EatingAsia

Hot Milk with *t***u**'s (Or, Sometimes You Just Gotta Be a Tourist)

In a recent post on how to get the most out of stanbul I recommended getting into tea drinking. I certainly do when I'm in Turkey, so much so that after a few days on the ground I experience cravings for a glass or two mid-morning, mid-afternoon, early evening, and so on. Lunch or dinner without a glass of tea to follow? Unimagineable!

But there is one time of the day when tea, even strong Turkish tea uncut with water, won't do the job: immediately after I wake. I am a card-carrying caffeine addict and for me that initial, life-giving A.M. jolt comes in one and only one form -- coffee. (Actually, that is not quite accurate -- if given the opportunity I always preface my first sip of morning coffee with a few slugs of Diet Coke. It's not pretty, I know. But it's the truth.)

These days a decent cup is readily (if expensively) available in Istanbul and, I'm guessing, maybe elsewhere on the country's well-touristed western and Mediterranean coasts. Not so much from middle Anatolia east, which is where we've been spending the majority of our Turkey time these last two years. Nescafe is sold just about everywhere (even some tea shops advertise it). I've been known to drink it like medicine, holding nose between thumb and forefinger, when necessary. But now, thanks to a certain Evil Empire-like American coffee chain, Nescafe is a beverage of my past.

I should be ashamed to admit it but these days when we pack our bags for Turkey there's always a ziploc bag or two of single-serving instant coffee from said coffee chain tucked between the jeans and t-shirts. The best part? It actually tastes like coffee (instead of medicine). Pretty good coffee, in fact.

The next best part is that Turkey is an instant coffee-friendly country, for two reasons: (1) even the most down-and-out lodgingscome with in-house breakfast, and (2) Turkey's tea preparation modus operandi guarantees a ready supply of plain hot water for breakfasters. It is the rare Turkish breakfast table that does not include either a traditional caydanlik -- a double boiler consisting of two stacked kettles, the lower containing hot water only, while the upper holds tea -- or an electric samovar-like contraption with one spout dispensing hot water on demand.

At first I felt a measure of embarassment whipping out *t***u**'s instant coffee packets at the hotel/guest house buffet. Some of my fellow diners looked askance (most Turks are much too polite to openly snicker), especially when. like a beer drinker with her whiskey chaser, I accompanied each cup of coffee (2 is my Magic Number) with a full glass of dark, undiluted tea.

But soon I got over the shame and was brandishing my coffee packets with ease. "Yes, I'm a boorish American who cannot adapt -- nay, who refuses to adapt -- to local caffeine customs," those foil cylinders announced.

But the rewards for my crudeness were a fog-free head and a spring in my step, even at 7 A.M..

What else would you expect to see at a fresh milk-serving tea house in what is possiblyTurkey's dustiest town? A patron dressed in white, head to toe,of course.

Then in Van Dave and I spied a cay evi advertising fresh hot milk. Warmed milk just hours from the cow is something that must be tasted to be believed; we'd been drinking it before bed in village homes further north in Kars.

How uttery mind-blowing, I wondered, would our *t***u**'s instant coffee taste stirred into that liquid white gold?

Back in our hotel room we debated. Would it be rude to defile the cay evi's otherworldly hot fresh milk with our instant coffee? Would other patrons be shocked when we pulled out our packets and shook the contents into our glasses?

Then it occurred to me: while hot fresh milk may be something extraordinary to us, to Vanlilar -- or at least to the male Vanlilar who frequent this particular tea shop -- Hot Fresh Milk ain't no big thang. Add to that the fact that, as yabancilar (foreigners), in the eyes of the tea shop proprietor and his customers we're pretty much alien beings who engage in all sorts of bizarre behavior anyway. Suddenly our so-called dilemma was a no-brainer.

We went. We ordered glasses of taze süt. We added our *t***u**'s instant and stirred. And then we drank -- I kid you not -- the BEST frigging coffee of our lives.

The instant coffee -- you know where to get it. The tea house is opposite the blue mosque by the peynir carsisi, or cheese market, Van.

The Cheese Makers' Breakfast

This afternoon, deep in a jet-lagged comatose slumber, I dreamt of cows feasting in a flower-filled spring meadow, and of cheese made from their milk.

In actuality this wasn't so much dream as memory. A little over two weeks ago Dave and I were in Bogatepe, a village set on a high plateau in Kars, northeastern Turkey. Kars is known for two cheeses: gravyer and kaşar. Bogatepe is one of the province's two main gravyer-producing villages. We'd driven some 70 kilometers from the provincial capital to learn about the cheese and its history, and to see how it's made.

Forget everything you think you know about Turkish cheese. Gravyer isn't white or soft or feta-like. It isn't fresh and it isn't aged in a hide. Gravyer would be at home on a northern European table -- not a coincidence, because it was introduced to Kars over a hundred years ago from Switzerland via Russia. Though its name suggests gruyere, gravyer cheese is actually closer to emmental in appearance, texture and flavor: palest yellow with large irregular holes, medium soft, savory, not too salty and mildly nutty.

We spent a long evening and a morning at Koculu Gravyer Zavotu ("zavotu" is derived from the Russian for factory) which, like Bogatepe's other mandira (cheese workshops) -- there are seven in all, and the majority produce not gravyer but kaşar -- uses milk from cows in Bogatepe and a couple of nearby villages. During the three-month cheese-making season Koculu, which dates back to the early 19th century, produces on average three truck wheel-sized rounds of cheese a day, usually two at night and one in the morning. The entire cheese making process takes over five hours, from the time the peynir mayasi ("cheese yeast", or rennet) is poured into huge copper cauldrons of milk taken from the animals just hours before, to the initial pressing of the cheese wheels under a stone-weighted wooden beam.

After 24 hours the peynir ustasi (cheese "master") and his helpers remove the press and peel the rough fabric "clothing" from the new gravyer wheels. Before sending the cheeses off to the depo where they will bob in a salt brine, sweat in a hot room and ripen in a cool room for months, they smooth the surface of each by scraping with the side of a spoon and trim its edges with a sharp knife.

Nothing goes to waste in a mandira. Leftover whey, thick and milky, is turned into food for livestock and given to the village's dogs. The oil that seeps from the cheeses during their weighting and while they sweat in the hot room is collected and distributed to villagers; the women, we were told, apply it as a cream to their faces and hands. ("That's why women in Bogatepe look younger than those in other villages," our host Ilhan Koculu told us.)

And after a long night (the usta and his staff were still working on their second wheel when we left the mandira at 1:30am) followed by an early rise to make yet more cheese the cheese makers take a breakfast that includes those super-young gravyer scrapings and trimmings, all fried in a shocking amount of fresh village butter.

Beyond giving nourishment and energy (and to us gravyer nugget newbies,unspeakable pleasure), those cheese crisps help the cheese maker to predict the quality of his product. After frying up a batch Ilhan demonstrated a test by pulling one apart. He was pleased. Its crackly, deeply browned exterior and long, unbroken string predicted a sufficiently oily cheese of just-right softness.

"This will be a delicious gravyer," he said, pleased.

And then it was time for breakfast -- not just butter-browned cheese, but ethereally rich and thick kaymak, pekmez (grape molasses), helva, bread, olives and -- of course -- tea.

Cheese makers' breakfast: crispy cheese nuggets and kaymak with bread and pekmez

As the cheese makers sat down to eat scrapings from one of the season's earliest cheese, cows gorged on early wildflowers in a pasture just across the road. That evening, their milk would make another wheel of Bogatepe gravyer.

From Dave and I, many thanks to Ilhan Koculu and Cat Jaffee.

Süt Cenneti (Milk Heaven)

In Kars, made from milk: kaymakli koymak on the left, çeçil peyniri up top

Since arriving in Kars we've been swimming in milk.

This province, sidled up to Armenia in northeastern Turkey, is a cow-raising, milk-producing behemoth. In this part of Turkey, where the deep snow of long, hard winters gives way to impossibly lush, electric green pasturelands, hayvanlar (which means "animals" in Turkish -- but here in the northeast is more likely to mean "cows) are a source of barest sustenance and vast wealth. They give the meat that is eaten by some and the milk that is consumed in all forms, by everyone.

Cruising the streets of the capital city, which is also called Kars, we pass peynirci (cheese shops) after peynirci, their windows displaying mammoth wheels of emmenthal-like gravyer and stubby rounds of creamy yellow kaşar, a softer cheese with a mild cheddar-like butteriness.

Outside the city it's all dairy all the time, or so it has seemed to us -- heart-stopping, mind-blowingly rich and delicious foods made with the white stuff from the cow.

In villages, where most every household owns at least one cow and some own forty or fifty head, we never eat beef. Instead, there are slices of kaşar and loose piles of çeçil -- string cheese that's milky and springy when fresh and dry, salty and deliciously pungent when left to age and blue in an animal hide -- plus creamy-salty white village cheese. There is milk just hours from the cow, strained and warmed on wood fired stoves and, a milk a day from the cow, cultured into yogurt. There is fresh unsalted butter and kaymak, an impossibly unctuous, partially solidified cream whose taste often bears an intriguing bit of tang, to spread on bread. That kaymak in turn enriches many of the sweet and savory breads that accompany our cheeses. Sometimes there are wild greens plucked from spring meadows and brined in the whey left over from making cheese.

After a week swimming in milk, eating deep in a food culture dependent on the fat of the cow, we thought we'd reached the apex several times over. Then, in a village not far from the deserted Armenian city of Ani, we ate köymak. 

The recipe for köymak is simple: take the richest product of the cow -- kaymak -- and make it richer by placing it over a hot fire, bringing it to a boil and reducing it by half. Add flour, stir continuously until the flour browns and then add some water, bit by bit. Stir and stir and stir until the kaymak releases all of its oil -- which, of course, is essentially butter.

Serve your reduced dairy fat in a pool of its own butter in a bowl. Sprinkle with sugar. Spoon onto bread.

Enter the gates of süt cenneti.

It's a Man's World II: The Kars Sunday Grill

This is Sunday in Kars. Outside of the city, by the river and on hillsides, parked by the road, half-sheltered in the ruins of a church, hunkered beneath the castle -- groups of men, grilling.

Here and there are a few -- very, very few -- families (men, women, children) picnicing around their kebab-erias. But for the most part this is a man's world. On this day 95-98 percent of observed outdoor grillers and eaters are male. Here in Kars the American male's obsession with cooking protein over glowing embers is taken to a whole new level: women are excluded not only from the act of barbecuing, but from the enjoyment of the grill product as well. To a degree we've not yet observed elsewhere in Turkey.

What gives? Your guess is as good as ours.

We've been here in Kars since the middle of last week, heading out every morning to walk the area's stunningly beautiful electric green hills. We've broken our walks with plenty of tea breaks, thanks to the hospitable shephards and cowherds -- and yesterday, the hospitable manager of a hydroelectric power station -- we've met along the way.

The serious walking begins soon enough, when we embark on a multi-day hike. Food will feature prominently, in the villages we overnight in. Tune in next week for a taste of yöresel ev yemeği (regional home cooking).

How to Get the Most Out of Istanbul: A Highly Opinionated List

Not listed in your guidebook: a typical scene in an Istanbul neighborhood

You might have done a double-take when you read that title. Service-y lists are definitely not our thing. Lists are the sort of thing I (Robyn) write for monetary compensation, though rarely willingly. When editors broach the "L" word I tend to cringe.

But, but. There is a time and a place for lists. Here, for instance, and now -- when the number of emails that I receive, in which the sender is heading to Istanbul and asking for a few general tips, reaches a critical mass. Istanbul, it seems, is hot.

It's pretty plain to see that we love Istanbul; we've made 14 visits in the last three years. But we "do" the city in a particular way, the sort of way that probably won't earn coverage in your average travel magazine. Maybe it's your sort of way too. Or maybe not.

At any rate, we have opinions about how best to experience the city. To whit:

After Sultanahmet's sites close, Beyoglu is where it's at

1.

As soon as you arrive buy an Istanbulkart -- one of those wallet-stashable plastic cards that you buy loaded and reload at a kiosk, useable on just about any form of public transport you are likely to board. We still use our akbil from ages ago -- same difference -- and not having to buy a jeton every time you want to get on a ferry is a real aggravation reducer. You do have to pay a deposit on the thing -- and thus remember to A) keep the receipt and B) return the card to claim back your deposit before you leave town --  so it's worth noting that just one card will work just fine for a couple or even a family of up to four people traveling together.

Update June 4 2012: Please note that cash is no longer an option on buses -- it's Istanbulcart only. Thanks to commenter sarahlizp for the heads up.

2.

Following on the Istanbulkart advice -- learn the basic transport lines. Why? So that you can sail through your time in Istanbul without ever having to set foot in a cab.

In our experience nine out of ten taxi drivers in Istanbul are jerks. One even threw change at me (Turkish coins are not flimsy) and then put a hex on Dave, which we are fairly certain resulted, a few minutes later, in a serious, trip-ruining (and persisting) back injury.

Why risk the giddy happy-state that Istanbul induces in 99% of its visitors on a teeth-grinding encounter with a taxi driver?

Here, let me make it simple for you.

• The ferry lines you're most likely to use -- Karakoy to Kadikoy, Eminonu to Kadikoy and Uskudar, Kadikoy to Besiktas and Uskudar to Besiktas, Kabatas to Kadikoy, Besiktas and Princes' Islands.  Note that in most cases ferry terminals are named for their DESTINATION. So, for instance, at Eminonu there are Uskudar and Kadikoy ferry terminals.
• The tram runs from beyond Sultanahmet (Universiti is a good stop if you're headed to Suleymaniye Mosque) across the Galata bridge to Karakoy (where the ferries are), Tophane (galleries and walking up to Cihangir and Galata and even Taksim), Findikli ("secret" tea spot -- see below and Prince's Islands/Kadikoy ferry terminals) and Kabatas (connect here to underground line up to Taksim, catch a bus or taxi to Besiktas and beyond to Ortakoy, Arnavutkoy, Rumeli Castle, Sariyer, etc., or access same ferries as at the Findikli stop).
• The funicular (two stops, the top and bottom) runs from Karakoy uphill to Tunel (just above the Galata Tower), which sits at the base of that famous (and famously annoying, if you are in a hurry) pedestrian shopping mall known as Istiklal Caddesi.
• And there's a quick little underground line that will get you from Kabatas up to Taksim Square in the blink of an eye.
• Buses are easy: just know where you want to go and look for the your destination on the window. Taksim Square is a node, and a good place to catch buses across the Ataturk Bridge to say, Fatih and Balat. Or step up and ask the driver: Besiktas? Fatih? If you've got your Istanbulkart ready then you won't have to fiddle with change.

With this bit of public transport info lodged in your brain you can just about anywhere.

3.

Related to II -- ride the heck out of Istanbul's ferry boats! They're one of the best things the city has going for it. If you don't believe me, take just four minutes to watch and listen to Dave's multimedia ode to Istanbul's ferries (wear headphones, view large screen). See, wasn't I right? In Istanbul riding the ferry is like taking a mini vacation within your vacation.

They're cool in the sticky heat of the summer if you can snag a seat outside. They're warm and cozy in the winter. They offer the best views, anywhere. Ride all the ferries and you'll see all of Istanbul's skylines from every possible angle. They offer fantastic photo opportunities. They're a way to "sightsee" without walking, an excuse to take a load off. A ferry ride during off hours, without the crowds, is incredibly romantic (at sunset especially).

When I'm in Istanbul I feel as if I have failed if I don't ride at least two ferries a day. And unless you're deathly afraid of water or prone to seasickness you should feel that way too.

This is what we did just the other day: Karakoy to Kadikoy. Then Kadikoy to Uskudar. Then Uskudar to Besiktas (this is a quick ride). Besiktas to Kadikoy. Kadikoy back to Karakoy. Lots of photos were made. Lots of sighing over Istanbul's incomparable skylines was done. Hands were held. Tea was drunk.

Which leads me to my next tip:

A "secret" tea spot with a view near the Kabatas ferry terminal

4.

Get into tea drinking. It's a great excuse to rest up and rejuvenate after sightseeing/walking/shopping etc., and also a great way to soak up the local vibe. It's a fantastic means to staying upright if you're fighting jetlag.

Turks drink tea all day -- they'll stop anywhere, anytime for a bardak (glass). Get into this mode. If someone offers you tea feel free to accept -- it doesn't obligate you to anything other than friendly chit-chat. (Even if it's offered by a carpet seller.) You are also free to decline, as Turks do. Do so politely and no one is going to hold anything against you.

If you can't tolerate caffeine, know that tea spots also offer bottled water, ayran (salted water-thinned yogurt, incredibly refreshing on a hot day) and sometimes herbal teas -- zahter [zah-tair] = thyme tea and ada cayi [a-dah chai-yuh] = sage tea. Sorry, but apple tea is for tourists.

We have a few beloved secret tea spots. They're not literally "secret" -- but they're not the Pierre Loti Cafe and they're unlikely to be listed in any guidebook:

• Tucked in a corner of the park by the Kabatas Prince's Islands ferry pier, almost exactly across from the Findikli tram stop, is a sweet little outdoor tea spot. Comfortable plastic chairs steps from the water, a lovely view across to Uskudar. This is a nice sunset spot and absolutely beautiful first thing in the morning, around 7:30, when most patrons bring along something breakfasty to nibble as they take their wake-up tea, have their wake-up smoke and gaze at the water.
• At the far edge of the parking lot across from the Istanbul Culinary Institute in Beyogulu's Pera neighborhood, there's an indoor tea space with al fresco tables and chairs out front. A bit noisy from the road below, but a nice view over a part of Istanbul we really haven't explored. Great for a cool-season afternoon tea, as it gets good sun around 2pm.
• The bufe just to the right as you exit the Eminonu/Karakoy ferry terminal in Kadikoy has tables and chairs right on the water. Another great sunset spot; turn your chair facing out to Besiktas and away from the godawful red-and-white giant beachball view-spoiler at the opposite end of the promenade.
• At the urging of Istanbul Eats' Ansel, we checked out Osman's independent tea truck in Karakoy, on the other side of the bridge from the Kadikoy ferry terminal (walk through the fish market, past the tables where people are eating grilled fish, and just keep walking). We like the vibe, very much so. This would be the place to head for tea around sunset.

Update, May 2013:

• The teahouse in the manicured park aroundn Dolmabahce Palace boasts many, many tables right on the water; it's a great sunset spot. You needn't pay to enter the palace grounds (though your bag will be X-rayed). You'll be offered a menu as you sit but it's perfectly fine not to order food. Tea is on the expensive side (2 TL per glass) but we think the view and nice setting justifies the price.
• As you exit Karakoy ferry terminal (having arrived by ferry, obviously) turn right. There, just on the water next to a row of fishermen you'll find two guys with the ubiquitous coal-fired portable tea maker. Grab a plastic chair or stool and order. You'll be expected to move along fairly soon after you finish your tea but feel free to bring along a simit or other tea snack. (In late afternoon/evening there are two fish sandwich grillers right behind.) This is an outlaw tea operation Irregular hours, and no guarantee these guys haven't been chased off by now. But tea was still being offered here as of April 20, 2013.

5.

Familiarize yourself with Turkish vowels and consonants. At some point or another you may need to ask directions, or order a grilled fish or a "Turkish bagel" or whatnot. Pronouncing the "c" as a "j" instead of as a "ch" when it should be pronounced as a "j" is going to increase the chances of your getting whatr you want andwill just generally make your life all around easier.

It's not that complicated. C and s are pronounced "j" and s, add a thingy underneath c and it's "ch", one underneath s makes it "sh".

A dipper over g makes it soft and almost nonexistent (so dogal, g with thingy over it, is pronounced "doh-all"). A g without the dipper is just a hard g.

O and u are "oh" and "oo", two dots over each just make them tighter vowels -- not anything to worry too much about, actually, as Turks have always been very pleasant -- to my face at least -- when I mangle their language

E is "eh", a is "ah", and i is "ee". An i without the dot over it is pronounced "uh". So ızgara balık
(grilled fish) is uhz-gah-rah bahl-uhk. Or close enough to that  for you to be understood when you say it.

You will not see this next to the Blue Mosque.

6.

Get out of Sultanahmet, aka the Old City. I know, I know -- the Blue Mosque is there! The ancient cistern is there! You know what else is there? Carpet sellers, a lot of them. Touts, postcard and trinket sellers. Irish pubs. Overpriced, mediocre food (chicken breast pudding -- it's wild, it's crazy but you know what? It's not the best dish to ever come out of the Ottoman kitchen).

A Turkish friend once said to me, "No self-respecting Istanbullu would eat in Sultanahmet." And neither should you.

Yes -- you will want to spend one, two or even three full days sightseeing in Sultanahmet. But there is really no reason to spend your nights there too. After all if you visit New York you may put the Empire State Building on your bucket list, but must you stay in the same neighborhood to ride the elevator to the top?

You have absorbed Tip 1, right? So you know that getting to and from Sultanahmet is as easy as brandishing your Istanbulkart and hopping on and off the tram. Or the ferry. Or as simple as walking across the bridge on a beautiful morning and back across as the sky turns orange.

Our favorite stay is Cihangir (Galata is second, for its convenience), a lovely under-the-radar neighborhood that is a 10-minute walk downhill from Istiklal Caddesi and a 10-minute walk to the Tophane tram stop. Add 10 minutes to wait for a train and 5 more to get to Sultanahmet and you're talking 25-30 minutes tops.

Most real Istanbullu live, eat and play across the bridge (or elsewhere in the city outside of Sultanahmet). When Sultanahmet's sites close for the day get out and stay/live, eat and play among them.

A street scene in Cihangir.

7.

Rent an apartment. Hotels are ridiculously overpriced in Istanbul -- I have no idea what justifies the 150 Euros per night charged by the most mediocre of 3-star hotels in the city. If you're bound and determined to spend 150 euros a night you can score a nice apartment with a Bosphorus view and probably a private balcony too. Not to mention: a washing machine, a full-sized fridge to chill your duty-free champagne in (if you enjoy a tipple or two and are staying in an apartment you will want to stop at duty-free; Turkey's liquor duties are a major strike against it), a stereo, room to move and unpack your bags and pile up your dirty laundry and the privilege of not having to shower and dress before your morning coffee.

If you are an avid cook, as I am, and go gah-gah for beautiful ingredients then it's no contest. You'll welcome the opportunity to cultivate a friendly relationship with your neighborhood fruit or vegetable guy. When you're browsing at the corner produce shop and see 6 huge, beautifully pared artichoke hearts in a bag of lemon water for 15 lira you are going to want a stovetop to pan roast them on. You won't get it in a hotel room. You know those astonishingly fragrant, sweet green-fleshed melons dripping juice that every fruit seller in town is displaying come May/June? They're absolutely gorgeous for breakfast, served dead-ripe with a good quality sharp, lightly salted white cheese. As are summer's strawberries with a blog of fresh kaymak (clotted cream). Neither of these combos is likely to show up on your Sultanahmet hotel breakfast buffet table.

(Please note: no vacation apartment rental service sponsored this post.)

At the Tarlabasi Sunday market.

8.

Go to a once-a-week market. Even if you're not taking the advice in Tip VII, you can still take advantage of things like amazing fruit and a jawdropping selection of cheeses and edible souvenirs like nuts and dried fruit and spices and such. We love the Besiktas market on Saturdays -- the cheese stalls are particularly alluring. It doesn't really get rolling till around 10am. The Tarlabasi market on Sundays is mammoth, and good fun too.

9.

Get juiced. Does juice deserve its own point? I think so. Like tea houses, juice sellers are everywhere in Istanbul, squeezing oranges and grapefruits and, in season, pomegranates to order. Following on point VI, don't pay 5 Turkish lira for an orange juice in Sultahahment. Stop at the entrance to the Tunel funicular in Karakoy where a guy proffers a small glass for 1 TL. In winter, head behind the Kadikoy ferry terminal in Karakoy, in front of the tea house facing out onto the bit of promenade where all the guys are tossing fishing lines, and have a glass of ruby-red pomengranate juice pressed to order for 2 TL.

10.

Know that you're never far from a toilet. This bit of advice will not apply to readers who don't guzzle water as if they'd just finished a desert marathon, or who have chosen to ignore my bit of advice about tea drinking and are abstaining -- if you're one of them you can skip right on to the next point of advice. But I know that there are some of you out there who, like myself, consume more liquids than the average Joe and are constantly on the lookout for a public toilet. It's hard to enjoy a beautiful sunset from the Galata Bridge or a cruise through the lanes of the Kadikoy fish market when you're preoccupied by the urge to pee. The good news: in Istanbul it is almost always the case that where there's a mosque there is a public toilet, accessible for a fee ranging from half a lira to one and a half or two. "Bay" means Guys and "Bayan" means Gals. After making use of my share of mosque toilets I've concluded that the older the caretaker/change accepter, the cleaner you can excpect the toilet to be. It's also worth noting that the toilets at either end of the Galata Bridge (beneath the bridge itself) are surprisingly -- given their situtation and frequency of use) inoffensive.

One of my mother's favorite bits of advice: Go now because you never know when you'll have another chance. Mother's wisdom does not apply in Istanbul.

Every Istanbul stay should include a proper breakfast out -- one that includes menemen

11.

See the sights and then put away the guidebook and just do some neighborhoods. Go to Fatih, visit the Kadinlari Pazari, sit for some tea underneath the aquaduct (how cool is that? a glass of tea beneath a centuries-old aquaduct!), stroll through the mosque by the park, and just wander. Head out the Rumeli Castle early-ish (no later than 9:30am) on a Saturday or a Sunday, have a proper breakfast, then walk the water to Arnavutkoy and stroll up and down its hills, admiring the cute wooden houses. Take the tram to the Findikli stop, start walking to Tophane, climb the first set of stairs you see to its top, and then thread your way through the 'hoods towards Cihangir and beyond to Galata. You won't get lost (and so what if you do?), just keep the water in your sights. Take the ferry from Eminonu or Karakoy to Kadikoy but get off at Haydarpasa station, have some tea by the water, then walk to Kadikoy and duck up into its streets opposite the bus terminal.

Water views from a randomly located grassy spot above Tophane

You get the point. Put the map away and wander. Never knowing quite what to expect is one of the best things about one of the greatest cities in the world.

12.

Probably most important -- when planning your trip give Istanbul the time it deserves. I know, it's your first trip to Turkey (and maybe your last) and you want to fit in as much as possible. But Istanbul is like an onion, with many layers that reveal themselves only as the previous is peeled away. And in some ways Istanbul is a place unto itself -- different to every other part of Turkey you may ever visit. Think of Turkey as two countries: Istanbul and the rest. (Actually that is an oversimplification -- but you get my point.)

On our first trip to Turkey we spent 9 nights in Istanbul and left fretting that we hadn't even scratched its surface. Over subsequent trips we've probably spent a total of 3-4 months in the city. And we still feel that there is so much we haven't seen and experienced.

So don't rush Istanbul. Because no matter how much time you spend there I can almost guarantee you'll leaving wishing you'd spent more.

Addendum - June 04 2012: Commenter seoulgirl asked for recommendations for reputable apartment rental companies in Istanbul.

I can't make any guarantees, but we've had good look with a couple of rental sites:

• We've been renting places in Cihangir and Galata, Beyoglu, through Istanbul Sweet Home since 2010. The Galata apartments are in lovely old buildings; one of our favorites oozes character and overlooks a lovely Crimean church. That said, we're partial to Cihangir, for its convenience: there are a number of good places to eat, several wonderful fresh fruit and veg shops and a lively cafe scene. Our favorite ISH Cihangir pad is usually booked, probably because of its roomy terrace with a view and a barbecue. It must be said that if you're a first-timer to Istanbul or otherwise a bit nervous about staying outside of a hotel this probably isn't the apartment rental service for you -- management isn't as hands-on as others. But we've never had a bad experience. ISH arranges airport transfers, at a reasonable 25 euros from Ataturk Airport. If you're flexible about travel dates the site lists "discounts" for unrented aparments at the beginning of every month.
• In February we rented this Cihangir apartment through HomeAway.com. The kitchen was tiny but we made it work. Otherwise the apartment was great and the management very responsive. We'll no doubt revisit this apartment in the future.
• In June 2012 we rented an apartment in Cihangir through Cross-Pollinate. It was our first time renting through this relatively new agency and we had a fantastic experience. When we changed our date CP replied promptly with a confirmation email. The apartment owner was on top of everything, the place was spic and span and exactly as advertised on the site, and it was probably our best-equipped pad to date. We will use Cross-Pollinate again.

In Istanbul, Nothing Special

An on-time touchdown and a friendly taxi driver from Malatya who cheerfully helped with our bags and wished us a pleasant day with a smile.

Milky blue skies and a gently warming sun. Through our window as we chased dehydration with ice-cold ayran, a sweet breeze with a hint of saltwater and just a lick of coolness. A jetlagged nap -- not too long, just enough.

A sublime lunch: pillowy little meat medallions, lightly crusted from the grill, accompanied by an intriguing dried chili-based sauce hinting at vinegar. "A secret recipe, like Coca Cola," said the kofteci when our companion asked after its ingredients.

A stroll through Karakoy and a ferry ride to Hydarpasa. Tea, because we were determined to stay awake the whole day and there is no better excuse to sit idle and stare at the water, and look at the now-quiet train station. (Sad to see waiting rooms occupied only by cats, the restaurant empty, the barber shop quiet).

A wander along the water to Kadikoy. Tea again, by the water again. A kilo of cherries purchased in the market and eaten in the park as a dog serenaded a shoe shiner, young couples, a group of guys getting lit on Efes, some housewives, and us.

The ferry to Eminonu, the Galata Bridge by foot and the funicular to Tunel. A late afternoon stroll down Istiklal, a spot of grocery shopping down the hill in Cihangir and a stop to say hello to Mehmet, our Istanbul fruit guy. Back at our apartment, artichoke hearts stewed in olive oil with fragrant young garlic, peas tossed with olive oil and slivers of fresh mint. A nectarine sky and the cries of gulls drifting through the window.

A not particularly special day in Istanbul. A perfect first day in Istanbul.

For more on our lunch -- Köfteci Hüseyin: The Cadillac of Meatballs

 

Old Tea in Anatolia

After 120 kilometers of arctic nothingness we found ourselves in Çorum [cho-ruhm], a surprisingly bustling little city set in the middle of northern-central Anatolian nowhere. If Çorum is known to foreign travelers at all it's probably as a place to bunk before or after a visit to nearby Hittite ruins. For Turks, it's home to the finest leblebi (roasted chickpeas) in the country,

One of the upsides of traveling central Turkey during this especially harsh winter was the many excuses it offered -- frozen toes and fingers, mind-numbing expanses of white that could prove detrimental to driver alertness -- to brake for tea. Not that we've ever needed an excuse for a tea break in Turkey; even the southeast's scorching summer temperatures couldn't dampen our enthusiasm for the cay evi / kahvehanesi experience.

Tea delivery in the dead of a Çorum winter

But while Turkey's winter's chill stokes welcome tea cravings it also presents a challenge to the mixed (male-female) couple, one exacerbated by the fact that on this trip we stuck to lesser touristed towns in a relatively conservative part of the country: It's too cold to sit outside, and in some instances I'm not welcome inside. (If you've not ventured far from Istanbul, know that the city is a world unto itself. And I mean that as neither compliment nor smear.)

A little over a year and a half ago I wrote about the traditional Turkish tea house as a Man's World, one which I could observe and even dip my toe into while physically staying outside. During that jaunt around the southeast Dave and I took most of our tea and Turk kahvesi al fresco. That was as much by choice as by necessity -- the weather was fine, most other teahouse patrons were also sipping outdoors, and sitting outside faciliated superior people-watching and photography opportunities. On that trip I never felt it a loss to not be inside. And on a few occasions I was.

But despite having by now a fair bit of experience exploring Turkey's back of beyond and a reasonable facility basic Turkish I do not walk into many tea houses uninvited. Some patrons simply aren't comfortable with -- dislike, even --  having a woman in their midst. I suppose that I could choose to get in a kerfluffle about that, but it is what it is. No matter how good the tea or how lovely the tea house, time spent where the overall vibe says "Go away" is time wasted.

Happily, this trip delivered a few accessible tea houses that also score high on atmosphere.

One of the best is in Çorum's old town, a two or three century-old grid of stone-paved lanes lined with barbershops, butchers, hardware and kitchenware shops and -- of course - tea and coffee houses that has somehow survived the city's ambitious redevelopment. After being accosted by a patron who first tapped on a window as we passed and then burst out the door saying "Tea! Tea! Won't you have some tea?" we were happy enter into the embrace of Tıkı Mehmet Kahvesi's wood-stove warmth.

Most everything in Tıkı Mehmet Kahvesi (also known as Tıkının Kahve)  -- which translates to something like Lazy or Stupid Mehmet's Coffee -- looks original, including some of its customers. According to proprietor Bekir, who runs the show with a helper, the shop has been open for almost 110 years.

The tea/coffee "kitchen" features a now rare charcoal-fired copper çay ocağı or "tea stove" set into a stone hearth (see opening photo). The copper tank boils water which is delivered via a spout on its facing to each of two blue enameled metal kettles, one for brewing tea and the other to hold the hot water that dilutes it. (For those of you not familiar with Turkish tea: it's always brewed extra strong and then diluted to taste with hot water; thus the common double-potted Turkish tea kettle -- the lower pot holds and tea is brewed in the upper pot.)

We watched as Bekir Bey emptied spent ash from the stove and then shoveled in new charcoal to keep the supply of boiling water steady. It's a dusty, messy business but he so obviously cherishes the old stove.

A Tıkı regular

The charcoal doesn't really lend a special flavor to the tea. When I asked if tea brewed over charcoal tastes better Bekir nodded adamantly while the customer who invited us in, a native Çorumlu who spends half his time in Istanbul working as a women's hairdresser, shook his head. Other customers who cared to weigh in agreed, nodding their heads as he told me: "It looks nice. It makes us feel good. It's for nostalgia." Fair enough.

Another lovely nostalgic touch: sugar cubes served in old-fashioned brass pedestals.

From Çorum we hit the road for the relatively easy 200-kilometer drive to Sivas, only to be waylaid two hours later by big sloppy snowflakes and icy roads in Tokat. To tell the truth we weren't too terribly disappointed. We took a shine to Tokat in 2000 and our affection for the curious little city deepened when we revisited last October. 

Our unplanned stop afforded the opportunity to revisit a spectacular old tea house on the edge of Tokat's old market district and on the same street as its lovely clock tower.

Yüksek Kahve ("stately" coffee house) is about the same age as Çorum's Tıkı Mehmet but, sadly, is in much worse repair. Its second story, which features a beautiful arched carved wood panel over one window, is all but unuseable. The tea/coffee house is still going though, and in fine weather the verandah makes a excellent perch from which to check out this storied street's comings and goings.

Yüksek's patrons are, on average, younger than Tıkı Mehmet's but no less appreciative of coffee house history. When our host, a former tobacco factory worker in his mid-fifties, grabbed a calendar of decades-old photographs of Tokat off the wall to show me younger guys gathered around. "Look at that," said one, pointing to a photograph taken from Yüksek's verandah, of crowds of shoppers passing by in front on their way to market. "That was this place right here, old Tokat," he sighed with more than a hint of melancholy.

Yüksek's tea cubby and its modern electric çay ocağı are manned by a couple of cool dudes, but neither the new kitchen nor the younger staff take away from the tea house's overall atmosphere.

On the few occasions we've visited the tea shop its tables, okey game-ready with their green cloths, have been well populated and the clink of spoons against tea glasses played in time with a steady hum of conversation. On warm autumn days Yüksek's many windows facilitate welcome breezes. On winter mornings sun warms its two rooms, inviting regulars and visitors to stay for a third or fourth glass.

Blacksmithing for Real in Maraş

If you've ever purchased a fancy skewer or mottled copper kettle in the United States, there's a good chance it came from Kahramanmaraş, aka Maraş [pronounced mah-RAHSH], in southeastern Turkey.

Maraş was an impromptu stop for us, the last two days of 14 on the road in central Anatolia. It's a strange little city, closed and pretty conservative, and a bit off the tourist track (judging by the general lack of good lodging), both domestic and foreign. It's also, at first view, incredibly ugly, with low-rise concrete blocks lining all the roads into town.

But those concrete blocks hide a fantastic, though sadly deteriorating, old city with a genuine blacksmithing neighborhood. What's produced there is not for tourist consumption; it's mostly for export, and it's real, useable goods, not trinkets. Many of the shop are in century-plus arch-doored caverns, part of the old market down the street.

Dave's put together an audio slideshow of images from our time with the blacksmiths of Maraş. The photos are beautiful (yes, I'm biased), but we don't mean to romanticize this work. As one blacksmith, who pounds away with his brother in a workshop opened by their father (you'll see dad's black-and-white portrait, propped on a desk, in the second half of the slideshow) told me: "This is hard, hard work. It's hard on the body, and for not much money. I wouldn't have my son do this."

As if to prove his point he rolled up his shirtsleeve and unwrapped an ace bandage to show me his elbow and forearm, bruised and swollen from hours of hefting a sledgehammer. His brother stepped up, pointed to his chest, and said, "Like a rock." He handed me a hammer and invited me to test his claim. I settled for a punch instead. I was convinced.

See the slideshow here, and be sure to turn on your sound.

In Istanbul, a Slurp to Chase Winter Chills

It's snowing! In Istanbul!

And with big fluffy flakes drifting down outside our window, now seems the perfect time to tell you about boza.

Thought to have been invented in the 10th century or thereabouts by central Asian Turks, boza is a fermented drink made from corn, wheat, or millet. We sampled the beverage at Vefa Bozacisi, an old-timey shop not far from Suleymaniye Mosque. Vefa is certainly not a "find" -- it's in every guide book and probably on every walking tour, but it's not just for visitors; Istanbullu frequent Vefa too. 

The shop has a long history. By the 1600s there were boza shops all over Istanbul selling a thin, sour, rather alcoholic version, until Sultan Mehmend IV closed them down as part of a genearl ban on alcohol. During this period a sweetish, hardly alcholic version is said to have been favored by the Janissaries who guarded Topkapi Palace. Given the Sultan's ban on booze it became popular outside the palace walls as well.

In the late 1800s -- or so the story on the Vefa website goes -- Vefa founder Hadji Sadik Bey immigrated to Istanbul from Albania and "started to make Vefa Boza of a different flavour and taste, with thick consistency and having a less sour taste, just as it is flavoured and enjoyed today."

Boza is a winter beverage meant to be drunk warm. Long ago it was sold by itinerant vendors who pushed their carts up and down Istanbul's slippery wintertime hills shouting "Boooza! Booooza!" Now you can buy the stuff in a bottle, but for pure nostalgia value it's hard to beat the Vefa experience.

The shop is all mirrors, blue-and-white tiles, and timber. Orders of boza are ladled up to order from a big marble tub on the bar that runs along one side of the shop.

We sampled our boza off-season (as you might deduce by the short sleeves in these photos). Such a hearty drink would probably have gone down easier in the dead of winter but even in June boza cast its spell on me.

It's quite viscous -- thick and slurpy. Some may find this repellent, but living in Asia has pretty much inured me to gloppiness in any dish or beverage. I loved the boza's's mildly sweet-tanginess, which is nicely complemented by the generous sprinkle of cinnamon with which the boza server annoints each glass.

Right across the street from Vefa is a leblebici (roasted chickpea seller). This is not a coincidence. Some boza drinkers sprinkle the roasted legumes on top of their boza before each sip/slurp.

On that summer day, as we sat in Vefa sipping/slurping our boza, our friend Evren (he of the healthy obsession with deliciousness and the memorable brunch near Rumeli Castle) explained the custom such: "Imagine buying a bag of just-roasted leblebi from the leblebici, then rushing over to Vefa to eat them while they're still hot, with a warm glass of boza."

That I can imagine, on a wintry day like this.

(Want to try making boza at home? This recipe uses bulgur. Want more winter? Dave shot these images earlier this week in Sivas and Malatya, central Turkey -- and on the open road in between.)

Real Nuts

"Milky" almonds and walnuts for sale on a stretch of highway north of Aksaray, Turkey

    Each time we come to Turkey I'm more and more convinced that most Americans (and probably many folks in the rest of the world too), have never tasted a proper nut or piece of dried fruit. A walnut straight from the shell, not more than a month off the tree, so fresh it almost oozes oil when crushed between the your teeth. An apricot dried whole in the sun, brown because it hasn't been treated with the sulfites that prevent the fruit's orange from leeching out with its moisture. Shriveled purple plums dried with their pits unremoved, so different from the sticky glyceride-plumped "prunes" we Americans buy in zip-top bags and cardboard canisters that it's hard to imagine the two are the same fruit.

    Last autumn at a market in Gerze, on the Black Sea, we bought raisins -- big, almost black, half-shriveled, with their stems still attached. We ate them by the handful, marveling that something we used to eat out of a box, something that required "plumping" in water before adding to bread or cookie dough, could be leathery yet soft and chewy, with a depth of flavor approaching something like burnt sugar. Another surprise: they crunched. Those raisins had been grapes with seeds -- unheard of in the States (elsewhere? I don't know). Those seeds, tiny and no more consequential than a poppy seed after drying, added a wonderful texture.

   Last month in a guest post for Istanbul Eats (read it here) I wrote about one of the pleasures of road-tripping in Turkey: stockpiling a backseat larder of market finds and then stopping between here and there, when the stomach calls, to cobble together a meal.

    This is another: pulling to the side of the road when you spy a stall in front of a cherry orchard selling the fruit at 3 kilos for 5 Turkish lira (on the road to Van, 1 hour west of Bitlis). Or, in today's case, stopping at the stall pictured above on our way from Aksaray, on Cappadocia's northeastern edge to Cankiri, a town about an hour and a half east of Ankara. The vendor on the left and his son, on the right, were selling almonds, walnuts, raisins and dried apricots. The almonds were lightly salted and roasted in their shells, which were cracked just enough to enable easy liberation of the nut; we bought 250 grams. We skipped the walnuts (no nut cracker) but bought 250 grams of raisins and half a kilo of apricots. Total damage: 13 lira (about U$7).

    The vendor's fruit is from his own orchards and vines. He dries them himself, in the bahce (garden). The almonds are indeed "milky", as advertised in his sign, moist in spite of their roasting and touched with the taste of wood smoke because of it, nothing like the packaged roasted almonds I grew up eating nor the expensive blanched almonds my mom hoarded for baking. The raisins are black and delightfully crunchy, not seedless, almost juicy.

    The apricots, dried on their pits, are terra cotta brown and tough. But put one in your mouth, allow it to soften in the heat and moisture of your saliva for less than a minute, and the flesh slips from the pit with barely a nudge of the incisor. And the flavor! Honey and fruit and hot dry August days exploding all at once from nothingness. I wish that everyone could taste a dried apricot like this (or a roasted almond like that).

    Given their imperviousness to casual nibbling I suspect that these particular dried apricots are meant to be cooked with meat in a stew or plumped in a compote. But we'll carry them home to Malaysia to eat out of hand there, a reminder of what real dried fruit (and nuts) tastes like to hold us till our next trip to Turkey.

More images from the road in central Anatolia: the very picture of cold, somewhere on the road between Kayseri and Aksaray, here; followed by the bluest blue-sky morning in Aksaray, here.