Turkish Delight

In Istanbul, the eating – and drinking – is just another roadside attraction.

It was just past seven and we were late. We’d made pretty good time sprinting, but the throngs on Nevizade Street slowed us down. Moonira, slimmer and more aggressive than I, was better at weaving through the crowds. I fell behind, stuck behind a man carrying a tray of ice-chilled almonds. Then I nearly tripped over one of the tiny tables that make up the dozen or so beer bars along the street. A trio of attractive Istanbullus looked up at me from their pints of Efes lager and french fries globbed with mayonnaise. I mumbled an apology and hurried on.

Moonira and I had been in Turkey for nearly six weeks and had shown less haste running to catch buses and trains. Tonight’s appointment, though, was more important. We had a dinner reservation at a streetside table at a meyhane, one of Istanbul’s traditional tavern restaurants. The previous week, without a reservation, we were banished to a second-floor table near the stairwell – convenient for the bathrooms but far from the raucous street party outside. This night, we would be right in the middle of it – if we got there in time.

Istanbul is enjoying a restaurant boom these days. Sushi bars compete with South Asian fusion eateries and bohemian vegetarian restaurants. Chefs from around the world command kitchens in posh rooftop restaurants where diners indulge in non-Turkish delights like saffron-marinated turbot and wasabi tortellini. Istanbul’s young, rich and beautiful clientele don’t flinch at spending $25 for a mojito if it means sharing the view with local pop stars and visiting Formula 1 drivers.

In spite of all this swanky newness, Turks have not forsaken their culinary traditions. Hence the weekend commotion on Nevizade Street, where they fight for table space at the meyhanes. One of the best is Boncuk, where Moonira was already sitting, triumphant, by the time I caught up. I collapsed into my chair, breathless and sweaty, and glanced at our fellow diners pressed in tight around us. They held forks in one hand and ciga-rettes in the other, dragging lungfuls of smoke between bites of dinner. The Bosphorus breezes offered some relief.

I ordered a bottle of raki, a grape spirit infused with aniseed, the favoured lubricant for a Nevizade night. (Meyhane tables are set with straight cylindrical raki glasses rather than wine stems.) I poured a generous shot into our glasses and diluted each with mineral water. Only the naive or foolhardy would hazard to drink it straight. I plucked a few ice cubes from the bucket our waiter provided and slipped them into the glasses. The chilling turned the raki white and creamy. Turks call this aslan sütü (lion’s milk).

I’d read somewhere that it is vital to add water first, then ice, since the taste of the raki is ruined by the sudden shock of cold. Judging by Moonira’s grimace, however, it didn’t help. “Do you actually like this stuff?” she asked after a cleansing gulp of water. “Or is this one of those ‘when-in-Rome’ things?”

“There is an old Turkish proverb that says if you want to know a person, either travel with them or go and drink raki with them,” I said. “Considering we are on our honeymoon, I thought it a good idea to do both.”

Our waiter squeezed back to us bearing a vast platter of mezes, Turkish tapas. These small bites apparently originated from the days of the palace food tasters, who checked if the Sultan’s dinner was poisoned. Most meyhanes also offer full-size entrées, but the restaurants are judged by the quality of their mezes. Moonira and I pointed to a few that looked interesting, and the server left with our order.

Nevizade pulsed around us. Impossibly beautiful women in pastel head scarves and T-shirts under their tank tops held hands with men boasting varying degrees of unshavenness. A man sold bottles of Jack Daniel’s and Jim Beam to diners. A photographer with a digital camera wired to a portable printer offered to take our picture. Feral cats prowled the ground beneath the tables for fallen scraps. A woman quaked on her turquoise high heels and shouted into her cellphone. Occasionally, pairs of bewildered tourists squeezed through the crowd with their rucksacks on, gripping plastic water bottles as if they were holy talismans.

Our first plates of cold mezes arrived: grape leaves stuffed with fish, pine nuts and currants; haddock fillets rolled with olive oil and basil pesto; a spicy bulgur and tomato salad called kisir. The small plates of food did not last long. Besides, we had a whole bottle of raki to get through. We waved at our meze-burdened server and ordered three more: a sesame and chickpea purée flavoured with cinnamon; tender fried calamari; and some chicken kofte. All were delicious, except for the McNugget-ish chicken that failed to dazzle.

Suddenly, a trio of men at a nearby table produced a drum, tambourine and violin. Still seated, they began to play fasil, mournful Turkish folk music that is the soundtrack for Nevizade dining. Eventually, they stood and wandered through the restaurant, pausing in front of our table, and performed a sloppy rendition of what might have been Boney M’s “Rasputin.” Afterwards one of them held out his tambourine and yelled, “Thank you! Thank you! Money!”

We sat at Boncuk for hours, leisurely picking at our food as a smooth raki buzz washed over us. The street scene flowed onwards, and passersby brushed against our shoulders as they hurried past. It was invigorating to be so coupled to the chaos. Our dessert of fresh watermelon and nectarines arrived just as we finished off our bottle. By then, I was convinced I could actually taste the grapes my raki was made from. Then again, by that time, I was convinced I could fly.

Write to us: letters@enroutemag.net