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)

Approaching the Grand Bazaar from the northeast you encounter the market’s “Nuruosmaniye Gate,” named for the nearby baroque Nuruosmaniye mosque, built in the late 18^th century. But to us, this will always be the “Kofte Gate” for its proximity to Nuruosmaniye Koftecisi, established in 1974.

Stepping inside this humble shop, sawdust underfoot, we were instantly calmed by a rhythm we recognized from any busy neighborhood eatery at lunchtime. Delivery orders were called out by the cashier who worked a calculator with one hand and cradled a phone with the other. Behind the cashier, we heard the constant pad of the waiter’s loafers hustling orders up the stairs to the tiny domed dining room above. Logjams of customers coming and going, paying and ordering formed instantly and were settled as quickly by the tight crew that run this place. This place was alive and a wonder to observe in action, particularly the man who held it all together, the griller.

The charcoal grill in the corner, loaded with short and stubby kofte were flipped and switched in different directions and angles by a deft hand, reminding us of a chalkboard with a lengthy mathematical proof in progress. Finally, our order, birbucuk porsiyon, an order and a half of meatballs, made its way through the equation and arrived still sizzling. Freshly chopped onions with parsley, a cool wedge of tomato and a hot pepper could be a salad to some or the fixings of a sandwich to others. A pyramid of fresh, sliced bread stood tall on our table beside a coffee mug filled with a piquant salça-based sauce. This was exactly what we’d expect to see at a neighborhood kofte joint, an expectation rarely met in this tourist zone.

Like many independent meatballers, Nuruosmaniye Koftecisi does not comfortably fall into any partiular kofte classification, though there is a striking resemblance here to the kind made in Tekirdag. The usta at the grill explained that this is actually a meatball of their own design with its own secret recipe, prepared on the premises and cooked everyday by him, therefore it is his meatball. Ten lira to sit in the personal workshop of a master of the culinary arts while he prepares a unique work for each customer? That’s more memorable than the overpriced kilim or handbag that most people come looking for around here, which should really make Nuruosmaniye Koftecisi a destination in itself. In fact, we wouldn’t be surprised if, among some locals, the Grand Bazaar is referred to as “Koftecide’ki pazar” – the market near the meatball shop.

Address: Vezir Han Caddesi 73, Cemberlitas
Telephone: +90 212 526 7169

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

This was supposed to be a quick run down to the Karakoy hardware market for a faucet and some sandpaper, but our culinary backstreets antenna, always up, automatically changed the the afternoon’s priorities. So we followed the commotion to a tiny restaurant called Urfa Şark Sofrasi and pulled up a stool outside of this humble kebab shop.

The owner, Saim bey, convinced us to start with kurufasuliye, which was kept warm in a charred clay pot at the front. More famous in the Turkish Northeast and Central Anatolian regions, these beans were done in the Black Sea style with meat and plenty of butter, but also delivering a little extra kick of heat, that we attributed to the place’s link to Urfa, home of the diabolical isot, an oily, almost black dried and crushed red pepper.

Faced with the difficult task of choosing between a list of kebab, we ordered a mixed grill platter that included kanat (chicken wings), patlicanli kebab (minced lamb sheesh interrupted by thick slices of eggplant), and a kebab called haşhaş (pronounced, “hash hash”), which was as intoxicating as the name indicates. The meat was buried under mounds of fresh bread slathered with a spicy rub, rolls of soft lavash and spicy green peppers and tomatoes hot off of the grill. Working our way through the platter we kept seeking out chunks of the particularly crumbly, crispy yet soft sheesh. Finding the last piece hiding under a triangle of lavash, we asked Saim bey what we were eating.

“That’s hashas kebabi, knife-cut beef with lamb fat, super!” he said.

Super indeed, we agreed – even bleat-worthy.

Address: Persembe Pazari Caddesi, Keresteci fazil sokak 4, Karakoy
Telephone: +902122496963

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

Hayri Balik
We always feel a bit like a cheating spouse when we walk past our longtime favorite – albeit dry – fish spot, Arnavutkoy’s Adem Baba, toward Hayri Balik, a lovely little fish shack up the street. But sometimes, well after the brunching hour, we like to have something a little stronger than a Fanta with our fish. Any sense of guilt is quickly numbed, though, as we drain a cold beer in the afternoon sun sitting outside of Hayri’s humble dining room…..

Cukur Meyhanesi
Çukur serves up other meyhane classics, such as grilled lamb chops and kofte, but – somewhat unusually – the folks at Çukur  have also figured out how to grill Black Sea sardines, or hamsi! Long considered a lost cause by grill men for its tendency to slip through the grill and into the coals, hamsi is usually fried or baked. At Çukur they’ve thrown caution to the wind and worked about ten of these little squirmy fish onto a skewer and bookended them with tomato and pepper. Hamsi is agreeable in just about any form, but fresh off the grill the fish’s characteristic smack of the Black Sea is even more pronounced….

Furreyya
From the outside, Fürreyya Galata Balıkcısı, a tiny new restaurant in Beyoglu’s quaint Galata area, doesn’t look like much. Two tables, two stools at a short counter, a smoky grill and not much else. But Inside this modest fish shack beats the heart of a more ambitious place. The friendly husband and wife team who own the place and share kitchen duties used to run a restaurant in Istanbul’s upscale Bebek neighborhood, and it’s clear that Fürreyya is in experienced hands….

Kemal’in Yeri
The neon sign in front of Kemal’in Yeri shines like a “Last Chance for Gas” sign seen on the highway before entering the desert. In your rearview mirror are the crowded tourist traps of the Galata Bridge. Ahead lie the shipyards and decrepit chandleries of the Golden Horn. But Kemal’s Place is not only the last place to eat on this stretch of the Golden Horn, it’s one of the last places in all of Beyoglu where you can eat reasonably well on reasonable budget sitting outside beside the water without another hungry soul in sight…..

Mohti Laz Meyhane
“My heart starts pounding when a pregnant lady enters the room,” said Huseyin, the artist turned owner/operator of Mohti, a new “Laz Meyhane” in the back of the backstreets of the Asmalimescit area. While this might sound to some like the unsavory confession of a man with an exotic fetish, to us it was a breath of fresh air, redolent with the old-style charm of a classic meyhane patron, something that’s increasingly harder to come across these days….

Hayvore
The Black Sea area is Turkey’s culinary misfit – not really about kebabs or meze. If anything, the food there seems to have been mysteriously transplanted from the American Deep South. We’re talking corn bread, collard greens and smoky bean stews. It’s simple, filling, down-home food and Hayvore is a great – and affordable – spot to get acquainted with it….

After the initial surprise of stumbling on this little meatball shack, we quickly took a seat outside and settled into the rhythm of the hardware market into which it is tucked. Across the street from Cemal’s stands another tiny shop that sells nothing but black rubber washers, from the gauge of a car wheel down to that of a pencil. As we got ready to eat, a man who had been going shop to shop with a thick bolt in his hand asking where he might find more arrived at the restaurant. Hakki bey pointed down the street and slapped his forearm indicating a right turn ahead and watched the man disappear behind a colorful pile of rope coiled up outside of a shop that looked to be perfectly coated in axle grease. This is the stage upon which a typical lunch in the Persembe Pazari plays out.

Any corner tea stand in this market delivers such vistas, but Kofteci Cemal, of course, also has meatballs. Hakki bey hand pats them into loose nuggets, roughly the size and shape of the famous spoonmaker’s diamond in Topkapi Palace. These kofte are a precious commodity around lunchtime, when hungry shopkeepers come over for an order or call Hakki on his phone by the grill. Shot through with parsley and spiced with black pepper, these are a common form of kofte, but fresh off of the grill we found them uncommonly soft and as juicy as kofte can be.

Though lacking the secret sauce that got us hooked on Kofteci Huseyin’s kofte or an outstanding piyaz ala Kofteci Arnavut, Kofteci Cemal is still a destination meatball by our count. The meatballs are well above average, but we see them as an excuse to gain access to Hakki bey and his regulars who seem to have stepped right out of the black and white photos of Ara Guler. And like the long-gone gritty society depicted in those photos, there are rumors that this hardware market may be lost to another great urban transformation, the Golden Horn Marina project. We like to think that this little meatball shop would survive such a radical transformation, but without his regulars – men who wear cover-alls, not top-siders – Hakki is not likely to carry on. But, at least for now, the writing on the wall still says “kofteci”.

Address: Yemenciler Sokak 16, Persembe Pazari, Karakoy

(photo by Ansel Mullins) 

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)

If Adem Baba commands a battery of grillers in its three locations, Hayri Balik is more of a one-man show, the leaky rowboat of fish restaurants. On a recent visit, every few minutes the dining room went dark, raising the blood pressure of Hayri, who stomped over from the kitchen to the switch, located right next to the light for the bathroom, to flip the lights back on. Indeed, without him there could not even be light at Hayri Balik.

Speaking with Hayri we felt certain that he wouldn’t serve anything that he wouldn’t gladly sit down and enjoy himself. And you won’t catch Hayri calling anyone “efendi” or clearing the plates too quickly. If anything, it seems he’s about to sit down and eat with you.

So in Hayri’s hands, we felt comfortable to dig into the forbidden fruit of the Bosphorus straits, midye dolma, or stuffed mussels. Back in Beyoglu’s side streets, huge plates of mussels stacked three deep are ferried around on the head of young boys. Late at night, men crowd around these boys, squeezing lemon on the half shells and shooting the contents back with liquid courage and machismo pushing them along. As tempting as this snack on the go may look, we’ve seen the grim shucking rooms in Tarlabasi basements. There is probably a good reason that the mussel boys flee the scene when a cop turns the corner.

We are careful where we eat our stuffed mussels, but when given the green light, we can really indulge. At Hayri, the medley of rice, currants, pine nuts were informed by the fragrance of the sea, almost within view, and cinnamon. It is an intoxicating bite that wasn’t lost on a cat that prowled our way as the pile of spent shells accumulated at the center of the table.

With another drink we inquired about the fish. Bluefish? Grouper? Sole?

Hayri cut us short with a smile and suggested we have the istavrit, or horse mackerel. He told us that he’d just picked them up from a local boat and they looked great. So we ate the istavrit fried, a fresh little salad with shaved carrots and cabbage on the side.  The sweet flesh of the fish flaked from the bone easily leaving something to toss to the cat. Hayri does have more fish on offer most days but he’ll tell you what to order regardless of what the menu says.

A fling with Hayri cannot challenge our devotion to Adem Baba and the two remain incomparable in our minds. But every so often, when we are feeling frisky, we’ll sneak over for a bit of the Hayri experience, shamelessly.

Address: Satis Meydani 7, Arnavutkoy
Telephone: (212) 263-4875

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

It didn’t take a foodie detective to know that this place was the real thing. Many long tables sat in the shade under leafy sycamore trees and even more tables are on the porch of a long low building resembling a military barrack surrounded by all sorts of other little sheds, like a mother goose with chicks. Out front, a fat kid sat on an overturned bucket beside crate upon crate of fresh cherries sold by the kilo for 5 TL. The parking lot was full.

These were all promising signs, but the main attraction was in yet another shed, hand painted brightly with the Turkish words for “famous pit kebab” (and spelled incorrectly, at that). This is the kind of sign that we jam the brakes for. We’ve spent plenty of time on the road hunting down such famous pit stops – ‘Twix and ‘Tween in Centreville, that giant tent outside of Guadalajara, a nameless spot on the road from Termez to Dushanbe marked only by a lightbulb strung up in a tree. And here, on the way to Cankiri, we felt, once again, that we’d arrived at such a spot.

The Owl’s Throat might sound like an English pub, but this is a down-home roadside smoke shack complete with a pit master that looks the part. Burly and giggly, Bayram – his name, appropriately, means holiday – gladly took us on a tour of the facilities. We asked him where his meat comes from and he made a chopping motion with his hand toward a hill. “Over there,” he said. He showed us the pit where he roasts this very local lamb over smoldering coals throughout the morning. A blast of hot air carried the intoxicating scent of meat and smoke outward when Bayram opened the hatch of the cooking pit to pose for a picture.

Back at his post, he took down a browned side of meat from a hook hanging inside his glass display box – the glass all sweaty from the heat – and thwacked it apart with a cleaver on a log chopping block. He smiled as he did it. So did we.

The resulting two plates of meat, accompanied by a stack of freshly baked bazlama, a yeasted flatbread which is very similar to an oversized English muffin, was such a perfect roadside meal that we vowed to return, and we did. Bayram was still at his chopping block and the glass was foggy with freshly smoked meat. Cherries were everywhere. The tables were, once again, full of local families gathered around generous plates of roasted lamb. It was a perfect scene.

We were reminded of why we travel as much as possible – and by car.

Address: Cankiri Yolu 50km, Bogazi Kalecik, Ankara
Telephone: (Bayram usta) 0537-700-4666

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

Although this soup is probably best drunk at its source, we’ve recently come across a spot in Istanbul that serves up a very fine bowl of beyran – and not just for breakfast. Located in the bustling Aksaray neighborhood, Ehli Kebap is a grill house who’s advertised specialty is skewered liver in the style of Diyarbakir, a city a few hours to the east of Gaziantep. But tucked into the restaurant’s corner is a soup master with some serious Gaziantep chops who has his own cooking station – gaily festooned with strings of dried red peppers – devoted to beyran making.

Each serving of soup is made to order, cooked up inside its own metal bowl, the usta creating it like a kind of hot and soupy ice cream sundae. First up is a schmear of suet, the shortening-like fat found around the kidney of a sheep, to give the soup some silkiness. Piled on top of that is a mound of white rice and strands of lamb meat that has been slow-cooked for hours, until it is utterly tender, which give the soup its heft. To ratchet up the taste, the usta then adds a dollop of minced garlic to the bowl, and tops the whole thing with liberal sprinkles of light and dark red-pepper flakes. The bowl is then put on a blazing gas burner and a ladleful of broth of an unfathomable depth of flavor is added to it, the whole thing coming to a quick boil. By the time the beyran soup arrives at the table, it has achieved a lovely rusty red color, looking – and even tasting – something like a Turkish version of a Louisiana gumbo.

We generally don’t get too excited about soup, but recent visits to Ehli Kebap to sample their beyran have left us thinking that this may be among the finest soups we’ve had in town, something we would be more than happy to slurp down on a daily basis – breakfast, lunch or dinner.

Address: Simitçi Şakir Sokak 32, Aksaray
Telephone: (212) 631-3700

(photo by Yigal Schleifer)