“On Sundays, we have a staff of twenty-five. People drive in from Istanbul just for breakfast,” said the owner of Mavi Boncuk, a breakfast garden-cum-guesthouse located in the idyllic village of Cumalikizik near Bursa. The focal point of Mavi Boncuk may be the quaint little stone and timber village houses where guests can stay, but all of the action takes place in the sprawling multi-tiered garden where breakfast is served. On one recent Saturday night, after the staff had all left, we fell into a deep sleep to the soft splat of mulberries falling from the trees in the garden and the anticipation of what would be a major breakfast event.

The next morning, before breakfast, a quick stroll around the narrow stone-paved alleys of the village offered a sneak preview of what our breakfast held in store. Around one corner, a spry old woman in Anatolian camouflage – baggy pants, shirt, headscarf of three different floral prints – beckoned us into the courtyard of her home to show us what she was up to. A wide pan of blackberry au jus was bubbling over a fire of twigs. “I gather the blackberries and raspberries with my husband,” she jerked a thumb in her husband’s direction without looking at him, “I make the jams, jar it and sell it. My daughter-in-law lives right upstairs but she does nothing!”

Her husband took us out to the garden to sample ripe blackberries and divine raspberries. As we picked and ate at will, he fielded a telephone call about the availability of river trout. Yes, he could source them, no problem. These villagers are clearly in the business of food.

Just down the way, under a jutting bay window overhang painted pastel blue, a fat lady sat in front of a table filled with bags of tarhana, dehydrated soup powder of wheat and yogurt, brown eggs, jars of deeply hued chestnut flower honey and bags of erişte, a sort of Anatolian noodle. Following a stream that ran right down the middle of the stony path, we found another old lady with jars of bright red tomato and pepper paste. “It’s spicy, son,” she said as we walked by, “Spicy.” Around another corner we found a young lady watching over a table of long spirally loaves looking like a giant croissant, alongside hearty, dark wheels of bread dusted in flour.

Then the narrow street opened all at once onto a wide plaza where much of the same foodstuff was for sale in great abundance. At the center of the plaza sat a beautiful big red tractor flanked by two boisterous old farmers selling blackberries and raspberries at sinfully low prices. It seemed everyone in this quaint little village was selling something delicious and they all looked happy and well fed. Wandering around the village, tasting some of this and buying a jar of that, we felt like a certain character in the children’s book Charlotte’s Web delighting in a veritable smorgasbord.

By the time we returned to the Mavi Boncuk – our appetite peaked by the morning stroll – breakfast was slipping into high gear. As promised, there were dozens of ladies in colorful headscarves darting around – one with toasted bread, another concerned only with the kaymak, two that worked the gozleme station. Tea, though, was the business of a group of nimble young men in uniform, served in big brass samovars requiring yet another staffer,  charged with doling out hot coals from a barbeque pit.

We found a table under a tree near two dogs tethered to a fence post. As they bounced around at the end of their chains, another dog slinked around the breakfast area freely but the waiter told us not to worry, “He’s blind.” And then breakfast was served.

The final count was two plates of honey, a fat roll of kaymak, three different jams, three local cheeses (“local,” meaning within walking distance), two breads, two different bowls of olives, yogurt, cucumbers and tomato wedges, a beautiful char-freckled gozleme stuffed with cheese and potatoes and, of course, a hulking, piping hot samovar filled with tea.

In previous travels in Turkey, we’ve happened into idyllic farming villages like this one only to find the breakfast table set with the same packaged foods we find in the supermarkets of Istanbul. In our experience, an entirely farm-to-table meal can be surprisingly hard to find. However, our breakfast in Cumalikizik calls for reconsideration. Whether the folks in Cumalikizik got the slowfood memo or they are just upholding an entirely logical rural supply chain, we will never know. We will, however, be looking out for more culinary destinations like this one.

Now, if we close our eyes and try to conjure the quintessential Bursa flavor, spinning meat-sicles trimmed by men in white jackets no longer come to mind. It’s the warm, sweet, runny scoop of blackberry jam served up by rough, stained fingers in a smoky courtyard that remains the strongest impression – one that will surely lure us back to Cumalikizik every season.

Address: Saldede Sok, Cumalikizik Koyu, Bursa
Telephone: 224-373-0955
Web: http://www.cumalikizik-maviboncuk.com/

Note: Cumalikizik is roughly half an hour by car from the center of Bursa. Reservations for Sunday brunch are strongly recommended. One night at Mavi Boncuk including breakfast for one person, 80 TL

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

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.

Along with a glimpse of yesteryear, people come to Baylan to eat the kup griye, a vanilla ice cream dessert that our waiter described as the atom bomba. Riddled with slivers of toffee and swimming in caramel sauce, its effect was less explosive than promised, but satisfying nonetheless. In a land where local ice cream is handled by fez-clad clad boys swinging it around with a crowbar and banging a cowbell, the velvety kup griye felt, well, classy.

The whacky Adisababa was another story. In full form this chocolate-coated ice cream fruitcake looked like a magician’s black hat on a shelf. Was it the mystery of what lay within that encouraged such an exotic name as Adisababa? What were Yorgi and Filip thinking when they named this one? Certainly, the recipe didn’t hale from the dusty Ethiopian capital. Spellbound, we ordered a slice. Staring at the bubblegum pink innards and tasting it gingerly while eying the delicious kup griye across the table, we pushed it aside, realizing we preferred class over sass.

On the way out, we couldn’t resist a box of colorful macaroons. Our waiter offered a taste of his personal favorite, vanilla, and the light crunch of meringue gave way to a sweet creamy center. “Atom bomba,” we declared as he carefully wrapped the blue Baylan box with an orange ribbon.

On our way out a customer was grousing about the service: her family had been coming there for fifty years, didn’t they know who she was? The man behind the counter smiled and nodded. Of course he knew who she was. He too had been there for the better part of fifty years and could probably recall this customer stamping her tiny foot and pitching a fit after her first kup griye thirty years ago. Like Baylan, some things never change.

Address: Muvakkithane Caddesi 9A, Kadikoy
Telephone: 216-346-6350

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

“Not too thin, it will break. We load these full of stuff, sir, and it’s all organic!” replied Hacer hanim.

“Whatever, just make mine thin and put some cheese in there,” the man grumbled.

Hacer hanim turned her back on the crusty old codger to face Us, her concerned audience, who’d already questioned her about the origin of her farm fresh cheese (the Aegean island of Gokceada), funky little mushrooms (the Black Sea’s Kastamonu), mixed greens (Zonguldak, also on the Black Sea). “On Saturdays during the organic market, we are just too busy! Actors, models, wealthy people, people of culture, Japanese people even, they are all eating my gozleme. And it is all organic!” the grand dame of the griddle chirped as if in a commercial.

Hacer hanim was charged with the fillings – a mouthwatering selection of mashed potatoes, mixed greens, crumbled white cheese, and mushroom – and working the large convex griddle while filling the air with a steady stream propaganda for all things organic. However, our eyes were fixed on the tubby little Anatolian lady beside her, steadily working through a large wooden box of dough and a pile of flour. Here was a living Anatolian culinary tradition at work.

In Sultanahmet and other more touristy neighborhoods, ladies like her are set up among kilims and farming tools in the front window of “authentic” restaurants misleadingly advertising “Turkish pancakes.” We always imagined these tired looking ladies shackled to a radiator under their worktable. But here at the Organik Pazari, located in a dingy covered parking lot in Ferikoy, this gozleme master laughed and bickered with Hacer hanim. When we asked her name, she giggled and blushed, holding up her index finger covered in flour, “Birgul,” she said. “One rose.”

To the pleasant, rhythmic thwapping sound of her constantly rolling wooden pin working a ball of dough down to a thin skin, we wondered if Birgul abla felt that sweeping arm motion in her sleep like a sailor’s wobbly-legged walk on shore. Somehow, she looked created specifically for the task of rolling out gozleme and completely content with the pin in hand.

“Thin, ok?” the old man barked from his stool.

“Tamam, tamam,” Birgul laughed and kept rolling.

“Not too thin!” Hacer hanim ordered.

We left the thickness of our gozleme up to Birgul abla and it emerged a large half moon cut into strips with promising lumps here and blackened corners there. It was completely familiar yet delicious.

After countless gozleme in villages, roadside stands and once from a rocking boat on the Mediterranean, we’ve probably grown immune to its goodness. Like carhorns, cats sprawled out in the shade and Bosphorus ferries, to us, it has become part of the stage that is Istanbul. But the unusual combo of Hacer hanim and Birgul abla caught us by surprise, reminding us that this simple, ubiquitous snack is really an Anatolian masterpiece – farm fresh produce with a woman’s touch.

After thanking the two for an excellent gozleme, Hacer hanim said, “Come back on Saturday to see the market. They even have organic laundry detergent!”

Address: Ferikoy Semt Pazari Alani, Bomonti (Silahsor) Caddesi, Lala Sahin Sokak, Ferikoy
Telephone: No Phone
(Open Saturdays (Organic Produce Market) and Sundays (Flea Market))

(Photo by Ansel Mullins)

Still, we remain big fans of spit-roasted chicken. There’s something captivating and utterly appetite-inducing about watching that row of trussed chickens turning on the rotisserie’s spit, like a line of self-basting chorus girls putting on their show. Let’s face it: done right, there are few things more satisfying than a golden roasted rotisserie chicken.

In Turkey, fortunately, the dish has yet to become supermarket food, for the most part still remaining the province of certain rotisserie specialists, one of the finest being Padişah Sofrasi, a roast emporium in Istanbul’s Şişli neighborhood. At any given hour (the restaurant is open until 3am), Padişah Sofrasi usually has a whole hen house’s worth of chickens slowly roasting away. For those looking for something a little more substantial, the restaurant also serves cuts from whole spit-roasted lambs, as well as kelle paça, sheep’s head that has also been given the rotisserie treatment.

Most rotisserie chicken around the world is cooked in the same way, usually left to its own devices inside a cramped, gas-fueled metal cabinet with grease-splattered glass doors. Padişah Sofrasi, on the other hand, uses something more like a free-range rotisserie: a long, horizontal bed that seems like it could have been a medieval torture device in a previous life. The meat is cooked not with gas, but with real hardwood coals that sit smoldering beneath the rotating chickens and sheep’s heads. A roastmaster, meanwhile, stands by at all times, carefully tending to his impaled flock.

The result, in the case of the lamb and chicken, is meat that is exceptionally moist with a very crispy skin. (That said, the chicken – like most roasted chickens in Turkey – is flavored with little more than salt. It’s still very good, but if we had our way, we would slip a few chickens marinated Peruvian style onto Padişah Sofrasi’s rotisserie and see what happens.) The kelle paça, served off the skull, is like a meat version of a chocolate sampler box, with the plate it’s served on holding some very tender cheek meat, slightly rubbery (in a good way) tongue, fatty eyeballs and the off-white brain. Every bite is a surprise, offering a different taste and texture, although it’s not for squeamish eaters.

As the restaurant’s name suggests, Padişah Sofrasi (“The Sultan’s Table,” roughly) is not a fast food joint but rather a place to sit down and give the roasted chicken (or sheep’s head) its due. Of course, this being the 21^st century, the restaurant also understands the rotisserie chicken’s place in the pecking order: a fleet of mopeds sits outside, ready to deliver freshly roasted fowl to area residents too busy to cook for themselves.

Address: Abide-i Hurriyet Cad. No: 259, Şişli
Telephone: 212-233-1783

(photo by Yigal Schleifer)

“This area used to be filled with slaughterhouses,” said Yusuf usta, the proprietor of Umur Restaurant and a sweetbread handler of 35 years. “We used to get our uykuluk straight from them.”

While little remains of its butchering past, places like Omur offer a gentle reminder of the neighborhoods history that seems to resonate with the offal-loving populous of Istanbul. Outside of Sutluce, this delicacy is largely absent but on any given weekend evening the tables of Omur’s hangar-like seating area are filled to capacity. “You can’t eat this stuff just anywhere,” Yusuf usta said. “You eat it here!”

We took a table out front, ordered a beer and sweetbreads on a half loaf of bread. While working the grill, Yusuf shoved a fistful of change into the hand of a very small child and sent him scurrying to the bakery. Another older boy chased him. The two returned a few minutes later with our loaf under one arm and a little snack (courtesy of uncle Yusuf, we assumed) shoved into their mouths. Yusuf worked a large pile of milky colored sweetbreads across the grill and instructed his daughter to cut the bread, quickly. Grilled peppers and tomatoes were roughly chopped and laid over a generous helping of sweetbreads in the fold of the loaf. He dashed it all with a little salt, oregano, and red pepper flakes and delivered it wrapped in a sheet of paper.

We like a clean, light tasting organ devoid of the strong, funky smells we associate with some other offal dishes and Yusuf’s sweetbreads fit the bill. Perhaps a bit overpowered by the liberal blast of spice applied, the organ underneath still delivered a faint aftertaste that reminded us of a good bite of rich lamb fat hugging a bone; the texture was pure pudding.

Until now, we’d known sweetbreads as the darling of American haute cuisine, something sautéed, dressed with fruity reductions and paired with a Pinot. Fancy food. A lunch in the hands of Yusuf usta reminded us that nearly anything – even the thymus gland of a sheep – can be delicious when simply prepared and served alongside a cold mug of beer.

Address: Karaagac Cad. 8A, Sutluce
Telephone: 212-220-4903

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

What to do? We stepped outside and took a look around and saw few promising options in this part of town, known as Laleli, a wholesale clothing district dominated by shops selling cut-rate leather and fur coats and by cheapo kebab joints. That’s when we remembered a recent tip we had been given about a new “Uzbek” restaurant in the area. After making a few inquiries with some locals, we found ourselves inside the gleaming Mihman, a Central Asian restaurant that opened its doors only a few months ago.

Things looked promising right off the bat. The vaguely gaudy décor and the frilly tea cozies on the tables telegraphed Central Asian authenticity. This was quickly reinforced by the pot of steaming green tea that was brought to our table, to be drunk – Central Asian style – out of small bowls. The encyclopedic menu, meanwhile, promised a long list of tempting dishes, both familiar classics and intriguing obscure ones that will make a return visit a must.

Perhaps overcome with hunger and a sense of nostalgia for previous meals we’ve had in the land of the ‘stans, we went ahead and ordered several things. Perhaps we were again overcome by hunger and nostalgia, but we can report that everything we ordered at Mihman – run by an Uzbek who hails from the Uighur city of Kashgar in western China – was a winner. The extremely fresh puffy little round loaves of Uzbek naan seemed as if they had been flown in from Tashkent that morning. The plump Uighur-style manti were superb. Çuçure, a soulful reddish broth that had tiny dumplings floating in it, hit the spot on a rainy night. The very tasty Kashgar kebab, grilled chunks of lamb flavored with an earthy-tasting mix of spices, took us back in time to a long-ago visit to the dish’s namesake city.

We ended the meal by renewing our plov affair with plov, the Uzbek rice dish that conquered Central Asia. Like any good plov, Mihman’s hid layers of complexity beneath a deceptively humble façade, with fragrant basmati rice, slivers of sweet carrot cooked until they are almost candied, assertive cumin seeds and chunks of flavorful meat all working together to create one of the more appealing comfort food dishes we know of.

We take the opening of this enticing plov shack (which is located near an excellent Uighur restaurant) as a very good sign for Istanbul’s dining scene, which until recently had been devoid of good, authentic places serving food from other parts of the wider region surrounding Turkey, particularly east of the border. Considering how many Uzbeks, Uighurs, Iranians and others call Istanbul home, we’ve always found it a bit strange that it’s very hard to find any restaurants serving food that caters to them.

Much has been made recently about Turkey’s possible drift eastwards. We don’t like to comment on political matters here, but when it comes to culinary ones, we say: drift, baby, drift.

Address: Gençtürk Cad. No. 65, Fatih
Telephone: 212-526-0803
Web: www.mihman.com.tr

(photo by Yigal Schleifer)

On nizip.com, a chatboard dedicated to all things southeastern Turkish, members of the diaspora log-in and bombard each other with questions on important Nizip-related subjects. Eating nohut durum, a savory wrap of chickpeas in pita bread, for breakfast seems to top the list of concerns for many Nizipli trying to maintain their identity in the melting pot of Istanbul.

Following a tip, we set out one morning to find Pamuk usta, a legend among the Antep-Birecik-Nizip diaspora of Istanbul. We panicked a bit at the sight of this massive Anatolian ploughman’s breakfast, so early in the morning. Should we not split one? Pamuk usta laughed at the idea. Just then a mailman in walked up to the stand, took a nibble of fresh greens from a plate on top of the stand and kept walking without a word.

Oh, to be the anonymous grazer! A quick handful of greens on the go seemed a much more suitable breakfast than what we were getting into with Pamuk usta. A breakfast like this would surely call for a midmorning nap, throwing off our mid afternoon siesta, not to mention totally screwing up lunch.

Over a generous portion of chickpeas laid on top of a freshly baked flatbread, our host spread chopped parsley, onions and hot peppers and sprinkled it with lemon salt. A car pulled up. Pamuk usta pulled a bag heavily laden with already-made wraps from his cart and passed it through the window with a nod. He finished wrapping our 2 lira durum and handed it over.

All anxiety disappeared after the first bite of soft nohut and warm bread. The spicy peppers hung around the lips for a moment but the tang of the greens cooled things off. As we made our way through the durum, we fondly recalled similar breakfasts in the streets of Antep, where such a feast on foot was absolutely normal. As we finished the durum, we looked around at the other men gathered getting their durum on.

“Where are you guys from?” we asked.
“Birecik,” One said through a mouth full of durum. “And you?”
“America.”
“Do you eat a breakfast like this in America?” Pamuk usta asked.
“Never.” We said.

Pamuk usta sets up his small stand outside of Huzur Kiraathanesi every morning (except Sunday) at 7AM after cooking the chickpeas over low heat overnight. He stocks the cart with fresh pide bread from a bakery around the corner. Tasty, filling and cheap, this is a breakfast on the go that anyone can get used to.

Address: Abdullah Cavus Sok. 17, Fatih (near the ISKI Genel Mudurlugu and in front of the Huzur Kiraathanesi)
(Note: Pamuk usta sets his cart up every day except Sunday, 7am – 11am)

(Photo by Ansel Mullins)

Today, this culinary landmark is one of the last holdouts in the historic Cercle D’Orient block, defying an eviction notice from one of the most powerful developers in the country. The grand building, which is also home to the recently shuttered Emek cinema, one of the last great movie halls in Istanbul, is slated to become a shopping center. That would put it next door to another shopping mall that rising on Istiklal, which itself is already evolving into a kind of elongated, open-air mall. More shopping vs. Inci’s profiterole? We know where we come out on that one. We only wish the grand poobahs who are in charge of Beyoglu’s “urban transformation” felt the same way we do.

Inci is collecting signatures to save the home of the profiterole, but the staff admits its days are most likely numbered.

Stop in and sign the petition, if not for a profiterole then for what might be a final glimpse of old Beyoglu.

Address: Istiklal Caddesi 56, Beyoglu
Telephone: 212-293-9224

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

You can find the article here.

BBQ’s arrival was greeted with a touch of derision by some Istanbulites who link fried chicken to the American – rather than the Korean – south. But those who scoff at the notion of Korean fried chicken make us think of those shortsighted Americans who fifty years ago laughed at the idea of Japanese-made cars. Who’s laughing now? If you follow the latest fried chicken trends (as, of course, we at Istanbul Eats do religiously), you know that when it comes to deep fried bird, Korea is currently where it’s at. In fact, BBQ (short for “Best of the Best Quality”) is only one of several Korean chains that, in recent years, have been taking the fried chicken world by storm. BBQ, for example, has more than 3,500 restaurants in some 37 countries. Watch out, Colonel Sanders!

BBQ is no KFC, though. Rather than a fast food joint, it’s more akin to a fried chicken lounge, with stylishly upholstered chairs and the lobotomizing sounds of late-period Sting playing over the sound system. The chicken, instead of sitting under heat lamps, is cooked to order.

The dauntingly expansive menu features poultry in various guises, but we went for the “Original Luxury” fried chicken. The fowl, cooked to order, arrived steaming hot with a small serving of coleslaw and uninspiring wedge-cut French fries on the side. (Sadly, the meals at the Istanbul BBQ don’t seem to include pickled daikon radish as an appetizer, something that is part of the menu at the chain’s franchises in other parts of the world.)

BBQ claims that frying the chicken in olive oil results in a final product that’s crispier and lighter, which certainly was the case – the chicken’s nicely textured and golden fried coating was wonderfully crispy and not at all greasy (although still far from health food). But, despite the menu’s promise that the chicken had been marinated in a “secret” sauce, something was missing in the flavor department, as if in its rush to empire, BBQ had banished any trace of the chicken’s Korean origins. What we had on our plate were a few pieces of expertly fried chicken (in olive oil, no less), but nothing told our taste buds about the food’s provenance.

We had high hopes for the place and will probably return to try something else on the massive menu. But, based on an initial visit, our take is that BBQ fries, but it doesn’t soar.

Address: Istiklal Caddesi No: 132, Beyoglu
Telephone: (212) 243-1313
Web: www.bbqchicken.com.tr

(photo by Yigal Schleifer)