Dear Istanbul Eats,

While Istanbul has a sizable Jewish community (perhaps some 20,000) with a long and rich history in the city, finding traditional Jewish food (kosher or not) is not so easy. Visitors to Rome, for example, can go to the city’s historic ghetto and find several restaurants and bakeries serving typical Roman Jewish food, but Istanbul doesn’t have something equivalent.

In fact, the city has only one Jewish eatery: Levi, a small restaurant tucked inside a historic han in the Eminonu district (and one of the stops along our “Culinary Secrets of the Old City” food walk). Opened several decades ago by its namesake, the restaurant today is run by Mr. Levi’s Muslim apprentice and serves up a daily mix of traditional Sephardic Jewish dishes (certified kosher by the Turkish Rabbinate). We’ve had some good things to eat there and some not so exciting. Perhaps because they have a monopoly, the restaurant’s owners seem to indulge in price inflation for tourists, so be prepared to pay more than you would expect for the food.

The Rabbinate’s website also has a page called “Eating Kosher in Istanbul,” which lists Levi and also some of the city’s Jewish old age homes, whose kitchens run a thriving side business doing event catering. Actually, some of the tastiest Turkish Jewish cooking that we’ve tasted has been at events catered by these kitchens. So, if you’re really interested in tasting traditional Sephardic food, you may want to get in touch with one of these places and see how small of an “event” they are willing to cater.

And if you want to do some of your own “self-catering,” Istanbul has several kosher butcher shops, were you can buy salami, sucuk and other cold cuts. A list of them can be found here.

(photo: Sucuk hanging in a kosher butcher shop in Istanbul’s Galata neighborhood. By Yigal Schleifer)

(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

From the moment you enter, you’ll be ensconced in the warm, personal handling that is an integral part of the Mekan experience.  The gracious owners are often standing by to greet new arrivals or working the room with a glass of wine in hand, as if they were hosting a dinner party in their home.

A bottle of the house red wine is a good way to start the meal, and at roughly $20 a bottle this is one of the most affordable (drinkable) wines in town. If you are lucky, Mary, the boisterous chef, will make an appearance along with the meze tray. On a recent visit, she took one look at us and immediately saw in our future the pickled mezgit (silver hake fish), an ultra-fresh tomato salad with crushed walnuts and dressed with pomegranate molasses, along with and a plate of smoked red peppers in a thick, sour yogurt. We also went for the topik, an Armenian specialty that stuck out on the meze tray like a sore thumb, or, more accurately, a softball. Made out of chickpeas, potatoes, tahini, and onions that are mashed together and turned into a mound that is then studded with pine nuts and dusted with cinnamon, this sweet and savory concoction is an odd assembly of flavors and textures, to say the least. It is a novelty that people either hate or write folk songs about, but should be tried at least once.

Following the meze comes the ara sicak, or hot appetizers course. From this round we suggest the icli köfte, better known as kibbeh in Middle Eastern restaurants. Mary’s courage to ramp up most dishes with a bit more spicy heat than usual came through on this dish. Its color alone, a deep crimson, spoke of the paprika kick within.

Patlican börek is a Mekan specialty from the Sephardic kitchen that is not to be missed. In place of the cheese, spinach or potato that most börek is filled with, this börek’s crispy phyllo dough shell holds a smoky eggplant mash. To the veteran börek eater, this is at first alarming and, shortly thereafter, extremely pleasing.

Entrée’s at Mekan tend toward a simple preparation, mostly from the grill. Köfte, meatballs, or a fresh fish are always around. When on offer, we opt for a plate of hamsi, Black Sea anchovies, in cornmeal cooked on a lightly oiled flat griddle. The preparation does this small fish justice and is presented in a perfect fan shape on the plate, as if twenty little fish were attached at the tail.

Mekan’s uncommon ethnic specialties, served in a quiet atmosphere, present a nice change of pace to the predictable menus and raucous surroundings that mark most dinners out in Beyoglu’s meyhanes. Though the price of a dinner with alcohol doesn’t differ much from its competitors, the quality of the food, wine and service keep us coming back for more.

Address: Eski Çiçekçi Sokak No:3, Beyoğlu
Telephone: 212-252-6052

(photo by Ansel Mullins)