The other day I had a glimpse of what it feels to be a chef (as opposed to a cook). We had a family of regulars over at our countryside restaurant. They are an Istanbul couple whose weekend house is conveniently located near to our place in Sapanca. And they are parents to a little blue-eyed girl, a dream of any Turkish mother or grandmother (ask my mother-in-law). Placing their order they inquired whether I can make “my pasta”.
September 2012
The whole week I am playing a kitchen patroness. Because I am replacing one. Anne has got her cancer treatment and at a rehabilitation right now. She would not be able to go outside for a few weeks. When leaving she said, “Now, you are on duty“. And so I am. I thought it would be straightforward but more often than not I wish she was nearby so I could show her my cookie dough and ask whether the texture was right.
But I am nailing it down. Last night I realized that 80% of over the dozen courses we served for dinner were made by me. I guess if the customers of Zeliş Çifliği had realized that this young foreign woman feeding them many would have been shocked. Because Turkish food is such a sacred domain and outsiders have no clue. Anyway, making food was a breeze. Unlike the morning baking.
There is a big big world beyond baklava. That of kadaif, wire-looking dough swirled into nests, cocoons or spread up and lavishly soaked in sugar syrup. That of Turkish delight, soft and tender and wonderful transformation of a fruit syrup. That of candied fruits, nuts and even vegetables with orange skin slices, whole walnuts or pumpkin wedges basking in sugar syrup. Treating pretty much anything to a good dose of the sugar syrup is a good rule of thumb in creating a decent Turkish dessert. But there is a big big world beyond sugar syrup too. Enter the Turkish puddings.
It became clear when we came back to Sapanca with a bus full of our guests. Only a week away in Istanbul drew a very evident line between the balmy summer nights and the autumnal nocturnal chill. Change that makes me very melancholic every year. As we arrived I put on a hoodie and (much to the satisfaction of my mother-in-law) socks and went ahead serving freshly brewed tea to our guests and family who have immediately filled our restaurant terrace with their sighs of amusement, clicks of cameras and comments on how lucky we are to live in a place blessed with divine serenity and magnificent view. All of a sudden our mundane life turned magic.
There is a fish restaurant in Istanbul you are least likely to end up at. It will be way too far and way less comilfo. And I am sorry for all of you in advance. Because you may miss the lifetime experience of the fish dining. Ask my friends and family whom we gathered last week for our wedding and using that as disguise subjected them to my favorite things to do in Istanbul.
The whole summer we have been making this salad for breakfast. Bol (full, a lot of, in Turkish) greens - parsley, dill, basil, mint, rocket salad and purslane which we were occasionally getting from Anamur, the Mediterranean home base of my husbands’ family. Then a bit of plum tomatoes, a hint of cucumber and red bell pepper - to give more color and substance to the otherwise green salad. Anne also puts cheese, usually leftovers and crumbles of the cheese she cuts for breakfast that morning - creamy ezine peyniri, soft string cheese and maybe some lor (cottage cheese). Then comes a splash of extra virgin olive oil, a memory of our culinary trip to Ayvalik. And a handful of olives - black and green - to throw on top of the salad right before serving. Eating bowl of this salad for breakfast has become a good tradition this summer.
