Eats, sweets and idle feats Whirling dervishes and belly-dancers are past tense in Istanbul. Yet it is commonly said that Turks have an identity crisis in which tradition is in constant conflict with more cosmopolitan sensibilities. Fortunately, while many Western habits have been adopted, Turkish hospitality is pure Mid East -- i.e. you're the one who's adopted.
Spending a week with a Turkish friend's family in the city, it seemed each and every relative, from grandparents to cousins once removed could hardly wait to meet/feed/entertain and show us off to friends. Although my Turkish was practically nil, I got a lot of mileage out of the phrase cok guzel ("how beautiful"), versatile enough to describe mosques, women, a fantastic goal or tasty figs. Otherwise, I would repeat tessekurler ("thank you") like a broken record. Your hosts leave you with little choice.
Nothing is expected of a guest other than a sultan's appetite. If there is one phrase the first-time visitor to Istanbul must learn, it is duydum, which means "I'm full." The inevitable reply is, "but you're too skinny" as another dollop of stewed eggplant settles on your plate. Turkish cuisine is one of the most diverse and underrated in the world; combined with relentless kindness, resistance is futile. If I wax on too long about food, it's because my first trip to Istanbul was really one long meal. I have a souvenir around my waist to prove it.
Traditional fare goes way beyond kebabs and baklava. It is an eclectic fusion of Mid East and Mediterranean influences that will please both carnivores and leaf lovers. Nothing beats huge family get-togethers around a smorgasbord of meze (appetizers), ranging from dried pastramis with red pepper, olives and cheeses, to dolmas (rice stuffed grapeleaves), smoked bluefish and sucuk (spicy beef sausage). All this before sinking into hearty fare like borek, a philo and feta meltdown that will have you begging for mercy.
Roaming the streets, the aroma of marinated lamb wafting from kebab houses makes thoughts of food hard to shake. Istiklal's Konak restaurant is the place for old-school shish kebab, while Sultanahmet Koftecisi offers Istanbul's juciest kofte (grilled minced meatballs) that goes down smooth with a cold glass of ayran (fermented yogurt) as the Blue Mosque looms majestic in front of you.
At the Eminonu port, fisherman peddle mackerel sandwiches tinged with lemon and sea salt, grilled on board as their boats sway to and fro. On the dock and every other street corner, youngsters sell sesame coated rings of bread called simit that make for a handy snack before jumping a ferry, where seagulls will kamikaze dive for scraps.
The Misir Carsisi (spice bazaar) is a short walk away, and inside its aromatic passages you'll pass by bright heaps of its namesake from outposts along the Silk Road: prized saffron from Iran and flame-toned curries from the sub-continent, as well as Caspian caviar, Algerian figs and Arabian dates. And then there's Turkish viagra.
You might remember it from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, the delicacy for which that little deviant Edmund sold out to the Witch. Turks call it lokum, and while its libido-boosting powers are suspect, no one would disagree that Turkish delight is perfection cubed.
The story goes that it was invented in the late 18th century by Ali Muhiddin Haci Beker, a Black Sea confectioner tired of hard candy who decided to create his own "comfortable morsel." You can still buy it in the same pharmacy-esque shop run by his descendents, standard with pistachio, coated in chocolate, or rose flavored, among other varieties.
Turks love sweets too much to hold out for the after meal ritual. I was quickly reminded of the French word for window shopping, leche-vitrine, which literally means "window licking." Two or three times daily, I would fog up the glass at pastane Saray and Cigdem Bakery trying to choose between kadayif (honey-soaked shredded wheat), profiteroles, assorted tarts and rice puddings. Afterward, in dire need of gastro-intestinal therapy, there was no choice but to check into a nargile café, puff a caramel water pipe and talk for hours about nothing in particular.
Much like dinner and dessert, smoking and talking are elevated to an art form in Turkey. At the Parma Café in the Tophane quarter, a 24-hour mecca for cloud blowers, some devotees bring their own carved meerschaum mouthpieces to enjoy their daily fix. When conversation begins to wane -- which it almost never does since there are litanies of recyclable folk songs and campy jokes at everyone's disposal -- and laziness itself becomes tiring, you can ask for a blanket and pass out until morning.
If there is one thing that can rouse a Turk from a smoked out stupor, it's football. With three Istanbul teams -- Galatasaray, Besiktas and Fenerbahce -- that can each claim a rabidly loyal fan base, intercity matches are civil wars that often pit household members against one another.
Blue-faced fanatics and men in towels
"Blue... Yellow... Champion... Fener." Round and round Sukrusaracoglu Stadium went the roar of the crowd, 60,000 strong with the tenacity of twice as many. Asian-side powerhouse Fenerbache stood atop the Turkish Football Super League standings in first place above its two European rivals, already ahead 3-0 just 30 minutes into the night's match against cellar dweller Konyaspor.
The sound and the fury only intensified. A man standing next to me waved his copy of a football daily, The Fanatik, as he chortled a jeer involving the rear ends of Besiktas players that ended with a sudden stab of his newspaper. Banners at the other end of the field under a mural of Ataturk's profile read "Fener: a dream for some, a nightmare for others;" and more disturbingly, "we will kill for you," as the entire edifice trembled, torches were lit and volleys of sunflower seeds were spit. Not a cup of beer in sight. I flashed back to the phalanx of policemen inside the gates who confiscated my pen, lighter, bottled water and every last coin I had before letting me pass.
Luckily, the final score was 5-2 in favor of the home team, and nobody had to kill for anybody.
You may have noticed that in Turkey the pains of undue pleasure are treated with yet another form of pleasure. So a trip to Cemberlitas hammam seemed the perfect salve for frazzled post-game nerves.
My first Turkish bath experience had been a couple of days before on the Asian side, at a neighborhood hammam whose blue-collar regulars appeared to have never seen the likes of a non-Turk in their midst. Moreover, it was a Sunday, the day they show up en masse to be purged of all the grime accrued during the past week.
Mehmet, my bald masseur, made sure the visit was a sorely unforgettable one, breaking me in with the firm facility of a man who had done the same to over 100,000 patrons working seven days a week for 23 years.
Tucked away near the Kapali Carsi, Cemberlitas hammam was the more classically deluxe experience I had anticipated. Built by the great Ottoman architect Sinan in 1584 for the wife of the Sultan, an air of calm warmth filled the place. Upon entering, you are led to your private dressing room to change into your pestemal (bath towel) and put on your slippers; you then pass through a cool room to the vast caldarium (hot room), where you can wash yourself, soak up the steam or get the royal treatment.
As I lay scorching on the gobektasi (a heated slab of round marble at the center of the chamber) a big, burly attendant with hands soft as chamois kneaded out dirt and dead skin I never knew existed. In minutes, I was reduced to a helpless lump of putty. The only words the man ever said were "massage is good," as his Turk-stache arched into a generous smile. I was soon blinded by a thick sheet of soap, and the echo of faceless voices carried my thoughts to a time long ago.
The best of both
Later that night at the Roxy Club, the music and drink were flowing all around, but I felt awkward, out of sync. I was in my designer threads and in the company of Istanbul's finest, but my poise had not made it out of the hammam. It hit me when, out of nowhere, the disc jockey dropped a house re-mix of a favorite folk song: I was consciously in limbo, present in the fast-forward moment, body trailing behind, mind suspended somewhere in the vacuum between old and new. Maybe this is what if feels like to be young and Turkish in 2004.
As sure as horns will go on honking, Istanbul will one day usher Turkey's entrance into the European Union and -- alas! -- Ataturk himself might smile down from walls far and wide. The white, Christian complexion of Europe itself is changing too rapidly from within to believe otherwise. One can only wish that the drive for progressive legitimacy in Turkey does not come at the expense of cultural sterility.
Back out on the street, there's no question that Istanbul looks good in a Cavalli skirt. It's just that sometimes the wind picks up and unshaven legs are exposed. Cok guzel indeed.
Part two in a two part series. Part one ran in
yesterday's Life section.
Jason Motlagh can be reached at motlagh@cavalierdaily.com
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