We’re especially fond of the islands in springtime, when their Judas, Mimosa and wild plum trees are starting to bloom and a walk along one of their tranquil trails serves as the perfect cure for the lingering effects of the Istanbul winter blues. Of course, a good meal is essential any time of the year and we’ve been lucky enough to find a few spots on the islands that are worthy destinations in and of themselves. For those planning a visit to the Princes’ Islands, some suggestions below:

Burgazada – Kalpazankaya Restaurant
Burgazada is the smallest and least visited of the Princes’ Islands. The island has few easily accessible beaches and picnic spots, but what it does have is a laid back atmosphere and several charming waterfront restaurants and cafes in the harbor. Better yet, Burgaz is home to Kalpazankaya Restaurant, an out-of-the-way, open-air meyhane on the island’s backside that will quickly help you forget about the crowded mass of humanity left behind on the ferry.

Getting to Kalpazankaya is easy: take the road that leads to the right when leaving the ferry terminal and continue walking along that road for about 30 minutes until it comes to an end. In front of you, sitting in splendid isolation on a hillside overlooking the blue waters of the Marmara Sea and a small pebble beach below, is the restaurant, a collection of vine-shaded terraces with rickety wooden tables and chairs…. (Click here to read the rest of the review)

Heybeliada – Heyamola Ada Lokantasi
The new-offshore-kid-in-town, Heyamola Ada Lokanatasi, is a perfect storm of inspired food, chill ambiance, and small-label Turkish wines, all at ridiculously low prices. Heyamola is reason in and of itself to plan a day trip to the Prince’s Islands, and if you are already organizing your island adventure, this place is a compelling argument for ditching the ferry at Heybeli Island, often overlooked in favor of the more popular Buyukada….(Click here to read the rest of the review)

Buyukada – Club Mavi
Considering you’re on an island, you probably want to eat somewhere with a view of the sea. Most visitors to Buyukada end up getting lured to the row of busy fish restaurants found just beside Buyukada’s ferry terminal. All have seaside terraces with a view of Istanbul’s rapidly developing Asian shore (and of the occasional piece of urban flotsam and jetsam that drifts by) and similar, predictable menus with decently made, but uninspiring food.

A more pleasant (but not cheap) island experience, though, can be had by hailing one of Buyukada’s numerous horse carriages and asking the driver to take you to Club Mavi, a restaurant and hotel located inside a rambling old house on the island’s undeveloped backside…. (Click here to read the rest of this review)

Buyukada – SofrAda
One of the questions that we frequently ask ourselves during visits to Buyukada is just where do the locals eat? The seaside fish restaurants are too pricey, while even the “budget” places away from the sea are clearly aimed at the tourist trade.

We recently found the answer to our question in the form of SofrAda Restoran, a homey version of an esnaf lokanta, located on a small side street near the aromatic lot where the horse carriages are parked while their drivers wait for rides….(Click here to read the rest of the review)

We soon set out for the Kurtulus neighborhood and Goreme Muhallebecisi, the tipster’s spot, like bloodhounds on the trail. But as we made our way up the area’s Ergenekon Caddesi, we suddenly found ourselves within the cozy fold of this unique district. The pudding shop was our destination but we slowed down and explored the neighborhood’s main commercial drag and its pleasantly straight residential side streets that slop off toward Dolapdere. In a city of awe-inspiring vistas, Kurtulus does not rank very high. Lacking any visual appeal, the neighborhood doesn’t attract much interest from the outside world, which is probably the way locals here like it.

“When my grandfather came here in 1950 selling milk door to door, the neighborhood was all Rum [the Turkish term for local Greeks] and Armenian,” explained Ilhan Yalcin, the current owner and operator of Goreme Muhallebecisi, which opened in 1965. “We still have some customers who remember my grandfather delivering milk to their house, but the younger generations didn’t stay. Too much traffic,” he supposes with a shrug. “Of course, most of the Rum left after the events in 1955,” Ilhan quickly added, referring to a violent spasm of looting and destruction in September of that year which targeted local minorities. Mass immigration to Greece following the pogroms effectively brought an end to the Greek community in Istanbul and forever changed the urban fabric of Istanbul.

But as much as Kurtulus society may have changed in the last half century we could feel the direct lineage to an older and more genteel kind of Istanbul neighborhood life. Outside a jewelry shop, old Istanbul jentilmen in ties and fedoras sat on folding chairs, chatting in the sun. Nearby, a group of intensely quaffed ladies burst out of a flower shop all at once filling the sidewalk with their bodies and the unmistakable sound of the Turkish spoken by the Rum. In a rapidly growing and changing Istanbul, this is a neighborhood with an old and healthy soul.

It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that that a good part of that soul was nurtured on the sublime tavuk göğsü and kazandibi (literally, “bottom of the pot,” a chicken-free milk pudding with a delicious caramelized/burnt bottom) at Goreme. On a recent visit, the small, bright shop was half-full on a midweek afternoon. Three or four generations sat comfortably in the same room enjoying a pudding or something else from the short menu that hasn’t changed in half a century. Ilhan bey brought over an order of kazandibi, the pudding spade sat beside it hinting at the stretchiness beneath the browned skin. It, like the tavuk göğsü, was just as stretchy as promised but also mildly sweet and cool on the teeth. After the shock and awe of the stretchiness wore off, we were left most impressed by the creamy notes of this pudding.

Paying the bill, we coaxed Ilhan to share his secret. He told us he was just following a simple recipe left to him by his grandfather, in which the most important item is fresh milk delivered daily. That’s it: just follow the recipe, use the freshest ingredients and no shortcuts.

In this city of shopping malls and their food courts, trans-continental metro tunnels and other crazy projects, most Istanbul entrepreneurs have little time for grandfather’s old ways. They’re looking for projects of scale and mass production. Meanwhile consumers yearn for the previous generation, when true esnaf, or small shopkeepers, dominated the market and played a crucial role in the life of a community.

In Ilhan’s case, his grandfather shared with him the secret to a good stretchy tavuk göğsü and kazandibi. It’s not flashy, but it turns out to be the recipe for a lasting business model.

Address: Kurtulus Caddesi 82, Kurtulus (Sisli)
Telephone: +902122465367

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

(Editor’s Note: In the midst of the excitement over our recent Saveur Magazine “Best Food Blog” nomination, we forgot to properly mark Istanbul Eats’ third anniversary. In honor of the occasion, we are rerunning our first post, which ran on April 1, 2009. Thank you to all our readers who have supported our explorations of Istanbul’s culinary backstreets over these three years and stay tuned for more.)

The no-frills Lades 2 presents diners with that age-old question: what to eat first, the chicken or the eggs? This restaurant – a Turkish version of the American-style greasy spoon diner – specializes in all things fowl, from chicken soup, to a variety of egg dishes and even a dessert that, we kid you not, weds a thick, milky pudding with chicken. Even the name – “lades” means wishbone in Turkish – follows the chicken theme.

Lades 2 is located on a side street off the busy pedestrian-only Istiklal Cadessi, in a lively area filled with cafes and small nightclubs specializing in Turkish folk music. Across the street is the original Lades, a more respectable joint that serves classic Turkish food to a busy lunch crowd (and worth a visit in its own right). Lades 2 has a more proletarian vibe, with tables of mostly unaccompanied men scarfing down their food in a kind of monastic silence, broken only by the waiters shouting to the two short-order cooks in the back. (Click here to read the rest of this archived review)

One afternoon at Suna’nin Yeri, a small fish restaurant that, with its army of tables, chairs and frazzled waiters, seems to have conquered the waterfront of the Bosphorus-side Kandilli neighborhood, a small boat from a nation we could not immediately identify pulled up in the wake of a tanker and unloaded two hungry patrons.

A closer look revealed the word “Guernsey” written on the back of the  boat and we wouldn’t be surprised if the couple actually did come all the way from that island in the British Channel. The food at Suna’nin Yeri (“Suna’s Place,” in Turkish) is just that good. (To read the rest of this archived review, click here)

Had we previously known the sound of the zirh blade’s rhythmic roll over large cuts of lamb, we could have followed our ears through the side streets, past the jewelers near Atik Ali Pasa Mosque to the brisk lunch in progress at this little kebab shop. In his open kitchen Vaha usta works the zirh, a scimitar-like heavy curved knife, on a thick wooden slab and it sounds like a steam engine chugging at full speed. Each day starts here with a pile of choice cuts of beef and lamb, the place closing down around five PM when the meat runs out. It has been that way since the mid-1970’s, when Şeyhmus  (pronounced “Shay-muhs,” like the Irish poet Heaney) himself was still working the counter.

Vaha usta cuts the meat fresh for each kebab depending on the customers preferences – fatty or lean, spicy or not – before wetting his hands and working it onto long skewers.  We chose the Mardin kebabi (fairly lean and spiked with green peppers) as a nod to the southeastern Turkish hometown of the late Şeyhmus usta, both of which are celebrated in large framed photos and posters all over the dining room.

Vaha usta, working at a frantic speed, barked an order at a young waiter playing with his cell phone. The boy pocketed the phone and quickly came to Vaha usta’s side with a napkin and cleaned up shreds of meat that had gone flying from the blade onto nearby tables. (Note to readers: select your table carefully or wear a raincoat.)

We enjoy swordplay at the lunch counter for the sake of entertainment, but a few bites of our Mardin kebab told us that this was not just a gimmick. The meat used at most kebab shops may be of fine quality, but it has usually been smooshed through a grinder once or twice leaving it a limp, pliable mound. Vaha’s zirh-cut lamb/beef combo came off of the skewer springy, with great textural variation. At certain points it still seemed to have a grain. People speak of zirh-cut meat having a particularly fresh taste and we got that. But it was the texture that impressed us most. This kebab made the average street-side Adana look like an Oscar Meyer wiener.

So entranced were we by the properties of this Mardin kebabi, the heavy roll of the zirh on the chopping block, the slap of fresh tirnakli ekmek (flatbread) coming out of the oven, the sight of meat flying through the air that we forgot to ask just how it was that an Irishman ended up making kebab in Mardin.

Address: Molla Fenari Mah., Medrese Sok. No:2, Çemberlitaş
Telephone: +902125261613

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

The sign out front read “Mehmet Usta” and the hand-written menu board with no more than four or five items looked promising. Then nearing the humble eatery, we saw the most homely and delicious-looking doner we’ve encountered in quite some time. Most small restaurants and bufe order their doner log from a factory and advertise its brand with pride – “We serve Bereket doner.” For some businesses, this is a sign of quality and consistency (remember that stories of doner made from seagulls or donkeys are well-known in this city of a million spits) but not to Mehmet usta. He buys his meat from a butcher, cuts it into flat filets and skewers it according to his own methods. Mehmet has been preparing his doner like this for 40 years as all donerci of his generation did. The result looks like a vertical cag kebab, loosely packed cuts with much greater variation than the uniform doner of his competitors. Mehmet usta’s doner isn’t shaved, it is carefully carved and the result are not ribbons so much as morsels of doner.

We hold a deep respect usta like Mehmet who cling to the old ways, not for the sake of nostalgia but because it results in better food. In this case, it certainly did. We took a seat across from an older fellow in a postal worker jacket and followed his lead with a pilav ustu doner. Unlike a sandwich, which can hide the quality of the meat, doner over rice bears all. The French fries on the side of our plate were cold and stiff – something so consistently true of donerci French fries that we can only assume it to be an act of protest against the French, or the potato – but the heap of doner over buttery rice was an excellent break from the norm.

We finished up and thanked Mehmet for his delicious doner, while he sat in the sun drinking a tea and getting a shoeshine before the lunch rush. “I make good soup too,” he said.

Note taken, Mehmet. We’ll be back.

Address: Buyuk Karaman Caddesi #3, Fatih
Telephone: +90212 533 8665
(Across from the gas station on the corner)

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

We’ve tried many traditional Turkish cakes, but none we encountered measured up to the beloved pop kek. That is, until one recent visit to Fatih Sarmacisi, an Ottoman-era shop making our new favorite cake, sarma (the word means “wrapped” or “rolled up” in Turkish). Sarma is a particularly light sponge cake that is loaded with apricot marmalade, soaked in a thin syrup and rolled up, hence the name. It is served chilled with a sprinkle of coconut and pistachio shavings. The syrupy cake chilled the mouth, with each bite grabbing our attention to the small bit of apricot jam hiding in the folds. The sponginess certainly reminded us of a good pop kek, but this Sarma was a much cleaner, headier experience.

As we sat with our sarma at one of the two tables, an errand boy wandered in and ordered a full sarma roll, a few kilos according to the scale. “What is this sarma, ya? You don’t have a branch in Cyprus?” he asked, explaining that his boss was sending this to a client in Cyprus.

Adnan bey, who watches the till, is the third generation of his family making and selling sarma from the same shop in Fatih. They don’t have a branch in Cyprus, or anywhere else. He carefully wrapped the sarma and tied a ribbon around it. According to Adnan, his grandfather, Ibrahim bey, left the Ottoman palace kitchen and opened this shop making sarma.  His son Necmettin carried on the tradition and now his sons, Adnan and Arkan run the business.

“We’re the oldest around here. Well, not as old as the medrese,” he said pointing to the big stone building across the street, a part of the centuries-old Fatih Mosque complex.

We were so busy dredging our plate for sarma crumbs, we felt completely free of the culinary legacy of the Ottomans, whose fondness for elaborate dishes usually hangs around the dinner table like a dark cloud, obscuring the simple pleasures of a meal. The goodness of this cake isn’t too hard to access. Maybe that’s how Ibrahim really ended up on the outs with the Sultan – he was ejected from the palace kitchen for making a cake that is too easily likable, not quite odd enough for the Sultan’s taste. It certainly worked for us and a steady stream of the post-prayers crowd from the nearby Fatih mosque.  We resolved that next time we buy a bus ticket, we’ll take a cue from the Cypriot businessman and stop in here for a slice for the road. Leave the pop kek for the uninformed.

Address: Favzi Pasa Cad. Aslanhane Sokak 14, Kucukmustafapasa, Fatih
Telephone: +90 212 251 4085

(photo by Ansel Mullins) 

Not just any kebab, mind you. Clearly an unorthodox and clever lot, the people of Kilis have a distinctly different approach to cooking meat. While a wide swath of humanity stretching from the Balkans to the Hindu Kush make their kebabs by putting meat on a skewer and cooking it over a fire, the people of Kilis are famous for their pan kebab, a thin disc of ground meat that is cooked in a shallow metal dish that’s put in the oven. It’s a kind of Turkish meatloaf – only juicier, spicier and, well, better than any other meatloaf we’ve ever had.

Why make kebab in a baking pan, you may ask? (Click here to read the rest of this archived review)

On a dark and deserted street in January covered in swirls and swirls of snow, a bright pool of light  shines from a ground-level window. You open the door and are wrapped the scents of hot espresso and fresh basil, of parmesan cheese and spicy puttanesca sauce bubbling in a pan. A woman calls a hearty ‘Welcome!’ and you pass into the friendliest Italian bistro this side of Sicily.

Semolina is an enticing new addition to the culinary landscape in the Asian side’s Kadıköy neighborhood, which is working hard to pull in Istanbul’s eaters. Within the last year, the area has witnessed the opening of a Cuban restaurant, a German sausage shop, an Iranian café and a Lebanese fast food joint. (Sadly, the Lebanese place folded in months—nobody but foreigners came to feast on the wonderful falafels and babaganoush, and so now it’s been transformed into a lackluster ciğer venue on a street already swarming with them. The sausage shop, unfortunately, is also no longer in operation.)

The restaurant sets things off with a basket of bread served with a side sauce of basil, olives, and olive oil. The basil leaves are freshly crushed and full of flavor—bought just that afternoon from Kadıköy’s nearby market. It is brought as soon as we sit down by our charismatic waiter, Fevzi, the co-owner and husband of chef Hulya.

‘Our pastas are all handmade,’ he explains, ‘by two Italian brothers who own a small company here in Istanbul.’ And while the entrées are limited to pastas, these are not the guesses of some clueless someone hoping to make bank off of Italian cuisine’s popularity, but the real deal. The fettuccine is flat and thick, cooked al dente, and the carbonara sauce made with egg yolk and fresh, grated parmesan cheese.  Chef Hulya knows what’s what. I order the fettuccine alla puttanesca. Hulya uses real anchovies in the sauce, with capers and red peppers to give it a little kick. ‘Tonight I went with cherry tomatoes,’ she explains. ‘Regular tomato season is long gone, and the cherries pack a lot more flavor.’ Hulya’s food is thoughtful—the same consideration goes into every dish she makes. For breakfast, for instance, they offer pancakes and she insists that the syrup be pure maple, brought direct from Canada. And I must gush about the mushrooms in the mushroom and chicken fettuccine—these fungi did not slide oozily out of a can. They were crisp and meaty, and like the basil, fresh from the market.

‘My wife puts love into this place,’ Fevzi says. ‘For years she worked at a bank—and hated it. So we made a decision. We pooled all the money we got at our wedding and put her through the Academy of Culinary Arts—she had always been a good cook. After she graduated, it was difficult to find a job so we decided to open our own place specializing in Mediterranean cuisine, her favorite.” (In addition to Italian, Semolina sports a few French and Greek dishes as well.)

Hulya’s enthusiasm is palpable in all the little details that make dining here such a pleasure. This place is well crafted—from the little dishes of grated Romano that come with every meal to the fresh ground pepper from the pepper mills, from the soft sofa and chairs perfect for an after-dinner espresso, to the warm wine-red of the walls.

We top off dinner with a chocolate soufflé—again, the genuine article. Crowned with a crisp crust, the inside is light and warm and gooey—the ideal antidote to Istanbul’s coldest winter in thirty years.

Don’t think I haven’t noticed the preponderance of words like ‘fresh’, ‘genuine’, and ‘real’ in this article, and I know what you’re thinking. Imports! Expensive!Yikes! Yet despite the glut of authenticity, there is none of the usual Istanbul price-gouging for foreign fare.  Pastas range from 12 to 17 lira with most things hovering around 14, and the portions are generous.

With wonderful salads, bruschetta, and mezes, Semolina’s single culinary lack is alcohol, specifically wine—they don’t yet have a license and it may prove difficult to get under the increasingly draconian laws.  The location is also a bit of a disadvantage. The street is rather quiet, although it also hosts the excellent Rengahenk, so it may have a bright future if both these restaurants can stick it out.  As it stands, follow Kadıköy’s famed Bar Street to the end, cross the road past the bakery and then turn right at the tattoo parlor. Or else come up Moda Caddesi and hang a left past the Tek Bufe.

Buon Appetito!

Address: Ressam Şeref Akdik Sokak, No. 7, A Caferağa Mahellesi, Moda, Kadıköy
Telephone: (216) 330-8606

(photo by Jeff Gibbs)

And that is what you feel when you walk through the worn swinging doors of Baylan Pastanesi in the Kadikoy market. To many Istanbulites, it must be a tender reminder of the days when local places got classed-up with European names (the original shop was called L’Orient) and men wore hats (the brimmed kind, not the knit ones). We felt a similar twinge breathing in the sweet smell of chocolate and the must of wet counters as we walked past the low display case of macaroons and chocolates. We could have been at classic sweets shops like Cupid’s on Chicago’s Southside or Parkside Candy in Buffalo. (Click here to read more of this archived review)