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) 

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)

(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

The medieval Ottoman travel writer, Evliya Celebi, wrote of Beyoglu streets filled with humble little stew and dolma restaurants, bustling at lunchtime with merchants getting a fill. He counted more than five hundred of them. Surveying today’s culinary landscape for its Ottoman roots, the eyes fall directly on the esnaf lokantasi, or tradesmen’s restaurants, that now serve the working man much as they have for centuries. If Evliya Celebi were walking the streets of Istanbul today, hungry, we are sure he’d feel perfectly at home at Tunclar Lokantasi on Elmadag Caddesi.  

Like most esnaf lokantasi in the area, Tunclar is a packed with regulars during lunch rush. The single waiter hustles food out from the open kitchen at the back and the boss mans the register and a bank of telephones at the front. Specials change daily, from stuffed zucchini under a blanket of thick yogurt (kabak dolmasi) to an excellent moussaka, as well as white beans over rice and stuffed cabbage leaves – this is unfiltered home food. At Tunclar the bread is also notable – whole-wheat loaves studded with sunflower seeds. From the grill we had chicken thighs with fresh cut French fries and chased the whole meal down with a house specialty, kabak tatlisi, or stewed pumpkin sprinkled with crushed walnuts.

The post-meal discussion turned to the five hundred or so proto-esnaf lokantasi that Celebi visited back in the 16^th century. How many had we been to in Beyoglu alone and how many had we missed? Then we caught a glimpse of the exhausted waiter in a daze of his own. The rear windows by the kitchen are covered in a trompe-l’oeil sticker of a Hawaiian beach scene – a silhouette of a sunbathing hardbody backlit by the afternoon sun, palm trees leaning down to kiss a crystal blue sea. There’s something that surely hasn’t changed since Ottoman times: a waiter’s dream of vacation.

Address: Elmadag Cad. 9, Elmadag
Telephone: +902122410295

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

Just walk on by to nearby Ciya, your instinct might tell you. But that would be a grave miscalculation. Started in 1919 by Fehmi bey, a refugee from Greece, this restaurant has been run by his descendants for three generations, preserving the founder’s recipes. Serving mainstream favorites and hard-to-find specialties, this is a place steeped in the history and the cuisine of Istanbul. It may look like a typical esnaf lokantasi, if a wacky one, but there is much stored in the culinary memory bank of this place.

There are two ways to approach the imposing steam table here. Either go with the recognizable classics such as kuzu tandir, lamb baked in a brick oven, and the Turkish spin on meatloaf, Dalyan kofte. Or you can take the route less traveled, the offal way, as we did on one recent lunch that started with a rich and garlicky bowl of trotter soup. Prescribed locally as a hangover cure, we found this soup equally soothing if you’re stone cold sober. Moving through the courses, rather than the same old buttery rice with a drizzle of baked beans overtop, we went with the rapturous icli pilav, one of Turkey’s most artful, and delicious, rice dishes. At Fehmi it was loaded down with currants and laced with little pieces of liver.

Back at the steam table to select our main course, the usta went over the options again for us, his voice muffled by a surgical mask. What was that he said? Ciger sarma? Stuffed liver? While our intellect wrestled with how a liver would be stuffed and with what, our stomach took over and said, “evet.” Giddy with excitement over the possibility of finding a new favorite dish – anything stuffed with liver or liver stuffed with anything is a really promising start – we returned to the table followed by a waiter in bow tie and vest carrying our trophy dish.

What was on our plate was lightly browned over the top, with an egg sauce, we later learned. The underside was like drenched bread becoming one with the inside. It gave way easily to the fork, releasing what looked like icli pilav and cubed liver into the thin pink juice on the plate. But the big difference here is the casing of this sarma, kuzu gomlek, which translates to “the sheep’s shirt.” This is the caul fat, a thin webby membrane that protects the internal organs of a milk-fed lamb. In Fehmi usta’s day, this gomlek would come along once a year so it was a somewhat precious article and ciger sarma was a seasonal dish, traditionally.

Today, kuzu ciger sarma is on the menu everyday at Fehmi, and, as far as we can tell, it is the holy grail of the menu. As we sopped up the juice in our plate after devouring the rich sarma, swearing that the Turks had figured out how to make liver tastier than the French with their foie gras (sorry, we get a little carried away sometimes), the manager and son of Fehmi came over to see how we liked the dish. We told him that we thought we’d found our new favorite liver preparation and thanked him for it.

Taking a second look at the place on the way out, we made mental note of the coordinates. Yanyali Fehmi is not a replacement for the Kadikoy magic of Ciya, but it is an excellent supplement.

Address: Yaglikci Ismail Sok. 1, Kadikoy
Telephone: +90 216 336 3333
Web: fehmilokantasi.com
Hours: 9am-10pm

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

Step out of the dingy stairwell of the Rumeli Han and into Govinda’s Vejeteryan Evi and you will feel as if you’ve crossed a cosmic divide. The warm and cozy room has café tables, pillowed floor seating, walls covered with a friendly looking blue deity and gentle chants that play over the sound system. The color palette at this Indian vegetarian restaurant is dominated by orange and yellow, as if the high exposed brick walls and handsome old wooden doors were painted with vindaloo sauce and saffron. We’ve written before about the parallel universe that exists in the Taksim area’s Rumeli Han – oddball shops, anarchist bars – and Govinda’s, which is run by members of the Hare Krishna movement, fits right in. But beyond the novelty of the place there are genuine good intentions and a menu that offers some variety to the offerings of the typical Beyoglu esnaf restaurant.

“The thali system says the body should get 5 flavors to create a peaceful, balanced mental and physical state,” said Balarama, founder of Govinda and of the next-door Indian Cultural Center, who greeted us upon arrival with a smile and a slight bow, his hands pressed together.

Thali, the ubiquitous Indian lunch, is a sort of subcontinental value meal that includes four or five small bowls of food. One recent day, the thali at Govinda’s consisted of an excellent stewed eggplant with tomatoes and onions, zucchini soup, rice cooked with carrots and crowned with a little pakora, a green salad and little cookies flecked with raisins. In the eggplant dish and zucchini soup we felt the hint Indian spicing without being overwhelmed, as if the cook were rationing from a dwindling stash of garam masala. Balarama told us the cook didn’t favor heavily spiced food, but, upon request, she could be convinced otherwise. We’ll return with that in mind.

Don’t go to Govinda’s expecting an encyclopedic menu of Indian cuisine. The daily thali menu is all they serve, but the food is always fresh and accomplishes much in five flavors. This is a humble, honest operation that is vegetarian primarily and Indian incidentally. At only 9 TL for the thali menu, the only thing out of balance is all that leftover lunch money jingling around in your pocket.

Address: Istiklal Caddesi, Rumeli Han C Block, 1^st Floor
Telephone: (212) 252-7719
Web: www.govindasistanbul.com
Hours: 12pm-10pm (takeout and delivery available)

(photo by Ansel Mullins)

1 kg zucchini
salt
4 eggs
200 gr flour
150 gr beyaz peynir (feta cheese)
1/2 bunch dill
1/2 bunch parsley
1/2 bunch spring onions
1/4 bunch fresh mint
a pinch of baking powder
freshly ground black pepper

hazelnut oil to fry (sunflower oil can be substituted)

Grate the zucchini, add some salt and leave aside for half-an-hour to let the juices come out, then squeeze out the liquid. Chop the herbs and onions finely. Then add the eggs, flour, baking powder and cheese to the grated zucchini and mix. Add the herbs and scoop them into little golf-ball sized balls.

Fry them in the oil till they are golden brown. (Note: Maya deep fries their mucver, but they can also be prepared in a pan filled half-way up with oil and flipped over after one side turns golden brown.) Serve with a dipping sauce made out of strained yogurt mixed with chopped cucumber and fresh mint.

(photo: courtesy Lokanta Maya)

(Editor’s Note: This guest post is by Jeffrey Gibbs, an American writer and teacher living in Kadikoy whose personal blog can be found here.)

I stumbled home from a day of managing wild middle schoolers and started to open the fridge for a medicating Efes Dark only to find a magnet near the handle that read, “Gilan Cafe, Iranian Cuisine. Kadıköy.”

I did a double take. Yes, yes, it said Iranian. Iranian! How long have I searched for a decent Iranian restaurant in Istanbul? The address was just up the road and so my fiance and I hit the sidewalk and after about five measly minutes, found the unpreposssessing little cafe tucked among the apartment buildings of the Acibadem neighborhood.

The cafe had an outdoor patio with heaters and a cozy room inside simply decorated with red table clothes and pictures of Persopolis. Among Darius’s ruins, a new display of framed newspaper clippings sang the praises of the little restaurant. In the background, Iranian music by the famous Persian musician, Hayde, played from a laptop manned by our waiter.

We were soon met by Fetihan, a sharp, down-to-earth woman who had lived for thirty years with her Iranian husband in the Gilan province of Iran (thus the restaurant’s name). “It was like the Iranian Black Sea,” she told us. “With the blue water of the Caspian Sea in front of you and the mountains at your back. Ahhh, a gorgeous place.” We ordered a starter of “Ashe Doogh”—billed as “Ayran Soup” in Turkish. It was a hearty, creamy yogurt based soup with tiny meat balls, fava beans, rice, and a hint of herbs. A swirl of bright green thyme oil adorned the top. Fetihan also brought out a complimentary salad of mint, cucumbers and tomatoes with a basket of thin lavash bread.

For my main dish, I order fesenjan, a rich walnut and pomengranate sauce over slow cooked köfte. It is served, as is everything else, with a plate of Persian rice. My fiance goes with ghormeh sebze, a creamy spinach based dish that reminds me of Indian saag. It has chicken, peas, and tiny köfte, with a rich sauce flavored with dill, cumin, and a diminuitive Persian lime.

“All of my ingredient from the spices to the lime come directly from Iran,” Fetihan explains. “You can’t find this kind of rice in Turkey.”

The rice was wonderful—a pillow of white with a sprinkling of bright yellow grains flavored with saffron. Unlike Turkish rice, our hostess tells us, Persian rice is cooked without oil because you are supposed to pour the sauces of your main dish on top. For drinks, we had Iranian ayran, a chilled version of Turkey’s classic yogurt drink flavored with crushed herbs. It was light, creamy, and refreshing.

My fiance, being Kurdish, pointed out all the similarities between the Persian dishes and Kurdish ones. One menu item is called Ab Ghosht, in Kurdish Av Goşt—“Meat in Sauce.” The dessert was Zerde—“yellow” in both Kurdish and Farsi. We ordered one and found ourselves treated to a bowl of a saffron flavored custard topped with pomengranate seeds and green pistachios. As with a Turkish meal, our Iranian one was finished off with a glass of hot tea.

The second time we went, Fetihan’s son was on hand. His enthusiasm and knowledge of Iranian ingredients and culture was infectious. He had set up a traditional Newroz table in the front of the restaurant with the 7 S’s, as he called them, or haft sin in Farsi. The sacred seven include sir (garlic), somaq (sumak), sib (apples), and senjed an Iranian fruit symbolizing love. He also brought out a bowl of candy coated coriander seeds which had a wonderful flavor when eaten with the strong Persian tea.

The restaurant may not be located in the heart of Istanbul, but it’s easily reached with a minibus or a taxi from Kadıköy wharf—or by a twenty minute walk (it’s near the Kadıköy Carrefour). It’s worth the journey; Fetihan puts a level of care into her creations that is reminiscent of Çiya.

Good international cuisine in Istanbul needs support—there’s so little of it and what exists is often overpriced and overrated. Fetihan serves delicious meals at normal prices with a generous spirit. Go. Eat. Tell others.

Address: Umut Sok. 3/D, Acıbadem/Kadıköy
Telephone: (216) 325-6615
Web: www.gilancafe.com

(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

There was a time when every meyhane around here had a true character at the helm, someone who knew how to work the crowd, comp a drink and indulge in the art of hospitality every night. Now, sadly, as Asmalimescit and other traditional dining zones go upmarket, the only trace of that old school proprietorship is found in yellowed photos on wall.  In this context, Huseyin — a boisterous host in an exceedingly sterile market — is almost as odd a fit as Mohti’s concept: thoroughly home-style Black Sea cooking in a meyhane setting.

Huseyin’s confession was elicited one night recently, when we showed up at his meyhane with a pregnant lady in tow. The plan was to have a quick dinner, but Huseyin (pictured below) wasn’t having that. He wanted to see the pregnant lady moan with delight over multiple courses. So our modest order quickly turned into a Laz tour-de-force featuring nearly every item on the menu and one, which happened to be our favorite of the night, that was prepared for the kitchen staff’s meal.

In previous reviews of Laz restaurants we’ve stated our belief that the Laz are actually a long lost clan from Alabama — hence their affinity for what seems like American-style soul food and fiddle music. And like a true southern diner, the mark of a Black Sea restaurant comes in the breadbasket. If there’s cornbread in that basket, the place is probably legit. At Mohti, the bread offering was set to a higher frequency, with fresh chunks of hamsi ekmek alongside the cornbread. Truth be told, Turkish cornbread can often be a bit dry and dense, but when laced with fresh anchovies, it comes alive, as it did at Mohti. Following the hamsi ekmek came tursu kavurma, a plate of sautéed pickled vegetables, and a Black Sea garden omelette made with kale, leeks, and hamsi filets called kaygana. A skillet of muhlama – a fondue-like dish made out of cheese melted in clarified butter – followed, requiring us to pull and stretch the long glistening strands of cheese which we wound up on a fork as if they were pasta.

And then came the surprise final course in the form of large steaming dumplings. Before Huseyin said the word hinkali, we were already having flashbacks of Georgian feasts we’d enjoyed in Tbilisi, Moscow and Tashkent. Even if dumplings are simple and standard in construction, they always leave a strong impression on us. Dumplings, particularly Georgian ones, have personality and Mohti’s bulky fragrant bundles filled with coarsely ground lamb and stock were supremely evocative of the Caucasus.

Basking in the hinkali afterglow, we should have called it quits but no Black Sea feast is complete without at least one plate of fresh hamsi lightly battered in cornmeal and fried. Ours appeared and were devoured in what seemed like an instant, leading to the arrival of a second order.

The pregnant lady admitted to Huseyin, now sitting at our table, that it was the best hamsi she had ever eaten. He swooned. Pregnant lady excluded, we all had another drink and clinked glasses to the novel concept of a Laz Meyhanesi and to the success of one of Beyoglu’s newest meyhane dons, Huseyin bey.

Address: Orhan Adli Apaydın Sk. No:15/A Kat-2, Asmalımescit
Telephone: 212-249-7181

(photos by Ansel Mullins)