his massive, genius Anatomy of Melancholy: "The Turks have a drink called coffa (for they use no wine), so named of a berry black as soot, and as bitter (like that black drink which was in use among the Lacedaemonians, and perhaps the same), which they sip still of, and sup as warm as they can suffer; they spend much time in those coffa-houses, which are somewhat like our alehouses or taverns, and there they sit chatting and drinking to drive away the time..."<br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-style: italic;font-size:12;" ></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-79175964527989630642007-12-31T10:40:00.001-08:002007-12-31T10:43:02.491-08:00Saveur 100 for 2008 | Big Turk<span style="font-size:85%;"><b style="font-family: verdana;"><a name="turk">Big Turk</a></b><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Jellylike, rose-scented turkish delight and chocolate may not seem like natural bedfellows, but the combination proves irresistible in this milk chocolate–covered bar from Canada.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-78182050257435008232007-12-31T10:38:00.000-08:002007-12-31T10:39:51.466-08:00Saveur 100 for 2008 | Sausages That Really Sizzle<span style="font-size:85%;"><b style="font-family: verdana;">Sausages That Really Sizzle<br /></b><span style="font-family: verdana;">If you happen to find yourself in Serbia, Croatia, or virtually any other Balkan country and there's a flaming grill nearby, chances are someone is cooking </span><b style="font-family: verdana;"><a name="cev">CEVAPCICI</a></b><span style="font-family: verdana;">. These super smoky, skinless sausages (pronounced che-VAHP-chi-chi)—usually a combination of minced beef, lamb, or pork seasoned with garlic and pepper—have a vibrant flavor and a juicy texture that make them one of the world's great meat dishes. Known by a variety of names, depending on the country you're in, and typically served with flatbread and condiments like roasted-pepper and eggplant sauce (usually called ajvar) and fermented cream, cevapcici likely owe their culinary origins to the Turks (the food is a cousin of the kebab, from which it derives its name). Whatever their provenance, the sooner they catch on here in the States, the better.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14945696.post-39361098553140699722007-12-08T05:06:00.000-08:002007-12-08T05:08:30.112-08:00Turkish Food Primer from N.Y.Times<p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">As nomads, the Turks were limited by what the land offered and by what could be prepared over a crude open fire, so it's not a stretch to understand how <i>kebaps</i> and <i>köfte</i> became the centerpieces of Turkish cooking. Turkish food today concentrates on simple combinations, few ingredients, and fresh produce.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">With access to vast cupboards stocked with ingredients from the four corners of the empire, the palace chefs developed a more complex cuisine. The majority of these recipes, recorded in Arabic script, were regrettably lost in the language reforms. Some Ottoman favorites have made it to us nevertheless, like the <i>hünkar begendi</i> (the sultan was pleased), <i>imam bayaldi</i><i>hanim göbegi</i> (lady's navel), a syrupy dessert with a thumbprint in the middle. These have become staples in many run-of-the-mill restaurants, but true Ottoman cuisine is difficult to come by. Several restaurants in Istanbul have researched the palace archives to restore some of those lost delicacies to the modern table, providing a rare opportunity to sample the artistry and intricate combinations of exotic flavors in the world's first fusion food. The Turkish kitchen is always stocked with only the freshest vegetables, the most succulent fruits, the creamiest of cheeses and yogurt and the best cuts of meat. But, unless you're a pro like the chefs to the Sultans, whose lives depended on pleasing the palate of their leader, it takes a lot of creativity to turn such seemingly simple ingredients into dishes fit for a king.</span> (the priest fainted; Barbara Cartland might have likened it to a woman's "flower"), and </p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">A typical Turkish meal begins with a selection of <i>mezes,</i> or appetizers. These often become a meal in themselves, accompanied by an ample serving of <i>raki</i>, that when taken together, form a recipe for friendship, laughter, and song. The menu of mezes often includes several types of eggplant, called <i>patlican; ezme,</i> a fiery hot salad of red peppers; <i>sigara böregi,</i> fried cheese "cigars"; and <i>dolmalar,</i> anything from peppers or vine leaves stuffed with rice, pine nuts, cumin, and fresh mint.</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The dilemma is whether or not to fill up on these delectables or save room for the <i>kebaps,</i> a national dish whose stature rivals that of pasta in Italy. While <i>izgara</i> means "grilled," the catchall phrase <i>kebap</i> simply put, means "roasted," and denotes an entire class of meats cooked using various methods. Typical <i>kebaps</i> include lamb "shish"; spicy <i>Adana kebap,</i> a spicy narrow sausage made of ground lamb; <i>döner kebap,</i> slices of lamb cooked on a vertical revolving spit; <i>patlican kebap,</i> slices of eggplant and lamb grilled on a skewer; and the artery-clogging <i>Iskender kebap,</i> layers of <i>pide,</i> tomatoes, yogurt, and thinly sliced lamb drenched in melted butter. Turks are equally nationalistic over their <i>köfte,</i> Turkey's answer to the hamburger: flat or round little meatballs served with slices of tomato and whole green chili peppers. But even though signs for kebap houses may mar the view, Turkish citizens are anything but carnivores, preferring instead to fill up on grains and vegetables. <i>Saç kavurma</i><i>manti,</i> a meat-filled ravioli, dumpling, or <i>kreplach,</i><i>Pide</i> is yet another interpretation of pizza made up of fluffy oven-baked bread topped with a variety of ingredients and sliced in strips. <i>Lahmacun</i> is another version of the pizza, only this time the bread is as thin as a crepe and lightly covered with chopped onions, lamb, and tomatoes. Picking up some "street food" can be a great diversion, especially in the shelter of some roadside shack where the corn and <i>gözleme</i> -- a freshly made cheese or potato (or whatever) crepe that is the providence of expert rolling pin-wielding village matrons -- are hot off the grill.</span> represents a class of casseroles sautéed or roasted in an earthenware dish that, with the help of an ample amount of velvety Turkish olive oil, brings to life the flavors of ingredients like potatoes, zucchini, tomatoes, eggplant, and beef chunks. No self-respecting gourmand should leave Turkey without having had a plate of adapted to the local palate by adding a garlic-and-yogurt sauce. </p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Desserts fall into two categories: <i>baklava</i> and milk-based. Baklava, a type of dessert made of thin layers of pastry dough soaked in syrup, is a sugary sweet bomb best enjoyed around teatime, although several varieties are made so light and fluffy that you'll be tempted to top off dinner with a sampling. The milk-based desserts have no eggs or butter and are a guilt-free pick-me-up in the late afternoon hours, although there's no bad time to treat yourself to some creamy <i>sütlaç</i> (rice pudding). The sprinkling of pistachio bits is a liberal addition to these and many a Turkish dessert, while comfort food includes the <i>irmik helva,</i> a delicious yet simple family tradition of modestly sweet semolina, pine nuts, milk, and butter (okay, I lied about the guilt-free part).</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">So what's the deal with Turkish delight? Otherwise known as <i>lokum,</i> this sweet candy is made of cornstarch, nuts, syrup, and an endless variety of flavorings to form a skwooshy tidbit whose appeal seems to be more in the gift giving than on its own merit.</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><b>A Punishment Worse Than the Crime?</b> -- In Turkey, tripe soup, called <i>Iskembe Çorbasi</i> or <i>Korkoreç,</i> is a widely accepted remedy for a hangover.</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><b>You'll Never Count Sheep Again</b> -- Bus drivers in Turkey abide by an unwritten rule never to eat <i>cacik</i> -- a salad of yogurt, cucumber, and garlic, often served as a soup -- while on duty. The dish is believed to be a surefire, and natural, cure for insomnia.</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><b>Drinks</b></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Rather than the question, "Would you like something to drink?" Turkish hospitality leaps immediately to the "What?" Tea, called <i>çay</i> (chai) in Turkish, is not so much a national drink as it is a ritual. Boil the water incorrectly and you're in for trouble. Let the tea steep without prior rinsing and you've committed an unforgivable transgression. What's amazing is that so many tea drinkers manage to maintain white teeth, and as you'll see, some don't. Tea is served extremely hot and strong in tiny tulip-shaped glasses, accompanied by exactly two sugar cubes. The size of the glass ensures that the tea gets consumed while hot, and before you slurp your final sip, a new glass will arrive. If you find the tea a bit strong, especially on an empty stomach, request that it be "<i>açik</i>" or "opened," so that the ratio of water to steeped tea is increased.</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The coffee culture is a little less prevalent but no less steeped in tradition. Early clerics believed it to be an intoxicant and consequently had it banned. But the <i>kahvehane</i></span> (coffeehouse) refused to go away, and now the sharing of a cup of coffee is an excuse to prolong a discussion, plan, negotiate, or just plain relax. Turkish coffee is ground to a fine dust, boiled directly in the correct quantity of water, and served as is. Whether you wait for the grinds to settle or down the cup in one shot is entirely an individual choice, although if you leave the muddy residue at the bottom of the cup, you may be able to coax somebody to read your fortune.</p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">There are two national drinks: <i>raki</i> and <i>ayran. Raki</i> is an alcoholic drink distilled from raisins and then redistilled with aniseed. Even when diluted with water, this "lion's milk" still packs a punch, so drink responsibly! <i>Raki</i> is enjoyed everywhere, but is particularly complementary to a meal of mezes.</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>Ayran</i> is a refreshing beverage made by diluting yogurt with water. Westerners more accustomed to a sweet-tasting yogurt drink may at first be put off by the saltiness of <i>ayran,</i> but when mentally prepared, it's impossible to dismiss the advantages of this concoction, especially after a dehydrating afternoon trudging through shadeless, dusty ruins.</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><b>And Not a Starbucks in Sight!</b> -- As a result of the Ottoman's second unsuccessful siege on Vienna, many of the army supplies were left behind in the retreat, including sacks and sacks of coffee beans. Believing them to be sacks of animal waste, the Viennese began to burn the sacks, until a more worldly citizen, aware of the market value of the bean, got a whiff and promptly saved the lot. He later opened up the first coffeehouse in Vienna.</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><b>A Restaurant Primer</b></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The idiosyncrasies of a foreign culture can create some frustrating experiences, especially when they get in the way of eating. In Turkey, dining out in often boisterous groups has traditionally been the province of men, and a smoke-filled room that reeks of macho may not be the most relaxing prospect for a meal. A woman dining alone will often be whisked away to an upstairs "family salon," called the <i>aile salonu,</i> where -- what else -- families, and particularly single women, can enjoy a night out in peace and quiet. Take advantage of it, and don't feel discriminated against; it's there for your comfort.</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Restaurants are everywhere, and although the name <i>restoran</i> was a European import used for the best establishments, nowadays practically every type of place goes by that name. Cheap, simple, and often charming meals can be had at a family-run place called a <i>lokanta,</i> where the food is often prepared in advance <i>(hazir yemek)</i> and presented in a steam table. A <i>meyhane</i> is a tavern full of those smokin' Turks I mentioned earlier, whereas a <i>birahane</i> is basically a potentially unruly beer hall. Both are said to be inappropriate for ladies; however, recently, some <i>meyhanes</i> have morphed into civilized places for a fun and sophisticated night out.</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Now that you've picked the place, it's time to sit down and read the menu, right? Wrong. Not all restaurants automatically provide menus, instead offering whatever's seasonal or the specialty of the house. If you'd feel more comfortable with a menu, don't be shy about asking, and politely say, "<i>Menü var mi?</i>" Mezes (appetizers) are often brought over on a platter, and the protocol is to simply point at the ones you want. Don't feel pressured into accepting every plate the waiter offers (none of it is free) or into ordering a main dish; Turks often make a meal out of an array of mezes. When ordering fish, it's perfectly acceptable to have your selection weighed for cost; if the price is higher than you planned to pay, either choose a less expensive fish or barter for price per weight. Some restaurants do have fixed costs per weight, however.</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0