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)

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) 

(Editor’s Note: This guest post was written by “Meliz,” an intrepid explorer of Istanbul’s culinary backstreets and a frequent contributor to these pages who would like to keep her anonymity.)

It all started with Laz boregi.

It was not just any Laz boregi that showed up at the dinner party that evening, but perfect Laz Boregi—layers of yufka (phyllo) buttery and moist, dusted with confectioner’s sugar, in a symbiotic balance with the custard, which was neither too sweet, nor too eggy; neither too runny, nor too stiff. Goldilocks would be proud. Juuuust right. And, it turns out, this stuff is addictive.

So that got me on the ferry and up the hill to Moda Caddesi in Kadikoy, on a pilgrimage to the source. And that is where I really got myself into trouble.

Bizim Ev is a storefront on one of the arcaded stretches of Moda Caddesi, tucked in between discount stores, karate studios, the best butcher in town, and five million coiffeurs. Glowing and cozy, the place welcomes you with an immediate barrage of choices. And therein lies the problem. How to choose just one thing? Turns out, I am incapable of this.

So. In addition to the Laz boregi mentioned already, they do an amazing savory borek stuffed with roasted eggplant (kozlenmis patlican muska boregi), and a daily selection of other savory boreks. Again, perfect yufka, perfect fillings, perfect borek. My greatest weakness at Bizim Ev, though, is an item best described as When Veggie Quiche Met Ev Pogaca. A baked batter that falls somewhere on the eggier side of biscuit holds together a cornucopia of vegetables (usually potato, red pepper, onion, zucchini) laced generously with fresh dill. Irresistible.  And there is still so much more to choose from: cookies, cakes (the sour cherry cake, ooooh the sour cherry cake), baklava…and then there are the zeytinyagli dishes. Bizim Ev manages to rock the baked goods AND to roll out an impressive variety of cold appetizer classics, all made daily from the best ingredients, and all delicious enough to impress even the most stubborn zeytinyagli snob.

Although Bizim Ev is primarily a take-away type of operation, they do have a few tables, inside and out. If I am in a social and sharing mood, I will sometimes pick up some goodies to bring with me when meeting up with friends at the nearby (and lovely) Moda Tea Gardens – those guys never raise a fuss over BYO snacks.

I do not joke when I say that I am incapable of picking just one thing, but I suspect I am not the only one, as owners Nezahat Hanim and Ali Bey never bat an eye when I look shifty, clutch at my pearls, and let out the clarion call of a closeted addict: ‘oh, and maybe just a few of those, too…’ So go ahead, do not be shy, try it all. Everything at Bizim Ev is outstanding. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Address: Moda Caddesi 95/A, Moda 
Telephone: +90-216-336-1681

Merih, in fact, is the polar opposite of most of its neighbors, a homey refuge for neighborhood locals looking for good food without too much fuss (and without paying too much). Like a good Italian trattoria or French Bistro, Merih is the kind of place that you wouldn’t think twice about dropping into for a quick – or extended – meal, with friendly yet professional service, top-notch food and affordable booze to wash it down with.

In business since 1972, Merih very much evokes that era, the walls lined with wood paneling, a large painting of a dapper Mustafa Kemal Ataturk prominently displayed, and long rows of raki bottles lined up on shelves like trophies. While the restaurant may be a meyhane, most of Merih’s regulars do away with the meze tray business and head straight to the kitchen in the back, where a small steam table holds an assortment of prepared dishes and a large glass-lined cooler displays the day’s appetizers and a selection of meats ready to be grilled.

Merih may be low-key, but its kitchen means business, turning out superb renditions of meyhane classics. The restaurant’s pilaki (white beans in a tomato sauce) was among the finest we’ve had in a long time, the not-too-soft beans having a very satisfying bite to them, the sauce they were in amped up by a generous amount of garlic. An order of fresh spinach stewed in olive oil, served with a dollop of tangy yogurt, showed the same level of attention to taste. Sigara boregi (phyllo dough wrapped around tangy white cheese) are often brought to the table looking as if they had been fried in motor oil salvaged from an auto repair shop. Here they came out golden, crisp and utterly delicious. Our main course, lamb kebab, was another highlight, the meat tender, juicy and expertly grilled. Even dessert, a traditional milk pudding flavored with mastic, seemed to pack an extra gustatory punch.

We finished our dinner feeling deeply satisfied and thinking Merih is the kind of place we could come back to every day. We suspect that is exactly what many of the other folks eating there that night actually do.

Address: Kamer Hatun Cad. No: 5/A
Telephone: +90-212-245-4325

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

(Editor’s Note: This review originally appeared on June 12, 2009.)

Regulars at Özkonak, a well-loved fixture in Cihangir’s ever-changing restaurant scene, must cluck in disapproval at the sight of a new generation of customers who walk right past the pudding display at the front and head for the steam table and its selection of prepared savory dishes in back. Though the lunch specials here are quite tasty, Özkonak is a pudding shop at heart and should be approached accordingly. To fill up on stuffed eggplant and beans before dessert is to deny yourself the milky sweet pleasures that have defined this a neighborhood institution for almost fifty years.

(Full review here.)

(Editor’s Note: Intrepid traveler and eater Sherri Cohen recently gave us the goods on the Tekirdag kofte scene. Today, once again on the road, she brings us news of the historic rebirth of an almost extinct street snack in Izmir.)

The denizens of Izmir like to think of themselves as the Istanbulites’ laidback counterparts. Life is slower, relationships more intimate on the Aegean. Street food in Izmir is different, too. There the simit shrinks and calls itself gevrek; kumru, rolls stuffed with beyaz penir and tomatoes, multiply and bloom spicy green pepper stems. And the poğaca’s got a new relative: an oily, plain circular bun called boyoz.

Boyoz doesn’t look or sound like a Turkish word and it originally wasn’t. The buns arrived from Spain with Izmir’s Sephardic Jewish population in the early 1500’s, and the city’s Sephardim still use Ladino, their fascinating medieval Spanish-based language of exile, to describe the wide world of boyoz (or boyos, depending on which Jewish cooking source you consult). Similar to borek in ingredients and preparation, a Sephardic boyoz was made with only one thin dough layer wrapped in different patterns around varied fillings: a boyoz de handrajo (literally, handrag, actually a cooked eggplant/zucchini mixture), was square-shaped, while a boyoz de espinaka (spinach) was pinwheel-shaped or circular and a boyoz de patata (potato) was triangular. The filled pastries were oven-baked until golden.  No one is quite sure when boyoz passed from Sephardic to general consumption, but somehow during the centuries-long interchange of Sephardic and Turkish Izmirli cultures, delicate fillings were traded for more dough and significantly more grease. My first sample of streetcart boyoz was disappointing; doughy, bland, and so oil-soaked I could wave to my friend through the wax wrapping paper.

What happened to the Sephardic boyoz of lore? Some well-placed questions among Izmir’s close-knit Jewish community group La Liga elicited memories of mama’s perfect handrajo and quaffs about the buns being peddled on the street. You can still by traditional filled boyoz, I was told. They’re made at home by women producing kilos for personal orders. But for a small breakfast bite? “Go to Oret’s,” they said.

I was taken to Patisserie d’Oret one afternoon by a friend who helped me shout quick questions to the eponymous owner while she raced around the pink-hued bakery stuffing take-out boxes, refilling trays, and chatting with customers. Her curly red hair escaped its loose ponytail as she told me her story. Oret Abulafya was a kilo-producing boyoz phenom who thought of opening her own storefront for years, one in which she could sell sweet and savory Turkish pastries as well as the perfected versions of her mother-in-law’s Sephardic recipes. After 10 years of dreaming and planning, Oret and husband David opened Patisserie d’Oret in spring 2010 on a main street in Alsancak, the busiest, classiest neighborhood of Izmir, and also where the majority of the city’s Sephardim live. A small replica of the Ten Commandments in Hebrew almost escapes a quick glance, hidden between trays of food on pastel-painted shelves. Her customer base, however, reflects the multicultural history of Izmir, and Jews, Muslims, and everyone in between make daily trips for a snack. She did admit that it took a bit of cajoling to convince some customers of the legitimacy of the Sephardic filled boyoz, but once converted they never looked back.

The recipe is simple: a dough of flour, water, salt, a bit of sunflower oil, and a dash of lemon juice is formed into little balls, which soak in an oil bath for an hour. After, the balls are hand-rolled thin, to the thickness of skin (Oret’s words), then wrapped around the filling, shaped accordingly, and baked. But by my mid-afternoon visit they were past their prime. “Come back tomorrow morning,” she said as she cut into a pan of dulse de bimbriyo (Sephardic quince sweets), “when they’re fresh.”

I returned to the patisserie early the next day for breakfast. A quiet young assistant was busy filling trays with freshly-baked almond crescent cookies when co-owner David emerged from the back. In Ladino, David told me Oret was busy transporting pastries between the off-site baking facility and the patisserie and that I should please eat, eat, I look so skinny. From the gleaming browned buns in the window display, I chose a circular boyoz de handrajo, and after a brief hesitation, snagged a large, brown huevo haminado (slow roasted egg) from the register-side wire basket for a complete meal. The first bite of delicate handrajo was a pleasure, the eggplant and zucchini, stewed in a mixture of tomato paste, onion, salt, and a hint of tulum cheese, and almost melting into the dough and light coating of oil, enveloped my tongue in a dainty, velvety layer. I alternated bites of boyoz with huevo haminado, a hard-boiled egg slow-cooked in a pot along with onion skin and pepper until the white of the egg turned a vibrant roasted brown and tasted almost carmelized. Although I was satisfied, David tempted me into trying a boyoz de espinaka, whose deep green filling, visible through the paper-thin dough, delivered substantial mouthfuls of unadulterated cooked spinach.

There was love in this food; here was the depth of taste and soul that was missing from the nondescript streetcart offerings. Patisserie d’Oret also sells coiled borek and irresistibly poppable mini-borekitas which carry the same fillings, but there’s something uniquely Izmir about the boyoz bun that’ll make you stray from your borek habit. Potato and cheese is their best seller, and give their rose-shaped tahini bun a taste, too. But it’d be a shame to skip their wide selection of Sephardic treats. For an afternoon sugar rush, try the above-mentioned smooth dulse de bimbriyo, mogado (chunky and chewy almond paste), or travado (walnut and cinnamon treats), or make it a full lunch with a plate of raisin-filled yaprak sarma. A wide selection of salty and sweet cookies line the shelves, too, along with a killer tiramisu. Whatever you choose, include a “buenos diyas” and a wink after your “merhaba” to Oret and David and don’t rush through your food—you’re in Izmir, after all.

Ladino to Turkish to English guide

Boyoz de handrajo = patlicanli boyoz = eggplant boyoz
Boyoz de espinaka = ispinakli boyoz = spinach boyoz
Boyoz de batatas = patatesli boyoz = potato boyoz
Huevo haminado = yumurta = slow cooked egg
Dulse de bimbriyo = ayva ezmesi = quince paste
Mogado = badem ezmesi = almond paste

Address:Talatpasa Blvd. No: 64/A, Alsancak, Izmir
Telephone: 232-422-4162

(Editor’s Note: This guest post was written by “Meliz,” an intrepid explorer of Sultanahmet’s culinary backstreets who would like to keep her anonymity.)

There is a quiet grace in doing one thing, but doing it very well.

Or, maybe, two things. Like, say, borek and baklava.

This is what distinguishes Rumeli, a tiny place a block or two from the Hippodrome in the Sultanahmet neighborhood. Do not be discouraged by the barren display cases, by the sparsely filled trays in the window, by solemn ranks of unrefrigerated Camlica bottles. As noted previously on this site: in Istanbul, most often, quality of food is in direct inverse proportion to fanciness of décor. This holds true in Sultanahmet, as well.

The key with Rumeli is to make it your first early-morning stop, before powering your way through the glory that is Sultanahmet. Why? Because Nilgul Hanim makes the day’s batch of borek once, every morning, and it is invariably gone by noon. There might be a spare pogaca sitting around, looking lonely, but for borek, one must arrive early.

And it is worth the trouble. This is the borek your Turkish friends have told you about — the kind of borek usually reserved for those lucky children whose aunties or mothers loved them too much, and had time to spare to make fresh yufka (the Turkish version of phyllo dough). At Rumeli, I finally understood the glossy-eyed insistence of friends that had tried for years, against overwhelming evidence to the contrary (from freezer-aisle yufka to franchised borek salons), to convince me that borek could be one of the great pleasures of life. Rumeli validates, for the uninitiated, the special place borek has in the hearts of the citizens of Turkey—buttery hand-rolled yufka, rolled around a generous but not excessive amount of spinach, cheese, or meat, everything prepared from scratch that morning.

Then there is the baklava.

This is not the photogenic, overbred, golden-fluffy baklava of the guidebooks. At Rumeli, you will get homemade walnut (never pistachio, ever) baklava that is, let’s just say, pretty on the inside. By which I mean delicious. The pastry is crispy on top, overstuffed with walnuts, and the syrup-soaked layers on the bottom never have time to turn into the chewy wad that one sometimes gets with mass-produced baklava. Rumeli baklava is so special that it is accepted currency with many in the bazaar (especially for payment of debts incurred over backgammon or pishti). HINT: if you do not see any baklava, ask. It may be cooling out back, in which case, you are in for an extra-special treat, as their baklava is obscenely good when fresh. As for timing with the baklava, get there before 3.

So—how best to enjoy Rumlei’s borek or baklava?

Sultanahmet is chock full of public benches in stunning locations—none of which truly offer the chance to sit and enjoy oneself in uninterrupted peace. That said, if you do not mind a little unsolicited conversation, nothing beats the view from a Sultanahmet park bench on a sunny day. BUT: If the thought of that unsolicited conversation makes you grind your teeth, Rumeli does have a few tables, inside and out. I recommend that you sit inside, where you get to follow the banter between Eshref Bey and his wife Nilgul Hanim—he is deaf, she is formidable—and interactions between Eshref Bey and the various and sundry regulars darting in for their treats.

Address: Peykhane Caddesi 41/5 (3 blocks up the Hippodrome using Üçler Sokak), Sultanahmet
Phone: 212-516-4880

Without looking up from the sports page he answered, “Well, I’m fifty-six years old, so I guess I’ve been working here for fifty-six years.” Mustafa has always been here. End of discussion.

Luckily, there are sweeter things to behold in the historic Balat neighborhood’s Merkez Sekercisi than Mustafa bey. The house-made lokum dusted in sugar, the ekmek kadayif and the wide tray of baklava in the front window had us captivated. While Mustafa weighed out a generous slab of the ekmek kadayif, we sat at the one and only table and enjoyed the pleasant time warp provided by the shop’s vintage scene – the mint green hue of the room (a jarring reminder of previous generation’s tastes), Formica counters on which a large enameled scale sat (perhaps it was Mustafa, in his own mischievous youth, who slapped a Besiktas soccer sticker on the grand old Wartburg candy scale?), and a jalopy of a cooler in the corner that chugged and hummed.

If the décor was leftover from Mustafa’s grandfather’s days behind the counter, the ekmek kadayif was absolutely of the moment. Two slices of syrup-soaked bubbly shortcakes sandwiching a schmear of bright white kaymak – this can be a gooey mess within hours of preparation. The one at Merkez was pleasantly saturated but firm, the kaymak a comparatively crisp note between the saccharine decks of ekmek kadayif.

We skipped the baklava and summoned Mustafa to the lokum counter. Double pistachio is the Ferrari of Turkish Delight – flashy and expensive, it’s designed more to impress others – and the one at Merkez shining green with nuts was certainly tempting. But instead, we asked Mustafa what flavor his grandfather favored. He cracked a smile and said, “He loved gullu” – rose flavored – “lokum.”

We left Merkez Sekercisi with a small bag of the shop’s gullu lokum, eating it as we followed the narrow streets through the Balat market. Perfumed gum drops – in most cases, an offering we’d politely decline. But standing outside of Merkez and thinking about Mustafa’s grandfather and the Ottoman period he lived in opened up new dimensions in our sweet tooth. Later, as we walked past supermarkets and corner stores stuffed with Gofret bars, Cadbury’s and Ulker’s latest creations, we started to understand Mustafa’s gloom. He’s probably the last guy on the block that still remembers the heyday of gullu lokum.

Address: Leblebiciler Sok. 33, Balat
Telephone: 212 523 9334

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

(Editor’s Note: This review of one of our all-time favorite places first appeared on April 1, 2009.)
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.

The menu is basic. If it’s chicken you want, you can order the restorative soup – not far off from what you would get in a Jewish delicatessen in New York – which comes with little strands of noodle floating in it, or “tavuk yağda,” a stir-fry of shredded chicken and hot green peppers in a tangy tomato sauce. Eggs come two ways: fried or scrambled with sautéed onions, green peppers and tomato in a dish called menemen. Most patrons order their fried eggs cooked together with either sucuk (a garlicky Turkish sausage) or pastirma (dried cured beef) and even ground beef. It’s greasy goodness, served up in its own individual skillet.

Of course, no visit to Lades 2 would be complete without a taste of their excellent “chicken” pudding, called tavuk göğsü (literally “chicken breast”). You won’t be biting into chunks of bird in your pudding. Rather, the meat is poached and then pounded until it is nothing but wispy fibers, adding texture and the subtlest flavoring to the white pudding, which is served with a dusting of cinnamon. Don’t be scared about ordering it. After all, you know what they do to chickens in Lades 2.

Address: Sadri Alisik Sokak 14, Beyoglu
Telephone: 212-251-3202

(Editor’s Note: In Salih Seçkin Sevinç, creator of the fantastic Turkish-language food blog “Harbi Yiyorum” (roughly translated as “Eating For Real” in English), we’ve found a kindred spirit and a source for great eating tips. We’ve asked Salih to share with our readers some of his culinary wisdom this week. This is his fourth and final post about the mind blowing food scene in southeast Turkey’s Gaziantep.)

When we were in Antep we didn’t just eat kebab of course. We asked for the best katmer around.  Ciğerci Asef advised us on how to find the lord of the masters of katmer, a breakfast pastry made out of sheets of phyllo dough wrapped around kaymak and chopped pistachios (pictured above). It has been told that the people of Antep eat liver kebab and katmer at breakfast. And then they don’t put another thing to their mouth till evening? Is that true? Absolutely!

Locals describe the kaymak that is used inside katmer as “kaymağın, kaymağı” – literally the “creme de la creme”. The pistachio and kaymak inside the warm layers of the katmer generates an incomparable flavor balance in your mouth and stomach and, yes, you never want to eat anything else until evening.

Folks, when you ask where to eat katmer in Antep, everybody answers: Katmerci Zekeriya Usta. You can eat Katmerci Zekeriya Usta’s katmer till 11:00 am. If you come back after that time you will find nothing to eat. Also you will find nothing but katmer here.

We asked what are they doing after 11:00. Katmerci Zekeriya Usta is preparing orders from other cities and countries. Look at that! They are sending these things to “New Zealand” Wow, “Don’t they get spoiled during transit?” we asked. “Nothing happens,” they answered.  We never tried an outside order but anyone who wants to can try, as you will find the address and telephone at the end of this article.

While we were eating our katmer we encountered a group of travelers from Izmir who were also on the hunt for Gaziantep’s culinary treasures. While we eating our katmer, they commanded us by saying: “Do not fill yourself with katmer lads. We will take you to the place of Altıntel Erdal Usta, who makes the world’s most beautiful burma kadayıf.” We obeyed, of course!

Our stomachs were saying “No!” But our minds made us say “Eyvallah!” We soon found ourselves looking at the display of burma kadayıf – a dessert made out of golden strands of shredded wheat wrapped around chopped pistachios – inside the store of Erdal Usta. We ordered one portion of the dessert and, perhaps because of having so many sweet things to start off the day, we started seeing hallucinations and were soon shouting out robotically “burma kadayıf, burma kadayıf, burma kadayıf.”

I have to admit something. It was the best Burma Kadayıf I ever ate in my life.

Katmerci Zekeriya Usta
Address: Çukur mh. Körükçü sok. B. Hilmi Geçidi No: 16/C-D, Gaziantep
Telephone: 0342-230-0971 or 0534 7607454
Web: www.katmercizekeriya.com

Altıntel Baklava ve Kadayıf Erdal Usta
Address: Şehreküstü Şehitler Caddesi No:270, Gaziantep
Telephone: 0342-225-2477

(photo by Salih Seçkin Sevinç)