View of Galata Tower and the Old City from the rooftop bar at the Hotel Marmara, Istanbul.

CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE
DAVID’S PREFACE
SOMER’S PREFACE
ESSENTIALS
HISTORY, INGREDIENTS & TECHNIQUES

BREAKFAST
LIGHT STARTS & BANQUETS

LUNCH
CASUAL & REGIONAL

AFTERNOON TEA
PUDDINGS, BAKLAVAS & SWEETS

MEZE

SMALL PLATES TO DRINK WITH

DINNER
TRADITIONS & INNOVATIONS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
INDEX
COPYRIGHT
One of the few surviving Istanbul street markets, in Kadıköy.

DEDICATION
This book has two inspirations: Musa Dağdeviren, who introduced
regional Anatolian food to the world long before it was trendy; and
Janni Kyritsis, great chef and great friend, who embodies the notion
that generosity of spirit crosses all national boundaries.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Somer Sivrioğlu grew up in Istanbul and moved to Sydney when he
was twenty-five. He now runs Efendy restaurant in Balmain where
he draws on a multitude of cultural influences to recreate the food
traditions of his homeland.
David Dale is an Australian political journalist, commentator on
popular culture and food and travel writer. His earlier books include
Soffritto: A Return to Italy; The Art of Pasta (with Lucio Galletto);
Essential Places; and The Obsessive Traveller or Why I Don’t Steal
Towels from Great Hotels Anymore.
Fans of Galatasaray football team gather in Istanbul’s meyhane district, before losing 6–1 to
Real Madrid.
DAVID’S PREFACE

For a while I was keen to call this book The Garden of Eden, but
my sensible co-author talked me out of it.
The idea came up when we were flying east from Istanbul
and I was studying a map of our destination—the town of
Gaziantep near the Syrian border. I said to Somer: ‘This river
that’s labelled Fırat—is that the Euphrates?’ He replied: ‘Yes,
that’s the old name for it.’

In growing excitement, I asked: ‘Is the Tigris also on this map?’ Somer:
‘Yes, just down there, it’s called the Dicle [dizh-leh] nowadays.’ Me: ‘So
actually we are headed for the Garden of Eden, where all the fruits and
vegetables in the world originated, and where the forbidden apple was
probably a fig?’ Somer (eyes narrowed): ‘Well, I suppose you could say
that.’
One of the first things I learned about Somer Sivrioğlu (pronounced
‘Sivriolu’, with the ‘g’ silent, as in tagliatelle) is that he prefers science to
superstition, and he’s inclined to regard references to Adam and Eve with
caution. I share his scepticism, but I love a good story, particularly when
it’s about food. I was charmed by the notion that Anatolian was the
world’s oldest cuisine.
We’d met three months earlier when a Greek friend took me to lunch
at Somer’s restaurant—Efendy, in the Sydney suburb of Balmain. The
meal we ate shattered my stereotypes about Turkish food, and our
conversation demonstrated that Somer was not only a great cook but
also a great scholar.
Our Greek friend, Janni Kyritsis, was happy to concede that while Greek
cooking had stagnated, Turkish cooking seemed still to be evolving. With
a mischievous smile, Somer told us: ‘Turkish is one of the three great
cuisines of the world, but only Turks know this. The other two are French
and Chinese, but the French got their cream sauces from our yoğurt, and
the Chinese got their dumplings from our mantı.’
It became apparent that Somer likes to make fun of his countrymen’s
tendency to claim ownership of every great cooking technique in the
Western world, and to cling to absurd food myths that promote Turkish
nationalism. He prefers to use the more ancient word Anatolia when
talking about the geographical area that is now called Turkey, and to give
credit to the many cultures that contributed to the region’s food
repertoire.
I asked Somer if he’d be interested in doing a book that would
challenge old theories about Turkish cooking and create a few new ones;
that would give readers a way to recreate classic dishes at home and
also help them understand what they’re eating when they visit Turkey.
We worked up a pitch to Sue Hines at Murdoch Books, and three
months later were flying towards the Garden of Eden. The town of
Gaziantep turned out to be very strange. For breakfast, they eat liver
kebaps or chilli soup. They make the best baklava in the world, using the
best pistachios. They proudly preserve a cooking style that has never
needed to make compromises with tourism. Whether or not it was once
paradise, it was the best possible place for me to begin my lessons in
Anatolian culture.
Gaziantep has a tradition that inspired the way we approached this
book. Whenever a family has to spend the day rolling the hundreds of
tiny meatballs that go into a festive soup called yuvalama, they bring in a
professional storyteller to keep the rollers from getting bored.
We decided to tell a tale with every recipe. Sometimes we would talk
about the mythical origins of the dish or its ingredients, sometimes we
would talk about Somer’s first experience of the dish, and sometimes we
would talk about its place in the rituals and fashions of ancient and
modern Anatolia.
Working with Somer, I learned that Anatolian cooks take a pretty
relaxed approach to their creations. They rarely use written recipes and,
when they do, the instructions tend to be vague, as in ‘measure with your
eyes’, ‘add whatever it needs’; or else poetic, as in ‘cut into bird’s heads’
(cubed), ‘small as a rat’s tooth’ (finely chopped) or ‘till the dough has the
texture of an earlobe’. We’ve tried to avoid the vagueness but retain the
relaxation. While breads and pastries need precise measures, most other
relaxation. While breads and pastries need precise measures, most other
recipes can be varied according to your taste—more chilli, less onion,
more vegetables, less meat, as you fancy.
The stories and the recipes are told in Somer’s voice. I hope you enjoy
your conversation with him and share the joy I experienced in learning
about an approach to life’s greatest pleasure that is still evolving after
5000 years.

DAVID DALE
The Kadıköy apartment block where Somer grew up: ‘We had Greek, Armenian and Sephardic
Jewish neighbours, and I was blessed to taste their meals’.
SOMER’S PREFACE

The 1970s was an eventful decade in Turkey, and not only

because I was born then. In 1971, the military staged a coup for
the second time (the first one being in 1960); left-wing students
and right-wing militants supported by the government were at
war with each other; and day and night curfews were in place.

I grew up knowing the difference in sound between a gunshot in the next

street and a bomb in the next suburb. Even in the midst of civil war, my
babaanne (grandma) retained her sense of hospitality. ‘Do not close the
door, Somer—our neighbours might think we want to keep them away’,
she would tell me every time I shut the door to the family apartment in
Istanbul.
My grandad had bought the apartment building in the Kadıköy
neighbourhood after selling his hotel and hamam (Turkish bath) in the
rural town of Eskişehir. He’d moved the whole family to the multicultural
suburb on the Anatolian side of the city, giving one flat to each of his
children so the whole family could live near each other. The block felt like
a village, with the hallways full of cooking smells floating from open
doorways.
I was lucky to be a kid during that time in Turkish history. People still
shared food with their neighbours; every store in your suburb knew your
name; the butcher would keep all the high-protein offal for families with
growing children; and kids from different ethnic backgrounds not only
played together but also ate together in whatever house they happened
to find themselves around supper time.
We had neighbours with Greek, Armenian and Sephardic Jewish
backgrounds, and I was blessed to taste their everyday meals. In an era
of curfews, suppression and terror, I felt strangely safe in the company of
family, friends and neighbours.
In 1980, Turkey, moving towards a free-market economy, suffered
another military coup. My parents separated and I was living in another
another military coup. My parents separated and I was living in another
suburb in another kind of apartment, with double locks on the door. I had
more toys and fewer friends, and a lot less diversity in my diet. My friends
and I queued for two hours in front of the first McDonald’s when it
opened in Turkey, so that we could have burgers and Coke.
My priorities began to change after I landed in Australia in 1995. I’d
graduated in hospitality from a college in Turkey, and now I was doing
my MBA in Sydney, discussing Organisational Behaviour during the day
and washing dishes at night (and being told my pan-scrubbing skills were
not up to scratch). Living close to Sydney’s Chinatown, and eating every
cuisine but my own, I re-learned the value of a multicultural society and
its contribution to national happiness.
Fast forward to 2007 and I am married to my beautiful wife Aslı. Just
after we have our second baby, we open our first restaurant, serving
what I imagined to be ‘modern Turkish cuisine’. My first menu included
okra in truffle oil, crab mantı and Turkish-coffee crème brûlée.
Looking back, I think I was silly. I was trying to impress by using the
trendy ingredients of the time. I wasn’t being true to myself or my culture.
My excuse for playing around with the recipes was that I thought I didn’t
have access to the kind of produce I could have found in Turkey, so it
would be impossible to cook at the same quality.
My mind was opened by a visit from my culinary hero, Musa
Dağdeviren, from the world-famous Çiya restaurant in Kadıköy. When I
picked him up at the airport, I apologised that Australian ingredients
would be limiting. He asked if there was a Chinatown in Sydney and soon
he was showing me all the wild weeds, fruits, vegetables and greens he
could use. I’d worked just next door to those markets and I’d never
noticed. During that visit, Musa made the best ‘Sumac salad’ I’d ever
eaten using a native Australian fruit called Davidson plum instead of
sumac.
He showed me that Turkish cooking is less about particular ingredients
and more about philosophy. It’s about sitting at a table in a Black Sea
village, sharing a plate of Armenian topik, Kurdish kebap, Jewish boyoz
and Greek tarama, and washing down the meal with a glass of rakı or
ayran. It’s about the ways different cultures have taken advantage of the
abundance of produce in the area now called Anatolia.
 In Australia, I’m regarded as a Turkish chef with a modern
presentation. In Turkey, I’m regarded as an Australian chef experimenting
with some sort of Turkish ‘fusion’. I think I’m simply doing what the
peoples of Anatolia have done for millennia—getting the best out of local
produce with techniques tested and proved by my ancestors.
My family and friends are a diverse bunch. We support different
football teams, different religions, different politicians, and different
sexual orientations. We come from different ethnicities. So we are just like
Turkey. We argue a lot—as the peoples of Anatolia have done for
thousands of years. But when we sit together around a table, we are
united by one idea—we want to enjoy our food. My hope is that this book
will do that for you too.

SOMER SIVRIOĞLU
ESSENTIALS
We called this book Anatolia because that word best conveys
the history and diversity of a land that only started using the
term Türkiye (Land of the Turks) in the eleventh century, and
only became the Turkish Republic in 1923. The word Anatolia is
used to show that our book includes the delicious Arab,
Armenian, Assyrian, Balkan, Greek, Jewish, Kurdish and Romany
contributions to the way Turks eat.

Turkish people have a passion for eating well. While they’re enjoying
breakfast, they’re planning dinner. They cook a lot at home, but everyone
has a favourite kebap shop, a favourite lunch lokanta, a favourite source
of baklava, and a favourite street stall for sobering up with stuffed
intestines after a long night drinking rakı in a meyhane. There is no time
of day when you can’t get interesting food, so instead of dividing this
book into conventional chapters such as starters, mains, desserts and
party food, we’ve arranged the chapters in the form of a typical Turkish
eating day.

A LITTLE HISTORY
The first use of the term Anatolia was in clay tablets written 4300 years
ago in the cuneiform letters of Mesopotamia, so that suggested a
timespan for this book. (We could have taken you back 11,000 years,
because the world’s first human settlement has been discovered at
Göbekli Tepe, near the town of Şanlıurfa in southeastern Anatolia, but
information on the cuisine of that period is scarce.)
The Hittites may not have been the first organised civilisation on earth
(that title should probably go to the Sumerians), but they do seem to
have been the first to use iron weapons; the first to make wine and
cultivate olives, almonds and apricots; and were the speakers of a
language that turned into most of the dialects of modern Europe.
The Hittite Empire was at its peak 3500 years ago, and Troy was a
west-coast branch. The defeat of Troy about 3200 years ago (as
reported by Homer) was part of a Greek conquest of Anatolia that was
confirmed by Alexander the Great about 2300 years ago. About 2600
years ago, a Greek demigod named Byzas founded the city that came to
be called Byzantion (Byzantium), then New Rome, then Constantinople,
and finally Istanbul (which literally translates as ‘into the city’).
and finally Istanbul (which literally translates as ‘into the city’).
The Greek Empire was replaced by the Roman Empire around 2000
years ago and Constantinople became the imperial capital when Rome
fell to barbarians in the fourth century.
The last vestiges of Roman-Christian rule were eliminated in the
eleventh century by the invading Seljuks (an extended family of Muslims
from the northeast, whose empire also included Persia). The Seljuks
spoke a language called Turkic.
Western Anatolia got involved in various disputes with European
crusaders passing through on their way to Jerusalem, but stayed in Seljuk
control until the arrival, around 1300, of an army under the command of
a military strategist named Osman in Turkish and known to English
speakers as Ottoman. This commander gave his name to an empire that
proceeded to invade lands we now call Greece, Hungary, Bulgaria, Iraq,
Iran, Syria, Egypt, Libya, Tunisia and Algeria.
 One of the obsessions of the Ottoman Turks was the art of food, and
at the peak of their power (under Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent in the
sixteenth century), the Topkapı Palace in Istanbul had 400 cooks using
ingredients and techniques from all over the empire.
In the sixteenth century, Anatolia welcomed Jews and Muslims who
were expelled from Spain and Portugal by Christian fundamentalists.
They brought new approaches to the way ingredients could be
combined.
Then, in the seventeenth century, Anatolia welcomed Spanish and
 Then, in the seventeenth century, Anatolia welcomed Spanish and
Portuguese traders who brought strange and exciting ingredients from
the New World—tomatoes, peppers and potatoes.
Ottoman rule collapsed during the First World War, and in 1923 a
bunch of modernisers took over. The first president of the Turkish
republic was Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, a soldier who had defeated the
Allied invaders at Gelibolu (Gallipoli) in 1915. He abolished the dominance
of the Islamic clergy (known as ‘the caliphate’), gave women the vote and
created a secular democracy. As part of a treaty between the new nation
and the Allies, Anatolians of Greek background were told to move to
Greece while Muslims of Turkish background moved from Greece to
Turkey.
So you can see why Anatolian food is likely to have a fair bit in
common with the cooking of Greece, Syria, Egypt, Armenia, Italy, Spain,
Iran and even Hungary, and why so much culinary mythology has
developed over the past four millennia.
Myths make good stories, so in this book we’re going to recount the
myths and then try to analyse where they deviate from reality. We are
not going to waste time with disputes about which ethnic, religious or
national group ‘owns’ a particular dish.
The cooking in a particular area is dictated by the climate, the soil, the
range of ingredients available, the survival techniques developed over the
millennia and the cultural assumptions passed on by successive waves of
settlers. It’s perfectly possible for a dish to be simultaneously Turkish,
Greek, Italian and Syrian, or to be none of the above if it appeared long
before those names were on any map. When in doubt, our default
position is to describe a dish as ‘adapted from the Hittite’.
So how is a non-Turkish-speaking visitor going to tap into this
historical, geographical and cultural abundance? In Istanbul most waiters
speak enough English to respond to your enthusiastic request to try a
range of local specialities and avoid the tourist clichés. Outside Istanbul
and the coastal resort towns, two phrases might come in handy in a
lunch lokanta or meze bar: ‘Herşey [hershay] den az az ortaya lütfen’,
which means ‘Can I have a variety of small servings, please’ (literally,
‘Little little in the middle’) and ‘ Ben de şundan [shundan] alabilir miyim,
lütfen’ (‘Could I have those, please’), with which you should point to a dish
on another table or on display on the counter.
After the recipes, we’ve provided a list of recommendations on eating
 After the recipes, we’ve provided a list of recommendations on eating
places worth visiting in Istanbul and around the countryside. In the
unlikely event you don’t find great food in Turkey, cook from this book
and discover how it should have tasted.

THE REGIONS
The geographers divide modern Turkey into seven regions, which vary
greatly in their approach to cooking …
The Marmara region (main cities Bursa, Edirne and Istanbul) contained
all the palaces from which the Ottoman sultans controlled their empire,
so Turkey’s wealth, industry and gourmet faddism are concentrated here.
Istanbul, with its 20 million residents, is the heart of the nation (although
the political capital is Ankara, 400 km/250 miles away). You can find
excellent examples of every region’s specialities without leaving Istanbul,
because every successful regional restaurant dreams of opening a
branch there (even at the risk of losing authenticity). In Istanbul, go for
seafood, because the Marmara Sea supplies tasty fish. Edirne is known
for its sautéed liver. Bursa is known for Iskender kebap.
The Mediterranean coast (main cities Antalya and Adana) grows most
of Turkey’s fruits and greens. Hatay is the most multicultural city in
Turkey, with large communities of Arabs, Christians and Jews—which
makes its cuisine fascinating. Antalya is nicknamed ‘Antalsky’ in the
summer months, because of the invasion of Russian tourists. That’s
when serious foodies leave the coast and head for the mountains.
In the wild and windy Black Sea region (main cities Trabzon and
Samsun) the obsessions are hazelnuts, corn, salad greens and a fish
called hamsi (somewhere between a sardine and an anchovy). There are
alleged to be more than 200 recipes for it, including a hamsi jam.
Not surprisingly, the Aegean coast (main cities Izmir and Bodrum) is
Greek-influenced. The Greek islands are so close that at night Turks in the
Aegean region can see the headlights of cars driving around Kos, Lesbos,
Chios and Samos. No wonder it was so easy for the Greeks to invade
Troy. It’s a wine-making area, more liberal than the rest of Turkey in its
attitude to alcohol. The best food is found in its meyhanes, which do
seafood specialities, and olive oil-braised greens and other vegetables.
 Central Anatolia (main cities Ankara, Konya and Kayseri) is the
agricultural heartland, growing most of the vegetables and grains. The
restaurants tend to specialise in lamb, börek pastries and casseroles with
bulgur. Konya was one of the first places settled by the nomadic Turkic
people when they arrived in the eleventh century, and has become a
culinary and cultural centre. The Armenian community in Kayseri made
the region famous for beef pastırma and sucuk sausage. Butter is the
main cooking medium here, not olive oil.
Eastern Anatolia (main cities Van, Kars and Malatya) borders Iran,
Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia, and has a large Kurdish population. On
its western side, the climate is ideal for growing apricots, figs and grapes
that turn into powerful red wines. On the eastern side, the cattle, sheep
and goats produce wonderful cheeses.
Southeastern Anatolia (main cities Gaziantep, Şanlıurfa and Mardin)
has a cuisine influenced by neighbouring Syria and Iraq. It produces the
world’s best pistachios and thus the world’s best baklava. The climate is
harsh in winter and hot and dry in summer, so they’ve perfected drying,
preserving and pickling techniques to keep their eaters happy all year.
The famous isot chilli pepper and çiğ köfte (raw veal and bulgur wheat)
come from Şanlıurfa.
 The food regions of turkey:
AEGEAN SEA: Olives, wines, salads, herbs, wild weeds and seafood
BLACK SEA: Hamsi, tea, corn, hazelnuts and pide bread
CENTRAL ANATOLIA: Börek pastries, beef pastirma, lamb casseroles and fruit molasses
EASTERN ANATOLIA: Cheeses, dried fruits, grains and lamb
MARMARA: Mezes, white wine, rakı, small fish and puddings
MEDITERRANEAN SEA: Large fish, salads, oranges, lemons and figs
SOUTHEASTERN ANATOLIA: Kebaps, bulgur wheat, baklava and peppers
 The Fifteen Favourite Ingredients
BREAD
Growing up in Istanbul, the only bread I knew was ekmek—a torpedo-
shaped roll that was made every morning in a wood-fired stone oven by
a bakery a few doors from my apartment. No Turks bake their own
bread at home because the price of bread has been subsidised by the
government since Ottoman times (when the sultans followed the Roman
emperors’ practice of pacifying the populace with ‘bread and circuses’).
Bread is subject to a multitude of laws specifying minimum size of loaf
(250 g/9 oz), minimum flour type, maximum salt content (1.5 per cent)
and hygiene for shops and delivery trucks (delivery truck needs to be
washable), and can only use flour, yeast, salt and water.
Although my family was not religious, the holy month of Ramadan
was an exciting time for me, because a new kind of bread appeared—a
round and fluffy creation called pide, designed to be consumed hot as
soon as the faithful break their fast at sunset. The cooks elaborated on
the basic ekmek by putting yoğurt or molasses on top. I later discovered
that if I visited southeastern Anatolia I could eat pide all year round
because it’s their standard form of bread. (Pide is not to be confused with
pita, which is not a word used much in Turkey. The flatbread called pita
by other cultures is called lavaş in Turkey.)
So if you go to the southeast of Turkey and ask for ekmek, you will get
pide. If you ask for pide on the west coast, they will tell you ‘It’s not
Ramadan yet’. In the Black Sea, if you ask for pide, they will ask you ‘with
cheese or lamb?’ In Istanbul tourist restaurants they will serve you pide in
the form of a balloon, made by throwing cardboard into the stone oven
in the last few seconds of the baking process to create a sudden blast of
heat that will make the bread puff up. Do not try this at home.

YOĞURT AND OTHER DAIRY

Being nomadic people, the Turkic groups who reached Anatolia in the
eleventh century first drank horse milk. When they settled in one spot,
they domesticated cows, sheep and goats, and found new flavour
sensations.
Although I am sceptical about the Turkish habit of taking credit for all
sorts of culinary creations, I think we are safe in saying those invaders
gave yoğurt to the world (which is why I’ve used the Turkish spelling
throughout this book). Turks are now the biggest consumers of plain
yoğurt on the planet—our average consumption is 24 kg (over 50 lb) per
person per year. We use it in or with just about everything.
For my grandma, yoğurt was as much a medicine as a food. A burnt
hand got a yoğurt wrapping, a sunburn meant your whole back, neck
and face were covered with it. If you got food poisoning, it settled your
stomach. My grandma bought her yoğurt from a man who walked
down her street at the same time every day carrying two pots suspended
from a pole that went across his shoulders.
I like to say that I can offer four recipes in which the only ingredients
are yoğurt and time—in its basic form as a sauce; thickened to become a
dip (by hanging in a muslin cloth for three hours over a pot to catch the
drips); thickened and sun-dried to become a cheese (hanging for twelve
hours); and diluted to become a drink (which we call ayran—and okay, I
must admit water is another ingredient, unless you got it from the pot
under the bag in which you made the cheese).
To make your own yoğurt:

First buy a full-fat natural yoğurt (ideally pot-set). Boil 1 litre (35 fl oz/4
cups) of milk for 5 minutes and let it cool until you can keep your finger in
it for 10 seconds. Stir 1 tablespoon of the commercial yoğurt through it
and whisk with a fork to aerate. Cover the pot and leave it overnight in a
warm place (in winter, wrap it in a blanket and keep it in the warmest
part of the house). It should have turned to yoğurt within 8 hours, and
then you can keep it in the fridge. You should eat it within 5 days, which
won’t be difficult if you’re cooking Turkish recipes.
Butter is the main cooking medium in eastern Anatolia (on the west coast
they follow the Greeks in preferring olive oil). Some of my recipes involve
the use of clarified butter (ghee). If you want to make your own ghee:
the use of clarified butter (ghee). If you want to make your own ghee:

Gözleme are a kind of pancake made popular by Yörük people who bring their food stalls from
the mountains to coastal villages.
Nose to tail eating is common in Turkey, with two types of butcher shops: those that sell prime
cuts and mince, and those that specialise in offal.

Melt butter over very low heat and when it starts to sizzle, pour it into a
bowl and put it in the fridge. Next day, scrape the layer of fat off the top.
The liquid at the bottom is ghee.

FETA AND OTHER CHEESES

A text published by the University of Kars (on Turkey’s eastern border)
identifies 193 types of cheese commonly used in Anatolia—twenty-three
of them made in Kars. The favourite type is ‘white’, a variation on the
Greek feta. Mostly it’s made from cow’s milk, but sometimes from
sheep’s or goat’s or a mixture. It’s an essential component of breakfast,
while other cheeses start to appear later in the day.
Sheep were first domesticated in Anatolia around 10,000 years ago
and, soon after that, the habit of storing milk in the stomachs of sheep
produced the first cheese (because the milk reacted with the stomach
enzymes, known as rennet).
The first written reference to cheese is in The Iliad, where Homer
describes a wounded soldier being treated with a mixture of wine, barley
and goat’s cheese.
Next comes kaşar, a semi-hard yellow cheese often melted on toast.
For the recipes in this book I’ve tried to suggest alternatives that might be
available in deprived English-speaking countries, but when you’re in
Turkey, I urge you to try every regional artisanal cheese you can find,
because the more unusual types are at risk of disappearing.

LAMB AND LESSER MEATS

Yes, we do eat chicken and beef (never pork), but I must admit that 80
per cent of the meat consumed in Turkey is lamb. We see it as a main
meal, an ingredient in kebaps, and a flavouring for rice. We use every part
of it, and in this book you’ll find recipes for its head, liver and testicles. In
2012, somebody did a census and found that Turkey contained 8 million
goats, 14 million cows and 28 million sheep.
Lamb was easily bred in the Anatolian climate, and became hallowed
by religious ritual very early in our history. A common prayer goes: ‘If you
give me this, I will kill a sheep in your name and give it to the needy.’
Around 3000 years ago, so the holy texts tell us, the prophet Abraham
sacrificed a sheep instead of his son after passing a test imposed by an
angel sent from God. Many villages celebrate this in a religious holiday
during which a lamb is tethered outside your house all day, then
slaughtered, sliced and distributed to your neediest neighbours (you can
only keep a third for yourself).
only keep a third for yourself).
During the four-day religious festival called Kurban Bayramı, it’s
traditional for rich families to sacrifice a sheep and distribute it to the
needy. In the past you’d go and select the animal yourself and watch it
being slaughtered with appropriate prayer readings. Nowadays, busy
people organise the whole thing online, and never see the sheep or its
parts.
There are two varieties of lamb: those with a fatty tail and those with a
thin tail. The fat-tailed sheep are highly prized by eastern Turks, who love
the flavour of the tail fat, which melts at low temperatures. Some areas
use tail fat the way the French use butter—to enrich a casserole. Kebaps
are healthier because the fat drips off into the embers.

SEAFOOD
Turkey is girt by sea on three sides—the Black one at the top, the Aegean
on the left and the Mediterranean on the bottom. The seafood varies
hugely between regions, getting bigger the further south you go.
Turks don’t feel the need for complex recipes for fish, and they don’t
bother much with fillets. The rule is grill the fish whole if large, and fry the
fish whole if small, then serve with lemon and rocket (arugula). They get
more imaginative with mussels, calamari, octopus, scallops and shrimps.
Everyone agrees the best fish come from Istanbul’s Marmara Sea,
which connects the Aegean with the Black, and the best month to eat it is
September.
I grew up fishing in the Marmara with my father, who had his own
boat and knew how the currents and the seasons affected the availability
of the fish. Nowadays, fishing in that area is banned between April and
early September, but once the ban is lifted, you will be astounded by the
variety at the Kumkapı fish market, and you can eat wonderfully in
restaurants along the Bosphorus (I’ve named a few of my favourites in
the recommendations at the end of this book). The fish you should ask
for is lüfer, which is usually translated as bluefish.
In this book I’ve tried to replace varieties unique to Turkey with similar
fish available in English-speaking countries.

EGGPLANT AND OTHER VEGETABLES

EGGPLANT AND OTHER VEGETABLES
Eggplants (aubergines) are even more common than lamb in Turkish
recipes (usually disguised under poetic titles rather than their own name,
patlıcan), so you might imagine we grew them first. But they seem to
have been brought into Anatolia from India by Arab traders at least 3000
years ago. Per capita, Turks are the greatest consumers of eggplants in
the world.
The best way to cook eggplant is to pierce the skin with a fork and put
it directly over fire—either the embers of a barbecue or the gas flame of
your stove. Be careful, though. Historians writing about Istanbul in the
seventeenth century record frequent destruction of property due to
‘eggplant fires’, because householders would put them over flames and
walk away, letting them drop onto the wooden floor.
You should stay nearby, turning the eggplant with tongs until the skin is
blackened. Let it cool and drip in a colander for 10 minutes, then scrape
out the flesh. If you’re not going to eat it straight away, keep it in water
into which you have squeezed half a lemon.
Our next most beloved ingredient is the tomato (domates)—which
you’re going to tell me should not be in this section because it is actually
a fruit (but you’ll never convince a Turk of this botanical detail). Its
omnipresence is surprising since it only entered the Anatolian repertoire
in the eighteenth century (imported from the Americas). Turkey is the
fourth-biggest producer in the world, eating 11 million tonnes of
tomatoes a year.
Somer and his father Güngör checking the daily catch at an Aegean village fish shop.
The handwritten sign says: ‘Very juicy, wonderfully fragrant 5 Turkish lira.’

Every market across the land has tubs piled high with mounds of
bright-red tomato paste (usually sitting next to a tub overflowing with
even brighter peppers). We use it to boost the flavour of everything but
fish (which works better with fresh tomato).
You can make your own tomato paste like this:

Slice 1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) of over-ripe tomatoes into quarters and let them rest
Slice 1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) of over-ripe tomatoes into quarters and let them rest
for a day under a cloth. Then push them through a coarse sieve to get rid
of the skins and most of the seeds. Wrap the pulp in a muslin cloth
(cheesecloth) and put a weight on the parcel to squeeze the water out
overnight.
Stir 1 tablespoon of olive oil and 1 teaspoon of rock salt through the
pulp, and simmer for 1 hour, stirring regularly. Put the paste in clean jars,
with some more olive oil at the top, and tightly seal the lids. You can keep
the paste in the fridge, topping up with more olive oil each time you dig
into it.

POMEGRANATE AND OTHER FRUITS

The pomegranate has been a symbol of opulent eating around the
Mediterranean for thousands of years. A tradition going back to the
Greek occupation of Anatolia is throwing a pomegranate into the
doorway of your house on New Year’s Eve to ensure abundance for the
following year.
Turkey is the third-biggest pomegranate producer in the world, (after
Iran and India). Turks call it a ‘superfruit’, believing it to contain an
antioxidant that lowers cholesterol.
Every Turkish supermarket sells special-purpose pomegranate seeders
and pomegranate juicers, but if you can’t find these devices near you,
don’t despair. Cut the pomegranate in half, horizontally. Put one half face
down over a bowl and tap gently all over the back. The seeds should pop
out. Then you can crush them to make juice or use them to decorate
dishes, savoury or sweet.
Turkish supermarkets also sell pomegranate molasses. To make your
own:

Simmer the pomegranate juice in a heavy-based saucepan until it has

reduced to a quarter its original volume. There’s no need to add sugar.
You can use it in any dish where you might use balsamic vinegar or
lemon. In my restaurant, I serve my bread with a saucer containing two
tablespoons of olive oil and a teaspoon of pomegranate molasses. I also
like to baste lamb in it, because it caramelises the exterior.
like to baste lamb in it, because it caramelises the exterior.
When I arrived in Sydney, I was delighted to learn that the Australian
term for English people is pommie, supposedly because their faces
quickly go the colour of my favourite fruit under the hot Australian sun.
The next most popular fruit in Turkey is the fig, which is at its best in
autumn. It was apparently the first crop to be cultivated in the world—in
southeastern Anatolia, of course, about 10,000 years ago. We use
unripened figs in jams, fresh figs in salads, and dried figs in deserts and
dolma stuffings.
Turkey supplies 80 per cent of the world’s dried fruits, particularly
apricots, dates and raisins. The Ottoman sultans embraced the Persian
passion for combining dried fruits with stewed or roasted meats, as you’ll
see in our Dinner chapter.

PEPPERS
Before the appearance of chillies and peppers in the seventeenth century,
the cooks in the Ottoman kitchens used huge quantities of ground black
pepper to satisfy the jaded sultans’ need for culinary kicks. In the
sixteenth century, peppercorns were a major trading commodity, with 1
kg (2 lb 4 oz) costing as much as 35 kg (over 75 lb) of bulgur. Then the
long red and green peppers and chillies arrived from the Americas, and
the bottom dropped out of the black pepper market, because chilli
proved to be a useful preservative as well as a flavour booster.
Heat preference varies hugely around Anatolia. In the southeastern
culinary triangle of Şanlıurfa, Gaziantep and Maraş, spice is everything.
They give chillies to children to chew on as an appetite stimulant. In
villages near Şanlıurfa in late summer, you can see chillies laid out all over
the flat roofs, then covered with sheets at night to ‘sweat’ them. The
famous Maraş and isot chilli flakes are exported around the world,
including to my restaurant in Sydney. Maraş is stronger, with an intense
‘mouthburning’ flavour. Isot (also known as Urfa pepper) is milder but
longer lasting.
When I arrived in Australia, I was disappointed to find the peppers were
much bigger, with thicker skins, than the ones I knew in Turkey. I have
shifted to bullhorn peppers in some of my recipes, because they’re closer
to the taste and texture I knew in Turkey. Feel free to use whatever form
to the taste and texture I knew in Turkey. Feel free to use whatever form
you can find near you, but remember that smaller is better, especially if
you are stuffing them.

BULGUR AND OTHER GRAINS

Wheat was first cultivated in eastern Anatolia about 10,000 years ago,
and it’s likely that before the grains were turned into flour for bread, they
were stripped of their skins and boiled, to become a belly filler and a base
for roasted meat or vegetables. Much later in history rice arrived from
China, and the principle became: rice for the rich, bulgur for the poor. So
the poor were better nourished.
In Turkey, bulgur is now sold in four grind classifications: extra fine (for
kneading with raw meat in çiğ köfte); fine (for lentil köfte); coarse (for
mixing into salads); and extra coarse (for pilav, served with stews). To
make an interesting bulgur pilav:

Sauté 1 finely chopped onion in butter for 5 minutes, then add 500 g (1 lb
2 oz) of bulgur and sauté for another 10 minutes. Add 750 ml (26 fl oz/3
cups) of water or chicken stock and simmer, covered, for another 10
minutes. Add a chopped tomato and/or a chopped capsicum (pepper) if
you like. Decorate it with chopped flat-leaf (Italian) parsley, and serve it
with a stew or kebaps or just with yoğurt as a dish in itself.
Another form of wheat, called freekeh, became trendy in Anatolia 4000
years ago and is now becoming trendy again in the English-speaking
world. It is a green wheat that has been roasted (in southeastern Turkey
they set fire to the wheat field to burn off the chaff and give the grains a
smoky taste).
Drying red peppers for winter in Oğuzeli in southeastern Anatolia.
Pistachios and other nuts and pulses for sale at a village shop.

The name literally means ‘rubbed’, and of course it comes with a story:
around 4000 years ago a bunch of Hittites harvested their wheat when it
was unripe and stored it away in a wooden shed, which caught fire.
When they recovered the stalks and rubbed off the blackened husks, they
found the grains smelled and tasted delicious, and a fad was born.
Freekeh is easier to digest than bulgur, which can bloat you if you eat
too much. A bowl of freekeh brings a beautiful aroma to the table, and
too much. A bowl of freekeh brings a beautiful aroma to the table, and
makes an ideal base for a chicken stew or a healthy dose of fibre mixed
into a salad.

RICE
In Ottoman times, rice (pirinç), initially imported from China, was a treat
for the aristocrats. If you visited Istanbul’s Topkapı Palace 500 years ago,
you’d be offered three beautiful dishes—dane-i-sarı (yellow rice, made
with saffron), dane-i-yeşil (green rice, made with spinach or fresh herbs),
and dane-i-kızıl (red rice made with pomegranate or barberries).
Nowadays, every class eats it, but more in Turkey’s west than east.
There is much debate about how to get the best out of rice, but here’s
my preferred way to make an interesting rice pilav, learned from my
mother-in-law:

Soak 200 g (7 oz/1 cup) of rice in 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) of warm water
and 1 tablespoon of salt for 1 hour. Rinse the rice and toss with 1
tablespoon of melted butter over medium heat for 2 minutes, then add
250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of water (or chicken stock) and 1 grated tomato,
and simmer, covered, for 15 minutes.

PASTRIES—YUFKA, FILO AND BÖREKS

Stuffing and baking pastries is a huge fad in Turkey, but it’s rare for Turks
to make the basic pastry at home, because so many shops sell sheets of
yufka (for böreks) and filo (for baklava). The word yufka meant ‘thin’ in
the old dialect, and that’s exactly why you risk frustration if you try it at
home.
But if you’re game, this is what you need to do to make yufka sheets:

Mix 1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) of strong flour with 2 tablespoons of salt and 250 ml

(9 fl oz/1 cup) of water. Knead for about 10 minutes until a flexible dough
is formed. Divide the dough into ping-pong-ball-sized lumps. Covering
your work surface, hands and a thin rolling pin with lots of flour to
prevent sticking, roll and pull each ball out into a sheet about 50 cm (20
prevent sticking, roll and pull each ball out into a sheet about 50 cm (20
in) across. If you have a pasta machine, you could use that to start the
rolling process, but you’ll have to finish it by hand.
Now you need to partly cook the pastry. You’ll need a large wok, which
will become a device the Turks call a sač.
Scrub the wok clean, inside and out, and put the wok upside down over
a lit burner on your stove. Drape a sheet of dough over the wok, and as
soon as you see it start to bubble, put another sheet of pastry over it, and
flip the pair over. Cook the bottom side of the second sheet for 1 minute
or so, then remove the pair (put them on a board next to you) and start
again with another sheet. You’re cooking every sheet on one side only,
then adding its partner and flipping.
You can keep the partly cooked yufka sheets in the fridge for 3 days.
When making böreks, always put the stuffing on the uncooked side.
The process for making filo is similar, except that the dough sometimes
contains eggs, and must be rolled out even thinner than yufka—as thin as
a page of this book, in fact.
In the recipes you’re about to read, we’ll show you how to make other
forms of pastry (gözleme, katmer, mille-feuille), but we’ll suggest buying
commercial filo, as Turkish families do.

PISTACHIOS AND OTHER NUTS

Almonds and pistachios are the only two nuts mentioned in the ancient
religious text that is accepted by Muslims, Jews and Christians (known as
the Tevrat, the Torah or the Old Testament of the Bible). Both were first
cultivated in Anatolia. Ground almonds became the basis for the
favourite sauce of the early Ottoman sultans, and crushed pistachios
became the basis for their favourite desert—baklava.
The world’s best pistachios come from Gaziantep in southeastern
Anatolia. That’s been the case since at least the year 100, when the
Roman emperor Trajan organised regular deliveries of pistachios from
the village of Zeugma to Rome. They are expensive but versatile—the
wild form makes an interesting form of coffee. Turkey is the third-largest
producer in the world, but Iranian and Californian varieties are arguably
of lesser quality. Gaziantep pistachios are harvested in midsummer,
when they are small enough to be best for baklava.
Turkey produces 75 per cent of the world’s hazelnuts, mostly in the
Black Sea region. They are roasted for snacking or turned into oil for
frying, paste as a breakfast spread, and meal for cakes.

CHICKPEAS AND OTHER PULSES

When you go out drinking of an evening anywhere in Turkey, you’re likely
to be given a bowl of what you think are salty nuts. They are more likely
to be leblebi (toasted chickpeas), bought from nut shops that cook them
all day in giant leblebi roasters. Chickpeas, now used to bulk out countless
casseroles, were first cultivated in Anatolia more than 8000 years ago. In
the fifteenth century, a vizier working for the sultan in the Topkapı Palace
became famous for surprising his guests by hiding a golden chickpea in
one of the dishes in every banquet.
The next most popular pulse is lentils. The green variety is produced in
central Anatolia and used whole in sautés. It’s known as the poor man’s
beef, because of its high iron content. The softer red variety is produced
in the southeast and used in soups or as a paste in köfte.
Turks also use dried beans a lot—in particular the small white ones the
Italians call cannellini—and in this book so do we. It’s vital to soak these
beans overnight, rinse them and change the water several times to get
rid of the chemicals that can upset your digestion.

ONION AND GARLIC

My friend Musa Dağdeviren, the scholar-chef who sparked the revival of
regional Anatolian cooking (see Dinner chapter), was once asked to name
the three ingredients he would take with him to a desert island. He said:
‘Onions, garlic, and spring onions, because as long as I have them, I can
make a delicious meal with anything else I find on the island.’
Onion was the key flavour-booster in Anatolian food long before the
arrival of peppers from the Americas, and it remains dominant. Every
home-style Turkish appetiser or main course has onion or garlic or both
at its heart, often with leek as well.
at its heart, often with leek as well.
My preference is to use red onions in salads and white or brown onions
in cooking, and always to sauté onions for 5 minutes longer than garlic.
It’s common in Turkey to use the green shoots of fresh garlic, which
are most readily available in spring. They look like thin spring onions. In
some recipes, we’ve suggested garlic shoots, but if you can’t find them,
toss whole spring onions in equal amounts of olive oil and finely crushed
garlic to achieve a similar flavour.
We love leeks in winter, particularly braised in olive oil as part of a meze
spread, or as wrappers instead of pastry around mince or rice parcels.

PARSLEY AND OTHER HERBS

Anytime I talk about parsley in this book, I mean the flat-leaf kind
English-speakers call continental or Italian parsley. You never see the
curly type in Turkey, but you see the flat-leaf kind everywhere. Don’t feel
compelled to follow the Turkish habit of sprinkling it on anything savoury.
I know parsley is good for you, but I fear it is used too often as decoration
and in my restaurant I have to spend a lot of time picking it off dishes my
cooks send out of the kitchen.
Mint is our second favourite herb, used fresh in salads and dried as
decoration on soups and dumplings. It is hardly ever associated with
lamb—Turks regard that as an English eccentricity, preferring to use
oregano or thyme (which is also used to make an invigorating tea in the
southeast). We like to use bay leaves with fish, marjoram with chicken,
and wild weeds (nettles) with eggs and pastries—but only on the west
coast.
Herbal teas are central to Turkish life, seen as suitable treatments for
colds, anxiety and stomach upsets. Wild thyme (zahter) tea is popular in
the southeast for aiding digestion, and you’ll also find teas made with
linden, mountain sage and wild nettles.

The equipment you should have

 Big sharp knife for mincing (ideally a zırh or a mezzaluna knife)
Large, thick wooden board
Long tongs for the barbecue
Mortar and pestle
Baking trays for pastries
Plastic wrap
Paper towel
Baking paper
Aluminium foil
Skewers—bamboo and three sizes of metal (round, narrow-
flat, wide-flat)
Small and large clay pots for baking
Wooden spoons
Mixer/ blender/ food processor
Whisk
Regular rolling pin
Thin (stick) rolling pin
Wide heavy-based saucepans
Pizza stone or unglazed terracotta tile
Charcoal grill (broiler) or wood-fire barbecue
Muslin (cheesecloth), for straining
Ideally, a pomegranate seeder
Turkish coffee pot (cezve)
Spice grinder
Sealable jars (for pickles and preserves)

Turkish home cooking is about doing what’s comfortable with

the equipment that’s available, so if you don’t have any of the
above, adapt with what’s in your cupboard.
 The Wines of Anatolia

It is believed that the first place in the world where wine was made was
Anatolia—by those reliable old Hittites, around 6000 years ago. The
Hittites used the Sumerian term viyana for the alcohol derived from
grapes—a word which some Turkish scholars think was the origin of a
name to the capital of Austria (just as the Persian word ungur for grapes,
gave a name to the capital of Turkey, Ankara).
Jewish and Muslim texts tell us that the first crop planted by Noah after
he got off the ark was grapes, so his family could celebrate with a cup of
wine. That supposedly happened on the southeastern side of Anatolia.
Nowadays, excellent red wines are still made in that hot, dry climate.
The Greeks who conquered Troy thought the west-coast town of Nysa
was the birthplace of white wine—and of the drunken demigod known to
them as Dionysos (Dionysius) and to the Romans as Bacchus. Around
3000 years ago, white wines from western Anatolia were exported all
around the Mediterranean in giant two-handled jugs called amphoras,
some with a capacity of 75 litres (over 15 gallons). Thousands of
amphoras have been found in ships that sank in the Aegean Sea,
stamped with details of the wine’s quality, including a recommendation
that it be diluted in the proportion two cups wine to five cups water, or
improved by the addition of honey.
Wine became a key component of celebrations for every ethnic, tribal
or religious group that ever ruled Anatolia. Even some Ottoman sultans,
supposedly devout Muslims, consumed vast quantities at palace
banquets, while publicly disapproving of it for their subjects.
But in the nineteenth century the Turkish wine industry went into a
decline, as drinkers decided they preferred to swallow rakı with their
meze. By the time I was at university and ready to start my drinking life,
wine (sold in bottles with plastic stoppers) was regarded as a poor man’s
tipple, suitable only for alcoholics who couldn’t afford rakı.
The comeback started in the 1990s (despite a government determined
to tax it out of existence), when some visionary Turkish companies
sought the help of French winemakers to make better use of ideal
sought the help of French winemakers to make better use of ideal
climatic conditions in particular regions of Anatolia. Nowadays, if you visit
a wine-tasting shop such as Sensus, near Istanbul’s Galata Tower, you’ll
be surprised how many Turkish wines can match the best of America,
Australia, Italy and France.
Many Turkish winemakers simply replicate the international clichés of
chardonnay, sauvignon blanc, cabernet sauvignon and shiraz. They taste
fine, but for the visitor they don’t represent a uniquely Anatolian
experience. You should look for wines made from the local white grapes
called emir (from the cold middle of the country), narince (from Tokat in
Central Anatolia), and misket (from the Aegean coast). My favourite
whites are Suvla Kınalı Yapincak and Sevilen Isabey Narince.
I think Turkish reds are much more advanced and complex than
Turkish whites. My favourites are Sevilen Plato Kalecik Karası and
Kavaklıdere Prestige Boğazkere.
The red grapes to look for are öküzgözü (literally ‘ox-eye’, grown in
Eastern Anatolia near Malatya) and boğazkere (‘savoury throat’, grown in
the southeast, near Diyarbakır). I’m particularly pleased to see kalecik
karasi making a comeback in the vineyards near Ankara. That was the
grape used by the Hittites (and probably Noah), so it could well be the
oldest wine in the world. Dionysos would approve.
Somer’s mum Ülkü with her signature fava meze.
 A beginner’s glossary

Here are a few terms you’ll encounter in Turkey that might not turn out
to be quite as you expect:
Ayran (pronounced ‘eye-run’): The other national drink (after rakı), made
with yoğurt, salt and water.
Baklava: A sweet made with filo pastry layered with pistachios
(sometimes walnuts) and soaked in sugar syrup (not honey).
Börek: Savoury pastry (called yufka) that has been rolled, stuffed or
layered with (usually) feta, spinach and/or lamb mince.
Çay (pronounced ‘ch-eye’): Tea, served with all shopping experiences and
much more popular than Turkish coffee.
Çorba (pronounced ‘chorba’): Soup, served for breakfast, lunch and
dinner, sometimes approaching the thickness of stew.
Dolma: Anything stuffed, most often peppers, eggplant and zucchini, but
occasionally lamb ribs, intestines and melons.
Dondurma: Ice cream, the best kind beingthe stretchy maraş
(pronounced ‘marash’) made with mastic gum and salep (wild orchid
stems).
Gözleme (pronounced ‘goz-lem-eh’): A kind of savoury pancake, usually
stuffed with feta, spinach and/or lamb mince.
Helva: A sweet, often made with semolina or flour (at home) or with
tahini and soapwort root (in shops, where it’s sold in sticky blocks).
Kahve (pronounced ‘kah-weh’): Turkish coffee,and please wait for the
grounds to settle (see Afternoon Tea chapter).
Kaymak (‘keye-muk’): Clotted cream, made with buffalo, cow’s or
sheep’s milk.
Kebap: Char-grilled meat, usually on a skewer. Döner kebap is the vertical
version.
Köfte (pronounced ‘kof-tuh’): Usually translated as ‘meatball’ — minced
meat kneaded into various shapes, often with bulgur wheat.
Kokoreç (pronounced ‘koko-rezh’): A kind of char-grilled sausage made
with lamb offal wrapped in lamb intestines, often sold in street stalls.
Lokanta: A casual eatery, ideal for a cheap lunch, where most dishes are
displayed on counters and served lukewarm.
Lokum: Turkish delight.
Mantı (pronounced ‘mantuh’): Dumplings usually stuffed with beef mince
and served with garlic yoğurt and pepper sauce.
Meyhane (pronounced ‘may-huh-neh’): A bar that serves small tasting
plates called meze, accompanied by aniseed-flavoured alcohol called
rakı, or wine if you insist.
Muhallebici (pronounced ‘moo-hah-lebee-zhee’): A pudding shop, selling
milk-and rice-based desserts.
Pastane (pronounced ‘pas-tah-neh’): a pastry shop, selling biscuits and
syrupy sweets.
Pastırma: Dried spiced beef, usually served in thin slices as a cold cut.
Pide (‘pee-deh’): A kind of bread roll, often stuffed with cheese or mince,
sold in shops called pideci (‘pee-day-zhee’).
Restoran: Less casual than a lokanta, open for lunch and dinner, where
you’re likely to see a menu and a wine list.
Salça (pronounced ‘salcha’): A flavouring paste, usually made with
tomato or pepper.
Salep: A hot drink for winter, made with powdered orchid tubers, thought
to be an aphrodisiac.
Sucuk (‘soo-jook’): A spicy dried sausage, usually made of beef and
usually fried.
Tarator: A paste of walnuts, garlic and day-old bread, usually served with
fried seafood.
 THE TEN TOP TECHNIQUES

DOLMA AND SARMA (STUFFING AND ROLLING)

Most English-speakers are familiar with a Greek dish called dolmades,

which they take to be vine leaves filled with seasoned rice. In Turkey,
that’s not a dolma, that’s a sarma. Dolma means ‘stuffed’ and sarma
means ‘rolled’. Turks will stuff anything that can be made to have a space
in the middle, and anything they can’t stuff (like leaves from grapevines,
spinach, or cabbage) they will roll.
Records from the sultan’s palace show that in the fifteenth century
Turks were stuffing onions, apples and intestines; in the sixteenth century,
zucchini (courgettes), eggplant (aubergine) and butternut pumpkin
(squash); in the seventeenth century, mackerel, watermelon and
barbunya (red mullet); in the eighteenth, leeks, spinach and quince; and in
the nineteenth, melon, okra and lamb ribs.
You’ll find most of those recipes here, though we’ve occasionally
expanded upon the two standard fillings (rice, onion and lamb mince or
rice, cinnamon, currants and pine nuts).

SALÇA (PASTE-MAKING)

The array of dishes that can be called ‘Turkish cuisine’ evolved in a time-
rich, cash-poor society. Because of harsh climate variations in the
eastern half of the country, people had to find ways to make ingredients
last across four seasons. So they perfected techniques for drying, pickling,
brining, preserving and pulverising products that were plentiful in late
summer.
The pulverising process is called salça in Turkish—a word that entered
culinary dictionaries only in the nineteenth century, even though it’s
derived from the Latin salsa. Before that, the word palude was used for
pastes, sauces and reductions that were thickened with starch. For me,
salça means a concentration of one ingredient—a paste, perhaps with
salt as a preservative.
The most popular salça is made with peppers. On the farm of my
traditionalist friend Musa, they pick the peppers in the morning, remove
the stalks and seeds, and toss them into a purpose-built pepper mincer.
Then they simmer the mince in huge pots over a wood fire until most of
the water has evaporated.
To make your own pepper salça (pepper paste) at home:

Remove the stalks and seeds from the capsicums (peppers) and boil the
chopped pieces in a little water for 1 hour (with the lid on the pot). Strain
the capsicum and purée the pieces in a blender, then simmer the purée
for 1 hour with the lid off.
For every kilogram of capsicum, stir in 2 tablespoons of olive oil and 1
teaspoon of salt. Pour the paste into clean glass jars while still warm, top
with olive oil and seal.

FIRIN (BAKING)

The local baker in an Anatolian village is the home cook’s best friend. You
can send him any dish and he will cook it for you in his wood-fire stone
oven, taking a share of the food as payment if you’re not flush with
funds.
In the southeastern town of Gaziantep, I spent a morning in the bakery
of Aydın Kilitoğlu, who’s had twenty-nine years’ experience with heat. His
place is as big as the average bedroom, but he produces 3000 pides a
day. His eleven-year-old son Samet (opposite) works as an apprentice
during school holidays—just as Aydın did with his own father.
Locals kept coming in with trays of eggplants, peppers and even
kebaps that would normally be done over charcoal but which he quickly
finishes in his oven. He charges 1 lira per tray, regardless of what the
customer has put on it. Some people were bringing him ‘new’ dishes,
such as pizzas they’d constructed at home, and he was enjoying the
challenge of deciding where in the oven the pizza tray should go, and
how long it should stay there.
If you don’t have a stone wood-fire oven, the best way to get close to
Aydın’s effect is to turn your oven up to full blast for at least 30 minutes
before you put in your baking tray (or pizza stone, or unglazed terracotta
tile).
If you’re using a metal oven tray, the best way to avoid your pide
dough sticking is to spread a bit of flour on the tray and bake it for about
5 minutes before putting the ball of dough on the flour.
Samet, eleven-year-old son of the owner of Asri Bakery in Gaziantep, learning how to make
pide.
The ‘Spice Girl’, Bilge Kadıoğlu, in her shop in ‘Area 51 ‘of Istanbul’s Spice Market.

TENCERE (STEWING)

Turks don’t make stocks or reductions for storage. We simmer whatever

meat we need on the day we’re going to eat it, and boil the
accompanying rice in that water when the meat is removed. We might
accompanying rice in that water when the meat is removed. We might
make a second dish from the leftovers, but essentially it’s all consumed
within 24 hours.
But we do love slow cooking. The tradition of güveç (clay pot) cooking
started in rural households, which would have a fire pit outside the house
—a hole in the ground called a tandır. You would light a fire in the bottom
and hang a clay pot over the fire, slowly simmering a mixture of any
ingredients you could find. If you could afford it, you would line the sides
of the pit with clay, and bake dough on the hot sides, making a loaf that
was called nan in Ottoman.
In the nineteenth century, an iron device called a kuzine became the
centrepiece of every Turkish home. It was a wood-fire stove, useful for
warming the house, but also used for stewing, brewing tea, even roasting
chestnuts. The cook would leave a clay pot full of ingredients on the top
all day long and everybody tucked in when they got home at night.
The trick with güveç cookery is layering the pot so that the ingredient
that will take the longest is at the bottom, while the one needing least
heat is at the top.

KURUTMA (DRYING)

In delicatessens called şarküteri all over Turkey, you’ll see red tubes that
look like salami and red slabs that look like leather hanging from hooks.
The sausage is called sucuk, spiced beef inside a lamb intestine, and the
leather is a marinated beef fillet called pastırma.
The word pastırma (adapted to basturma in Greece and pastrami in
New York) simply means ‘pressed’, but that reveals nothing of the long
and complex process of drying and coating in paste that produces
Turkey’s ubiquitous answer to prosciutto.
Kayseri in central Anatolia is the capital of pastırma-making. It is
thought to be the first place meat was wind-dried in the world, some
time before the Romans arrived. These days the master-driers are said to
be people of Armenian background. Afyon on the Aegean coast is the
capital of sucuk-making.
 In this book we’ve given a couple of recipes for non-traditional
pastırma and a suggestion for sucuk without the intestine, but we’re
happy for you to use store-bought general versions.
In food markets across the land you will see small purple pouches
hanging on strings from the roof beams. They are dried eggplants,
waiting to be stuffed. Most likely they came from the Oğuzeli area in
southeastern Anatolia, where summer is perfect for growing baby
eggplants and drying them. In the season, they pick the eggplants (and
zucchinis) early in the morning, scoop out the flesh and leave them to
hang in the 35°C (95°F) heat for 24 hours. That’s all it takes. But if it rains,
the eggplants will become spotted and unsellable, and the grower will
need to start again.

BAHARAT (SPICING)

For 1000 years Constantinople was the end point of the spice route.
Some spices were literally worth their weight in gold because they were
thought to be miracle cures for a variety of ailments. Now they are
flavour boosters.
In a quiet corner of Istanbul’s spice market, identified as number 51,
you’ll encounter a shop called Ucuzcular (Cheapies), run by Bilge Kadıoğlu
(opposite). She’ll tell you her first name is pronounced ‘like Bill Gates—but
without the money’. She’ll tell you she doesn’t mind being called the
‘Spice Girl’. She’ll tell you the term ‘Area 51’ is appropriate, echoing the
section of a US air force base where UFOs are allegedly hidden, because
in the marketplace she’s an alien—the only woman to run a shop, and
the only shopkeeper to charge the same prices to locals as to visitors.
She’s an honest broker in one of the world’s oldest professions.
When I’m there, I always buy my salep powder (made from orchids)
and mahlep powder (made from white cherry seeds) from Bilge. She also
turns her spices into perfumes and oils for the skin.
Bilge’s two most traditional spice mixes are spot on: dolma baharı (a
blend of cinnamon, allspice, black pepper and pimento, to be stirred
through rice) and köfte baharı (a mixture of cumin, black pepper,
pimento, dried oregano and dried coriander, to be kneaded into minced
meat). They are extraterrestrial. In this book we’ll try to show you how to
replicate their effect.

TURŞU (PICKLING)

A local movie called Happy Days, made in the 1970s, exposes one of the
most divisive issues in Turkish society. It shows a married couple at odds
over the best way to pickle vegetables. The husband says lemon, the wife
says vinegar. They divorce and then get back together, but never reach
agreement. Both as a chef and as a married man, I know you can never
win an argument with a woman, so I mostly go with vinegar.
That also puts me on the side of the first published picklers. A
fourteenth-century nutrition book contains recipes for preserving
cucumber, eggplants, onions and beetroot in a vinegar marinade. In the
seventeenth century, Greek meyhanes started pickling a fish called
lakerda, its saltiness probably boosting alcohol sales.
The Turkish technique seems simple:

For every 1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) of water you need 100 ml (3½ fl oz) of
vinegar and 3 tablespoons of natural rock salt (not iodised). But the devil
is in the detail—you must make sure your glass jar is sterilised, the
vegetables are of premium quality, not overripe, and evenly placed in the
jar, and you must wait at least 5 weeks before eating them. You can
throw in a few chickpeas to speed fermentation, but be sure to remove
them after 1 week. The ideal temperature of the room where you store
your pickles is 20°C (about 70°F). For every two degrees Celsius below
that, wait another week.

REÇEL (PRESERVING)

There are more jams in Turkey than there are fruits, because we often
make several types from the one ingredient—for example, orange rind
make several types from the one ingredient—for example, orange rind
marmalade and orange jam, or unripened fig jam, fresh fig jam and dried
fig marmalade.
Some recipes are simple—as in, boil 1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) of berries with 800
g (1 lb 12 oz) of sugar for 30 minutes, adding the juice of half a lemon to
prevent crystallisation. Some are more elaborate, like the rose petal jam
we discuss in the Breakfast chapter.
The word reçel (jam) comes from the Persian ricar, which suggests an
origin a little to the east of Anatolia. But we know the Romans were
making marmalade with fruit and honey before they arrived in
Byzantion, so we could also credit an influence from the West. The
crusaders supposedly took jam-making recipes from Istanbul to northern
Europe in the thirteenth century, and by the sixteenth century the
futurologist Nostradamus was using them to impress the French royal
family. Eat jam with pide and clotted cream.

KÖFTE (KNEADING)

This is what they do for entertainment in the southeastern town of

Şanlıurfa: watch an expert make çiğ (chee) köfte. While a band plays and
singers emote, the master sits on the floor and kneads a mixture of raw
veal, bulgur and spices in a large tray for up to an hour. Moving his
shoulders in time to the music, he produces hundreds of meatballs,
which are served to the guests sitting around the musicians. The guests
roll the pieces of köfte in lettuce leaves, and munch on them as they
watch the floor show. The sweat from the master’s hands has become
part of the flavour. In a sense, sweat is the most important ingredient in
any köfte, because it symbolises how much effort you’ve put into the
kneading.
Köfte is often translated as ‘meatball’ but it comes from a Persian word
that simply meant ‘mashed’. The name implies no particular ingredient,
which can be raw or cooked, meat, fish or veg. You work with shoulders
and (thoroughly washed) hands for as long as it takes to produce a
smooth patty. When you think it’s ready, knead it for another 10 minutes.
 In the centre of Sultanahmet Square, just near the Topkapı Palace, you
will see rows of köfte sellers claiming to be ‘the original’, ‘the historical’
and ‘the traditional’. The best, the first and the original does not display
any of those adjectives. It’s called Selim Usta (Selim the Master) and it
dates from 1920. Selim’s köfte is made from spiced beef and served with
bean and onion salad.

KEBAP (GRILLING)

A common folk myth goes that kebap cooking was invented in the
twelfth century by Turkish soldiers who skewered meat on their swords
and cooked them over a fire. But an archaeological dig in Santorini,
Greece, found kebap cookers called ‘fire dogs’ (with a hotbox carved into
the shape of a dog) that were in use 3700 years ago. So it’s one of
humanity’s most ancient forms of cooking, now evolved into a fine art.
First you must decide the form in which your lamb, beef or chicken will
be cooked—whole, in lumps or minced into patties. Any mincing must be
done with a giant sharp knife called a zırh. Then you must blend in your
flavouring—a sophisticated mix of herbs, peppers, onions, spices and
(with meat kebaps) lamb fat, which will drip out of the meat and turn into
a fragrant smoke that will further complicate the ultimate flavour.
And it’s not just a matter of sticking it on a fire. The wood or charcoal
must be lit 1 hour in advance and allowed to die down to embers, so
there will be no flames in contact with the meat.
Turks like to go to specialist kebap houses for their charcoal hits.
Australians claim to be barbecue kings, so kebap cooking at home should
be easy for them. If you don’t own a charcoal grill, we offer some kebap
recipes that can be cooked in the oven. But you’ll be missing a lot of
flavour.

How to talk Turkey

After the republic was formed in 1923, Turks moved from the
confusing Arabic alphabet to the much simpler Latin alphabet. In this
book, we’ve used the Turkish spellings of dishes and locations.
The names might seem difficult at first, especially since the
alphabet has twenty-nine letters, but the spelling is logical and
phonetically consistent, once you get the hang of it.
All letters are read as they are written, and they always have the
same sound.
AA/a B/b C/c Ç/ç D/d E/e F/f G/g Ğ/ğ H/h I/ı İ/i J/j K/k L/l M/m N/n
O/o Ö/ö P/p R/r S/s Ş/ş T/t U/u Ü/ü V/v Y/y Z/z

A few letters are pronounced differently from the English alphabet:

A/a = as in far
C/c = as in joke
Ç/ç = as in chair
E/e = as in set
G/g = as in goat
Ğ/ğ = silent g, not pronounced but it extends the preceding vowel
I/ı = (without a dot) pronounced as the last syllable in button
İ/i = (with a dot) as in sit
J/j = as in measure
Ö/ö = as in bird
Ş/ş = as in shut
Ü/ü = as in cube
V/v = like w, as in water

So, for example, köfte (meatball) is pronounced ‘kirf-teh’; sütlaç (rice

pudding) is ‘soot-latch’; mantı (dumpling) is ‘mantuh’; gösleme
(pancake) is ‘gerslemeh’; yogurt is ‘yoh-ourt‘; keşkül (almond
pudding) is ‘kesh-kool’; kahvaltı (breakfast) is ‘kah-waltuh’; and
baklava is ‘bah-klawa‘.
At Karadeniz in Istanbul’s Beşiktaş market, the döner kebap starts the morning as a 100 kilo ball
of meat and slims down as the day proceeds.
breakfast
They love a big breakfast banquet in the far east of Anatolia. In
the city of Van (pronounced ‘wahn’), they’ll take three hours to
consume as many as forty-one courses, and then eat nothing
else for the rest of the day. Most of the courses will be small—
like a dish of olives, a few slices of watermelon, a pot of rose
jam and bread rolls in various shapes—but they add up to a
feast. There’s a famous Turkish romantic poem, written by
Yılmaz Erdoğan in 2002, in which an ardent suitor tells his
sweetheart: ‘I’d love the chance to have breakfast with you in a
breakfast salon in Van.’

Now please don’t imagine this is typical of all of Turkey—or even that it’s
an ancient tradition. Our word for breakfast is kahvaltı, which literally
translates as ‘coffee after’. It implies that breakfast is something that puts
a layer on your stomach before your first coffee of the day, and in most
Istanbul homes most mornings that means white cheese, fruit, yoğurt
and bread from the local bakery. The egg dishes will come out at
weekends.
Even the wealthy Ottomans of the sixteenth century didn’t go in much
for breakfast, preferring to have some soup and leftovers from last
night’s banquet around 11 am, in what these days we would call brunch.
Outside of Istanbul today, there is huge regional variation in morning
behaviour. In the gourmet town of Gaziantep, in southeastern Turkey,
they like to eat liver kebaps or a fiery soup of lamb, rice and chilli. Along
the Black Sea they dip their bread into a kind of cheese fondue. In central
Anatolia they love böreks—pastries usually stuffed with feta and spinach.
In ancient Tarsus, they serve warm humus with bread for dipping. All of
them drink tea with their first meal of the day, and have coffee after.
And in Van, they’ve only been doing the big breakfast since the 1940s,
when it was introduced in a salon called Sütçü Kenan (which we could
translate as ‘Milkman Ken’) to showcase the vast variety of cheeses from
the region. Milkman Ken’s breakfast banquet was quickly copied by other
cafés in his town, and then by breakfast salons (kahvaltı evi) in Istanbul.
Four years ago, I started offering a ‘Van breakfast’ on Sunday
mornings in my restaurant in Sydney. It’s been a huge success. This
chapter shows you how you can create your own Van breakfast, or any
part thereof, at home.
For the record, these are the courses I serve in my version of the Van
breakfast: 1. Pide bread 2. Pomegranate molasses 3. Bazlama bread
4. Poğaça pastry
5. Simit (a kind of pretzel) 6. Kaymak (clotted cream) 7. Honey
8. Rose jam
9. Sour cherry jam
10. Fig jam
11. Quince jam
12. Feta (goat’s cheese) 13. Kashkaval (sheep’s cheese) 14. Tulum
(sheep’s cheese aged in goat skin) 15. String cheese
16. Lor cheese (a kind of ricotta) 17. Labne balls (yoğurt cheese)
18. Unsalted butter 19. Sucuk (sausage) 20. Cigar böreks 21. Spinach
böreks 22. Paçanga (pastırma böreks) 23. Cracked green olives
24. Black olives
25. Sliced tomatoes 26. Cucumbers
27. Olive paste
28. Tomato ezme (crushed with chilli) 29. Muhammara (pepper dip)
30. Pastırma (cold cuts of spiced beef) 31. Barbecued haloumi
32. Menemen (scrambled eggs) 33. Watermelon
34. Melon
35. Grapes
36. Mulberry leather (dehydrated grape molasses) 37. Katmer (sweet
börek) 38. Red grapes
39. Turkish delight 40. Baklava
41. Tahini helva Now you can make your own.
The Sunday Van breakfast at Efendy restaurant in Sydney.
SİMİT
SESAME RINGS

What pretzels are to New Yorkers, simit are to Istanbulians, who buy
them from street stalls all day long and munch them between
appointments.
They are at least 600 years old—Topkapı Palace documents from
1593 include bulk orders for simid-i halka (round simits). They have
entered the language of metaphor. A Turk who hates his job will say:
‘I’d be better off selling simit’. Protesters trying to dissuade police
from breaking up a demonstration will shout: ‘Sell simit and leave
with honour.’
There are bakeries that cook nothing but simit—in wood-fire ovens,
of course, at 300°C (570°F/ Gas 10+). And there are cafés, usually with
titles such as ‘Palace of Simit’, that serve them with melted cheese,
tomato and other unnecessary additions. Personally, I would never
sit down to eat simit, and I would never cook them at home if I was in
Istanbul. But outside my homeland, you need a recipe.

SERVES 8

2 teaspoons dry yeast

2 teaspoons sugar
300 g (10½ oz/2 cups) plain (all-purpose) flour, plus extra for dusting 1
tablespoon vegetable oil, plus extra for greasing 45 ml (1½ fl oz)
thickened (whipping) cream

1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon salt
350 g (12 oz/1 cup) grape molasses
140 g (5 oz/1 cup) sesame seeds
butter and feta, to serve (optional)

Mix the yeast and the sugar in a bowl with 250 ml (9 fl oz 1 cup) of
lukewarm water and then set aside for 5 minutes. It should start to form
bubbles. Add another 125 ml (4 fl oz½ cup) of water and combine.

Sift the flour into a mixing bowl, make a well in the middle and pour in
the yeast mixture, vegetable oil and thickened cream. Knead the dough
for 5 minutes to make a soft and stretchy dough, adding more flour if the
dough is sticky. Cover the bowl with a damp cloth and rest for 1 hour. It
should expand.

Preheat the oven to 230°C (450°F/Gas 8).

Add the salt to the dough and knead for 3 minutes. Sprinkle some flour
on your work surface. Divide the dough into eight pieces and roll into
balls. Rest for 3 minutes. With floured hands, pull each ball in half and roll
each half into a strip about 50 cm (20 in) long. Twist the two strips
around each other into braids. Pull the braided dough around into a
circle. Stick the ends together, wetting the dough if necessary to help it
hold.

Dilute the grape molasses in 170 ml (5½ fl oz/2/3 cup) of water.

Place a frying pan over low heat. Add the sesame seeds and toast,
tossing constantly, until the seeds turn golden brown. Turn onto a tray
and set aside Pour the grape molasses into a shallow bowl. Dip the
braided dough into the molasses, one at a time. Turn to coat both sides.
Shake off the excess liquid then toss each braid in the sesame seeds,
making sure both sides are evenly coated.

Line a baking tray with baking paper and brush with oil. Arrange the simit
on the tray and bake for 20 minutes until golden brown and crusty.
Serve warm with butter and feta, or at room temperature as part of a
breakfast spread.
BAZLAMA
PAN-FRIED BREAD

Bazlama is the simplest form of bread in the world—it doesn’t even

require an oven. The technique is probably at least 3000 years old. In
Turkish villages, lumps of dough are spread on a sac (pronounced
‘sazh’), which is like an upturned wok resting over hot coals. You
could try that, or use a frying pan instead.
Unlike most breads, bazlama involves little preparation time. You
could leave it to rise overnight, or you could wake up on a Sunday
morning, decide ‘Lets do a bazlama brunch’, invite your friends, leave
the dough to rise while you’re showering and tidying up, and fry
your bread while your guests are sitting down.
Because it contains yoğurt it has a rich flavour and an interesting
texture—soft inside and crunchy outside. You’d serve it with jams or
cheeses (which you would need to make earlier).

SERVES 4

2 teaspoons dry yeast

1 teaspoon sugar
600 g (1 lb 5 oz /4 cups) plain (all-purpose) flour, plus extra for dusting

1 teaspoon salt
125 g (4½ oz/½ cup) plain yoğurt vegetable oil, for frying butter, jam or
cheese, to serve
Put the yeast and sugar in a bowl with 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of lukewarm
water, then set aside for 5 minutes. It should start to form bubbles.

Sift the flour into a mixing bowl, make a well in the middle, and pour in
the yeast mixture. Knead the dough for 1 minute, then add the yoğurt.
Knead for a further 10 minutes or until the dough has reached, as we say
in Turkey, ‘the softness of an earlobe’. Cover the bowl with a damp cloth
and rest in a warm place for 2 hours. The ball of dough should double in
size.

Add the salt to the dough and knead for 3 minutes. Sprinkle some flour
on your work surface and divide the dough into four balls. Return the
dough to the bowl, cover with a damp cloth and rest for 10 minutes.

Place one ball of dough on the work surface and, using floured hands or
a rolling pin, flatten into a round about 10 cm (4 in) wide and 1 cm (½ in)
thick. Repeat with the remaining dough balls.

Heat 1 tablespoon of vegetable oil in a frying pan for 1 minute over

medium heat and swirl gently to coat. Add one round of dough and cook
for 1 minute. Turn the round over and cook for 1 minute more or until
golden brown, then transfer onto paper towel. Repeat with the remaining
three rounds, adding more oil to the pan as required.

Serve the bazlamas with butter, jam or cheese.

TIRNAKLI PİDE
FINGER PIDE

Let me say it again—pide bread is different from pita, which is a

Greek term for the unleavened bread that wraps around kebaps
(better known as lavaş in Turkish). In Istanbul, pide is a treat you
enjoy for one month of the year—when you break your fast after
sunset during the month of Ramadan. In lucky southeastern
Anatolia they get to have pide all year round, because it’s their main
form of bread. The cooks augment it with a coating of yoğurt,
deposited on the top with dancing fingers, like concert pianists—
hence the name ‘finger pide’. The accompaniments for pide are
infinite—jam is only the beginning.

SERVE 4

3 teaspoons dry yeast

500 g (1 lb 2 oz/31/3 cups) plain (all-purpose) flour, plus extra for dusting
50 ml (12/3 fl oz) sunflower oil
½ teaspoon mahlep powder (ground white cherry seeds) (optional)

2 teaspoons salt
25 g (1 oz) plain yoğurt
1 tablespoon nigella seeds

1 tablespoon sesame seeds

1 tablespoon sesame seeds
50 g (1¾ oz) wholemeal flour (if using a baking tray)

Dissolve the yeast in a bowl with 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of lukewarm

water. Set aside for 5 minutes. It should start to form bubbles.

Sift the flour into a mixing bowl, make a well in the middle and pour in
the yeast mixture. Add 375 ml (13 fl oz/1½ cups) of water, the sunflower
oil and mahlep powder, and knead for 5 minutes to form a soft dough.
Cover the bowl with a damp cloth and rest in a warm place for 1 hour.
The ball of dough should double in size.

Add the salt to the dough and knead for 3 minutes. Sprinkle the extra
flour on your work surface. Divide the dough into five pieces and roll into
balls. Return the dough to the bowl, cover with a damp cloth and leave to
rest for 30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to its maximum temperature (as close to 300°C/570°F

as possible). If you have a pizza stone or unglazed terracotta tile, place it
in the oven to heat.

Place one ball of dough on the work surface and, using floured hands or
a rolling pin, flatten into a round about 10 cm (4 in) wide and 2 cm (¾ in)
thick. Repeat with the remaining dough balls.

Mix the yoğurt and 25 ml (¾ fl oz) of water together in a bowl. Dunk both
your hands in the mixture and then, using four fingers of each hand
joined together, hop your fingertips across the dough vertically and then
horizontally to make indentations across the top of each round. Dip your
fingers into the yoğurt regularly to keep them wet.

Mix the nigella and sesame seeds together and sprinkle them evenly onto
each round. Put the bread on the pizza stone or tile and place on the
middle rack of the oven. If you don’t have a stone or tile, sprinkle the
wholemeal flour on a baking tray lined with baking paper and place the
rounds on the flour. Cook for 5 minutes at 300°C (570°F/Gas 10+) (or 6
minutes at 250°C/500°F/Gas 9 or 7 minutes at 200°C/400°F/Gas 6)
minutes at 250°C/500°F/Gas 9 or 7 minutes at 200°C/400°F/Gas 6)
until brown on top and golden on the sides.

Serve warm as part of a breakfast spread.

The harbour at Bodrum, Aegean coast.
POĞAÇA BALKAN-STYLE BRIOCHE STUFFED
WITH POTATO AND CHILLI

The Turkish word poğaça (pronounced ‘poe-uchah’) comes from the

same root as the Italian word focaccia: the Latin panis focacius,
which means bread cooked in the hearth. That suggests it must have
been a favourite of the Romans during their time in Constantinople.
In the mid-seventeenth century, the travel writer Evliya Çelebi
reported in his memoir Seyahatname (Tales of the Journey) that a
sweet version of poğaça had been popular in the sultan’s palace 100
years earlier but was introduced as street food by Balkan
immigrants, who would heap hot ashes over the dough, let it bake,
then scrape the bread clean and serve it with cheese or lamb mince.
(The description sounds rather like damper, a favourite of Australian
bushies in the nineteenth century.) My version of this recipe could not
have been eaten by the Emperor Constantine, since potatoes only
reached Turkey from South America in the eighteenth century. I
think poğaça tastes even better when the mash melts into the dough.

SERVES 4

1 teaspoon dry yeast

2 teaspoons sugar
70 g (2½ oz) butter

1 egg
125 g (4½ oz/½ cup) plain yoğurt 300 g (10½ oz/2 cups) plain (all-
purpose) flour, plus extra for dusting 3 boiling potatoes (such as
 desiree) 2 teaspoons salt, plus extra for boiling the potatoes 1
teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 teaspoons chilli flakes

1 heaped tablespoon shredded kaşar (or mozzarella) 1 tablespoon
vegetable oil
1 egg yolk
1 tablespoon nigella seeds

1 tablespoon sesame seeds

Mix the yeast and the sugar in a bowl with 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) of
lukewarm water and set aside for 5 minutes. It should start to form
bubbles.

Whisk the butter, egg and yoğurt together in a bowl. Sift the flour into a
mixing bowl, make a well in the middle, pour in the yeast mixture and stir
through. Add the yoğurt mixture and knead vigorously for 10 minutes to
make a soft, stretchy dough. Cover the bowl with a damp cloth and rest
in a warm place for 2 hours to expand.

Preheat the oven to 200°C (400°F/Gas 6).

Peel and quarter the potatoes, then place in a large saucepan, cover with
salted water and bring to the boil. Cook for 15 minutes or until the
potatoes are tender, then drain well. Add half the salt, the pepper, chilli
flakes and cheese, and roughly mash.

Add the remaining salt to the rested dough and knead to combine.
Sprinkle some flour on your work surface. Divide the dough into eight
pieces and roll into balls. Place one ball of dough on the work surface
and, with floured hands or a rolling pin, flatten into a round about 10 cm
(4 in) wide and 1–2 cm (about ½ in) thick. Repeat with the remaining
dough. Add 1 tablespoon of the mashed potato mixture in the middle of
each round. Fold over one side to create a half moon shape. Press lightly
each round. Fold over one side to create a half moon shape. Press lightly
around the edges to seal.

Line a baking tray with baking paper and brush with vegetable oil.
Arrange the poğaças on the tray. Brush the pastry with oil and the tops
with egg yolk, and sprinkle on the seeds. Bake for 30 minutes or until
golden brown.

Serve warm, two per person.

BALIKLI EKMEK
BLACK SEA CORNBREAD WITH
LEEKS AND WHITEBAIT

When I led my first gourmet tour of Turkey in 2013, we visited the

tranquil Istanbul suburb of Anadolu Kavaği—the last stop for the
Bosphorus ferries—lined with casual seaside restaurants looking out
to the Black Sea and up to Yoros Castle. We sat down to a fish feast.
Walking back to the ferry, we passed an unassuming bakery, and
one of my guests noted a snack I’d never seen before—cornbread that
seemed to be stuffed with sardines and leeks. He bought some for
everyone and they declared it the highlight of the day. So I
researched it and recreated it for this book.
Hamsi is the most prized fish of the Black Sea—somewhere
between an anchovy and a sardine. I decided to substitute baby
whitebait, because hamsi don’t swim far beyond the Bosphorus and
sardines might be too strong for breakfast.

SERVES 8

½ bunch silverbeet (Swiss chard) ½ bunch dill

½ bunch flat-leaf (Italian) parsley 2 leeks
2 onions
2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons dried mint

500 g (1 lb 2 oz) whitebait

2 teaspoons baking powder

2 teaspoons baking powder
1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) maize flour 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) olive oil, plus extra for
brushing 1 egg

1 tablespoon salt
Wash the silverbeet and remove the stalks. Finely chop the leaves.
Remove the stalks from the dill. Pick the leaves from the parsley. Remove
the roots and green outer layer from the leeks, then rinse to remove any
dirt. Finely chop the leeks, parsley and onions separately.

Melt the butter in a frying pan over high heat. Add the onions and cook
for 3 minutes or until soft. Add the leeks and cook for 3 minutes, then add
the silverbeet and cook for a further 5 minutes. Remove from the heat,
turn into a bowl and leave to cool.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

When the silverbeet mixture has cooled, stir in the parsley and dried mint.
Add the whitebait and mash together with a fork.

Mix the baking powder with 300 ml (10¾ fl oz) of warm water. Sift the
flour into a mixing bowl, make a well in the middle and pour in the baking
powder mixture. Stir thoroughly and then add the whitebait mixture, olive
oil, egg and salt. Knead for 5 minutes, or until it forms a rough dough.

Line a 30 x 20 x 4 cm (12 x 8 x 1½ in) baking tray with baking paper and

brush with olive oil. Press the dough into the tray. Sprinkle the dill over the
top and press it in. Brush the top with oil and bake for 45 minutes.

Take the tray out of the oven and make three knife cuts across the top of
the bread to ensure even cooking. Brush the top and the slits with more
oil and bake for a further 45 minutes or until golden brown.

Turn off the heat, leaving the bread in the oven, and rest for 30 minutes.
Turn off the heat, leaving the bread in the oven, and rest for 30 minutes.

Slice or break the warm cornbread into chunks and serve.

 Kaymak at Pando’s

Everything moves slowly at Pando’s—particularly Pando Şestakof, who is

ninety. When a young businessman on his way to work sits at an outside
table for a plate of kaymak and asks: ‘Could you rush the order?’ Pando
replies: ‘Here it runs at my speed.’ Then he shuffles inside and
painstakingly scoops the pure white treasure onto a steel plate and
drizzles it with honey. He picks up a plastic basket containing half a loaf
of bread, roughly chopped, and takes a full five minutes to shuffle back
outside with the two plates.
That ritual has been going on in this place since 1895, when Pando’s
grandfather came from Bulgaria and set up a shop called Hayat (Life) to
sell the products of his dairy farm. He became the favoured supplier to
the Dolmabahçe Palace, where the sultan lived in summer. After the
revolution that palace became the residence of President Atatürk, and
Pando’s father continued to provide the kaymak.
When Pando and his wife Yuanna inherited the shop, they sold the
farm and started buying their milk from the best water buffalo farmers in
the neighbourhood. Pando opens his café at 8 am, seven days a week,
and closes when he runs out of kaymak. Then he goes home to make
some more for tomorrow.
Pando’s little shop is a geographical reference point in the
neighbourhood. For the past thirty years, visitors asking the way
somewhere won’t be given a street name but instead be told ‘Go 20
metres past Pando’s and turn left’. He’s at a kind of crossroads in Beşiktaş
market, one of the last surviving local markets in Istanbul. As recently as
twenty years ago, nearly every suburb had a jumble of shops and stalls
like this. But more than a hundred local markets have shrunk to a
handful, replaced by shopping centres with escalators instead of lane
ways and supermarkets that sell flavourless commercially processed
kaymak.
Here’s how Pando makes his clotted cream (and you’ll quickly see why
we adapted the recipe):
Use unpasteurised and unhomogenised buffalo milk (which has a fat
content of about 8 per cent, while cow’s milk has 3 per cent).
Pour it into a baking tray over a wood fire and slowly cook it. Never let
it boil. After about four hours it will start to develop a skin.
Every few hours, skim off the skin and put it into a separate tray. The
skin is the kaymak. Over 48 hours you will get 100 g (3½ oz) of kaymak
from 1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) of buffalo milk. You can drink the watery milk that is
left behind.

To accompany our recipe on the following page, we’ve suggested rose

jam—because that’s how Pando used to serve it back in the 1960s.
Nowadays, he prefers honey, but he always keeps a pot of rose jam for
nostalgic customers.
Pando Şestakof delivers the tea that must accompany his precious kaymak.
YALANCI KAYMAK
CLOTTED CREAM WITH ROSE JAM

The Turkish name for this dish translates as ‘Liar’s kaymak’, because
our recipe will not end up tasting the same as the kaymak that has
been served for 100 years in my favourite breakfast café in Istanbul—
Pando in Beşiktaş markets. There the kaymak is made with water
buffalo milk that has been slowly simmered until it’s thick and
luscious.
In this recipe, I’ve included cornflour as a thickener, on the
assumption that you will be using pasteurised milk. If you have
access to creamy unpasteurised milk, lucky you, because you can
eliminate the cornflour and come closer to the Pando experience.

SERVES 4

KAYMAK
60 g (2¼ oz/½ cup) cornflour (cornstarch) 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) full-
cream (whole) milk (preferably high-fat such as Jersey or buffalo)
500 ml (17 fl oz /2 cups) thickened (whipping) cream 50 g (1¾ oz)
butter

ROSE JAM

50 pink rose petals

500 g (1 lb 2 oz) sugar

1 teaspoon citric acid powder

1 teaspoon citric acid powder
pide bread, to serve

First make the kaymak. Whisk the cornflour, milk and cream together to
dissolve the starch. Transfer to a baking tray, preferably a stainless steel
¼ gastronorm tray (26.5 x 16.3 x 2 cm/101/3 x 6½ x ¾ in). Place the tray
over very low heat and whisk for 5 minutes—being careful not to let the
mixture stick. Add the butter and continue to whisk for 15 minutes or until
it thickens to a pudding consistency. Remove from the heat and leave to
rest for 30 minutes, then transfer to the fridge.

To make the jam, first peel the petals from the pink roses. If using organic
(non-sprayed) roses, wash under cold running water. If using commercial
roses, blanche in boiling water for 15 seconds, soak in cold water in the
fridge for 12 hours, and then strain and wash under cold running water.
Discard any brown or spotty petals. Cut the white patch off the bottom
of each petal and slice any large petals in half. Pat the petals dry with
paper towel. Place a layer of petals in a bowl, sprinkle with sugar, add
another layer and repeat the process until all the petals are coated with
the sugar. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.

Pour 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) of water into a heavy-based saucepan and
add 1 tablespoon of sugar. Slowly bring to the boil, stirring frequently. Add
the sugared rose petals and simmer for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Add the citric acid and simmer for a further 10 minutes, scooping off any
scum that forms on the surface. To test the thickness of the jam, scoop a
spoonful onto a cold plate. It should form a gel. If it‘s still runny, simmer
for a further 5 minutes or until it thickens.

Remove the jam from the heat and leave to cool to room temperature,
then transfer to a jar with a tight-fitting lid* and set aside. (Do not put in
the fridge.) Spread 2 tablespoons of jam on a plate and top with a large
dollop of kaymak. Serve with pide.

NOTE
Stored properly, the rose jam will keep for up to 6 months. Cut a piece of
baking paper slightly larger than the jar cap, brush liberally with olive oil
baking paper slightly larger than the jar cap, brush liberally with olive oil
and place it between the jar and the cap before sealing tightly. This will
prevent mould forming on the jam.
Pando’s wife, Yuanna Şestakof.
LABNE
MINTED YOĞURT BALLS

When I first heard of a Middle-Eastern cheese called labne I was

intrigued, but I refrained from using it in my restaurant because I
thought it was Lebanese. Then I discovered that the name comes
from laban, an Egyptian-Arabic word for ‘milk’, that it is just strained
yoğurt, treated with a little lemon and salt; and that it can be found
all over Turkey under the name süzme. The Lebanese like to dip their
labne in zaatar, and the Egyptians dip them in dukka, but I thought
I’d be Turkish and use mint and sumac.

MAKES ABOUT 15 BALLS

1 garlic clove
1¼ tablespoons salt
1.4 kg (3 lb 2 oz) plain yoğurt juice of ¼ lemon

1 mint stalk
500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) extra virgin olive oil 3 tablespoons dried mint 3
teaspoons sumac

2 teaspoons chilli flakes

1 tablespoon dill tips (or dried dill)
Crush the garlic with 1 teaspoon of salt, then mix with the yoğurt and
lemon juice.

Place the yoğurt mixture on a sheet of muslin (cheesecloth), tie up the

corners and hang over a pot for 12 hours to drain. The yoğurt should
thicken to a cream cheese consistency.

Mould the thickened yoğurt into spheres about the size of a ping-pong
ball. This quantity should make about fifteen balls.

Gently place the labne into a large jar with the fresh mint, cover with olive
oil, and then set aside to rest for at least 24 hours.

When you’re ready to serve, combine the herbs and salt on a plate and
roll the balls in the mix, one at a time. Serve on a platter in the middle of
the table for people to help themselves.

NOTE
Labne can be kept in the fridge for up to 1 month.
ISPANAKLI KOL BÖREĞI ROLLED PASTRY
WITH SPINACH AND FETA

The Turkish word kol means ‘arm’, and presumably gets into the
Turkish name for this börek because each roll of pastry is bent to look
like an arm coming round to hug you. It would make more sense to
call this a spiral or a labyrinth, since that is how it looks when all the
arms are linked together.
My maternal grandma, who came from Yugoslavia, was a master
of the ‘arm börek’, and she made giant spirals to feed a large family.
In later life, she used an electric börek cooker, called a drum oven,
which was a cylinder with doors on the side and shelves onto which
you could place multiple layers of börek.
Spinach is the traditional filling, but you can use kale, silverbeet or
even minced lamb.

SERVES 8

250 g (9 oz) English spinach

1 onion
4 spring onions (scallions)
120 ml (4 fl oz) sunflower or vegetable oil 1 tablespoon chilli flakes
1 tablespoon salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon dried mint

150 g (5½ oz) feta
80 ml (2½ fl oz/1/3 cup) milk
1 egg
1 tablespoon plain yoğurt 2 sheets yufka (if you cannot buy yufka)

Wash the spinach thoroughly. Remove the stalks, then finely chop the
leaves. Finely slice the onion. Wash the spring onions, then remove the
roots and green outer layer. Finely chop.

Put 2 tablespoons of oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Add the onions
and cook for 3 minutes. Add the spring onions and cook for 3 minutes
more. Add the spinach and cook for a further 3 minutes, then remove
from the heat. Mix in all the herbs and spices and leave in the frying pan
to cool. Grate the feta into the cooled spinach mixture.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Whisk the milk, egg, yoğurt and 2 teaspoons of oil in a mixing bowl.

Unfold a sheet of yufka and slice it down the middle to create a half
moon shape.

Brush a quarter of the egg mixture onto each half moon of yufka. Spread
a quarter of the spinach mixture along the flat side of the half moon,
making a strip about 5 cm (2 in) wide. Fold the strip over and tightly roll
the yufka into a tube about 80 cm (31½ in) long.

Brush a 20 cm (8 in) wide baking tray with the remaining oil. Place the
rolled börek onto the tray and pull it around into a circle, with the ends
overlapping. Make another börek and join that to the inside end of the
previous circle, so that it forms a smaller ring inside the first one. Add two
more börek tubes so you have a spiral of smaller and smaller rings.

Bake for 20 minutes or until the börek are golden. Turn off the heat,
leaving the tray in the oven, and rest for 10 minutes.

Cut across the spiral four times to make eight wedges, and serve.
KÜRT BÖREĞI KURDISH-STYLE ROLLED
PASTRY WITH HAZELNUTS

The Turkish name for this pastry—kürt böreği—suggests it is a

Kurdish speciality, but you should not expect to find it in eastern
Anatolia, where the Kurds live. The name seems to have arisen
because it’s the kind of dish Istanbul chefs imagine Kurds might eat.
To confuse the issue further, I’ve boosted it with hazelnuts and crème
pâtissière, which makes it more like the kind of rich pastry they love
on the Black Sea.

SERVES 4

ROLLED PASTRY
120 g (4½ oz/1 cup) hazelnuts
1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) plain (all-purpose) flour (plus extra for dusting), or 3
sheets frozen puff pastry 2 eggs

1 tablespoon baking powder

125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) vegetable oil
125 g (4½ oz/½ cup) plain yoğurt 150 g (5½ oz) butter, plus extra for
greasing

1 tablespoon cinnamon powder

3 tablespoons icing (confectioners’) sugar CRÈME PÂTISSIÈRE
310 ml (10¾ fl oz fl oz/1¼ cups) milk
3 egg yolks
3 tablespoons cornflour (cornstarch)
2 tablespoons plain (all-purpose) flour
30 g (1 oz/¼ cup) icing (confectioners’) sugar 1 vanilla bean, or 1
teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Place the hazelnuts on a baking tray and bake for 5 minutes. Remove
from the oven and leave to cool. When the nuts are cool enough to
handle, remove the skin, transfer to a food processor and grind coarsely.

To make the crème pâtissière, warm the milk in a saucepan over low
heat for about 10 minutes until it reaches a low simmer, preferably using
a simmer mat. Try to keep the temperature around 70°C (160°F) if you
have a food thermometer, being careful not to let the milk start to boil.

Meanwhile, combine the egg yolks, cornflour, flour and icing sugar in a
mixing bowl and whisk until smooth. Ladle about 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup)
of the warm milk into the yolk mixture, whisk together, and then pour
into the saucepan with the remaining milk. Whisk slowly for another 2
minutes, then remove from the heat. Slit the vanilla bean lengthways,
scrape the seeds into the mixture and stir through. Discard the skin. Put
the bowl in the fridge to cool.

Sift the flour into a mixing bowl, make a well in the middle, break in the
eggs and then add the baking powder, vegetable oil and yoğurt. Knead
the dough for about 10 minutes, or until the dough is soft and stretchy.
Cover the bowl with a damp cloth and rest for 1 hour to expand.

Sprinkle some flour on your work surface. Divide the dough into twenty
pieces and roll into balls. With floured hands or a rolling pin, flatten one
ball into a round 20 cm (8 in) wide and 2–3 cm (about 1 in) thick. Repeat
with the remaining dough.

Melt the butter in a frying pan over medium heat (or microwave for 30
Melt the butter in a frying pan over medium heat (or microwave for 30
seconds). Brush each round with the butter and then place the rounds on
top of each other to make a stack. Press the stack down and spread the
dough out with a rolling pin, as thin as possible. Brush with butter and roll
into a log. Slice into three equal pieces, wrap each piece in plastic wrap
and refrigerate for 1 hour to rest.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Remove the chilled dough from the fridge (or freezer if using store-
bought puff pastry) and leave to warm to room temperature. Grease a
30 x 20 x 4 cm (12 x 8 x 1½ in) baking tray with butter. Roll out the first
piece of puff pastry to the size of the tray. Remove the crème pâtissière
from the fridge and spread onto the pastry, then sprinkle one-third of the
hazelnuts over the top.

Roll out the second and third pieces of puff pastry to the size of your tray,
and brush the top with butter. Place the second puff pastry layer on top
of the first, sprinkle with another third of hazelnuts, and then place the
final pastry layer on top.

Cut the stacked dough into 8 cm (3¼ in) squares. Bake for 25 minutes or
until golden on top. Remove from the oven and leave to cool slightly.

Sprinkle the remaining hazelnuts on top of the börek, dust with cinnamon
and icing sugar, then serve warm.
KUYMAK
BLACK SEA FONDUE

This is a speciality of the Laz people who live along the Black Sea in
northern Anatolia. People from other parts of Turkey say two things
about the Laz people: the women are very beautiful and the men are
very smart before midday. The Laz are famous for creating hundreds
of recipes from a fish similar to a sardine called hamsi, but this is one
of the few sardine-free recipes. It’s a kind of fondue into which you
dip bread, but the maize flour gives it more of a hearty porridge
consistency than a Swiss fondue. It prepares you to face the harsh
climate along that windy coast.

SERVES 4

2 tablespoons butter
½ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 100 g (3½ oz)
maize flour 115 g (4 oz/¾ cup) shredded mozzarella

1 tablespoon grated parmesan

½ teaspoon smoked paprika pide bread, to serve

Combine the butter, salt, pepper and 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) of water in
a saucepan over high heat and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat and add
the maize flour. Cook for 10 minutes, stirring constantly. Add the cheeses
and stir in to melt.
Top with paprika and serve hot in the pot, with pide for dipping.
Mehmet Özsimitci, third-generation master of the art of katmer making.
KATMER
PISTACHIO PANCAKES WITH
CLOTTED CREAM

When the suffix -ci (pronounced ‘zhee’) is added to a Turkish noun it

means ‘a maker of’ that thing. Thus a katmerci is a maker of katmer,
the crunchy pancake that is a speciality of Gaziantep, in southeastern
Anatolia. The supreme katmerci in that foodie city is a man named
Mehmet Özsimitci, whose surname translates as ‘maker of genuine
simits’. That tells you that one of his ancestors was a specialist in the
pretzel/bagels that every Turk consumes as a street snack.
Somewhere along the line, Mehmet’s family swapped from
making simits to making katmers, adding greatly to the happiness of
the world. Outside his shop, at the end of an arcade in the modern
part of the city, Mehmet displays a slogan that translates as ‘Katmer
is not a product of a pastry shop but a culture of master Zekeriya’.
Zekeriya is Mehmet’s father, who these days sits at the cash register
while Mehmet supervises his team of young pastry rollers and
dances around the outside tables, taking orders and chatting to
customers.
He’ll tell you that katmer is best consumed with tea rather than
coffee (and he’ll order you a tea from the shop next door); that katmer
is traditionally the first meal eaten by a bride and groom after their
wedding night (to restore their energy); and that half his daily
production goes to home delivery—transported by moped across
Gaziantep and by mail to homesick Turks all over Europe.
I hope my recipe does him justice.

SERVES 4
2 sheets chilled filo pastry, about 40 x 27 cm (16 x 10¾ in) each
2 tablespoons ghee
2 tablespoons thick (double) cream, or kaymak
2 heaped tablespoons ground pistachios

1 tablespoon sugar
Take the filo sheets out of the fridge and leave to warm to room
temperature for 1 hour. Spread one sheet out on a large work surface
and overlap with another sheet to create a 40 x 40 cm (16 x 16 in) square
of filo. Paint a little ghee where the sheets overlap, and join them
together.

Leaving a margin of about 10 cm (4 in) around the edges, dot nine dobs
of cream onto the filo to make a square about 20 cm (8 in) wide. Sprinkle
the pistachios and sugar over the cream, and then fold the four edges of
pastry over to make a square parcel about 20 cm (8 in) wide.

Pour 1 tablespoons of ghee into a frying pan and swirl to coat. Place the
pan over medium heat and let the ghee warm for about 10 seconds.
Drop the filo parcel into the pan (wrap-side down) and cook for 2
minutes or until golden. Using two spatulas or large knives, turn the
pancake over and cook for 1 minute more.

Cut the katmer into eight squares and serve two per person as part of a
breakfast spread.
At Zekeriya Usta, the art of katmer making begins with sprinkling and tossing sheets of
buckwheat dough to make the thinnest possible fila.
PESTİL
GRAPE LEATHER STUFFED WITH
WALNUTS

Pestil is fruit juice that has been dried into strips. Although the
process originated as a way of preserving summer ingredients to last
through winter, it has now become the candy bar of central Anatolia.
Rolled around nuts, it goes in a kid’s backpack to be consumed at
school as a nutritious morning snack. We’re suggesting you make
pestil from grape juice, but you can get tasty results with mulberries,
plums or apricots. If you’re planning to keep your pestil strip for any
length of time, roll it up in baking paper so it does not stick.

MAKES 16

GRAPE LEATHER
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) red grapes
1 star anise
1 cinnamon stick

3 cloves
1 heaped tablespoon cornflour (cornstarch) WALNUT AND FIG FILLING

5 dried figs
150 g (5½ oz/11/3 cups) walnuts
Wash the grapes and remove any stalks.

Place a large saucepan over low heat and then add the grapes, star
anise, cinnamon stick and cloves. (Don’t add any water.) Press down with
a potato masher to push out some of the juices. Bring the grape mixture
to the boil and then simmer for 15 minutes, pressing down regularly to
release the juices.

Take the grape mixture off the heat and leave to cool. Put a muslin
(cheesecloth) over another saucepan and pour all the grape pulp into the
muslin. Tie the edges of the muslin together and squeeze the bag to
extract all the juice—it should yield about 300 ml (10½ fl oz).

Preheat the oven to 100°C (200°F/Gas ½).

Place the grape juice in a saucepan over medium heat and bring to the
boil. Put the cornflour in a bowl and mix in 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of the
hot grape juice and then pour the mixture back into the pan. Continue to
cook for 15 minutes, stirring regularly, until the mixture thickens to a
custard-like syrup.

Line a baking tray, including the sides, with baking paper. Pour the syrup
into the tray (it should be about 5 mm/¼ in deep).

Tap the tray to remove any air bubbles from the syrup. Bake for 5 hours,
checking every hour to ensure the edges are not becoming too dry. If
they appear crusty, use a pastry brush to apply a little water.

Remove the tray from the oven and leave to cool slightly. When the
grape leather is cool enough to handle, carefully lift the baking paper
edges to remove it from the tray and transfer to a board to cool
completely.

Next, make the stuffing. Put the figs in a bowl, cover with hot water and
leave to soak for 15 minutes. Transfer the figs to paper towel, drain for 10
minutes, and then remove the stalks. Put the figs in a food processor, add
the walnuts and coarsely combine.
Cut across the grape leather to make four equal strips. Spoon a line of
filling along the middle of each strip. Roll each strip, lengthways, to create
a log about 20 cm (8 in) long, pressing down to keep it sealed. Slice the
log into four equal pieces and serve as part of a breakfast spread.
CARTLAK KEBABI LIVER KEBAPS

You’ve got to get up pretty early in the morning to catch Ali Haydar.
Around 6 am should do it. If you wait till 8, you might find he has
sold out of his speciality and gone home. This speciality is lamb liver
kebaps—another breakfast tradition of southeastern Anatolia that
baffles visitors from Istanbul.
Ali opens his little kebap shop, just down the hill from Gaziantep
Castle, immediately after the dawn prayer, which means around 5
am in the summer and around 6 am in the winter. Gradually the
customers arrive to sit on the tiny stools outside the shop. Some sit at
an angle that suggests they are on the way home from a night of
drinking. Others are straight-backed and alert, suggesting they are
just out of the nearby mosque and on their way to work.
Inside the shop, Ali, in a light-blue butcher’s jacket, risks setting fire
to his moustache as he uses a sheet of cardboard to fan the coals of
his charcoal grill. He closely watches his skewers and, at the moment
the exterior turns crunchy while the inside stays pink, he lifts them
away from the coals and wipes them into a mitten of flatbread. When
all his livers (and his hearts, lungs and kidneys) have been cooked
and consumed by customers, he heads home. In the afternoon he
visits the offal market (distinguished by a large sign announcing
‘Cleaned Heads’) and collects the ingredients to be prepared overnight
for the next morning’s feast.

SERVES 4

KEBAPS
2 lamb livers, about 300 g (10½ oz) 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) milk 4 mild
green or red chillies 1 teaspoon cumin
1 teaspoon hot paprika
1 teaspoon chilli flakes
1 teaspoon chilli flakes

1 teaspoon salt
250 g (9 oz) butter, softened PARSLEY SALAD
1 bunch flat-leaf (Italian) parsley 1 red onion
1 tablespoon sumac

1 teaspoon chilli flakes

2 teaspoons pomegranate molasses

1 tablespoon olive oil

4 store-bought pita breads (or make a lahmacun base and fold it over),
to serve

Soak the lamb livers in milk overnight, covered, in the fridge.

Remove the bowl of livers from the fridge and set aside.

To make the parsley salad, pick the leaves off the parsley and roughly
chop. Discard the stems. Finely slice the red onion and place in a salad
bowl. Add the parsley, sumac, chilli flakes, molasses and olive oil, and mix
well.

When you’re ready to cook the livers, remove them from the bowl, pat
dry with paper towel and clean off the membrane and sinews. Roughly
cut each of the cleaned livers into 16 cubes about 2 cm (¾ in) across—the
size of a bird’s head, as we say in Turkey.

Preheat the barbecue grill to very high. If using bamboo skewers, soak in
water for 15 minutes.

Slit down one side of each chilli and remove the seeds. Slice across each
Slit down one side of each chilli and remove the seeds. Slice across each
chilli to make six pieces about 1 cm (½ in) wide. Mix the cumin, paprika,
chilli flakes and salt in a bowl, then stir in the softened butter. Using your
hands, rub the pieces of lamb liver in the spiced butter to coat well.

Next, make the kebaps by alternately threading four pieces of liver and
three chilli chunks onto each skewer—with the chilli keeping the liver
pieces apart. Repeat to make eight kebaps.

Put the skewers on the grill and cook for 2 minutes on each side, turning
the skewers once. The livers are ready when they start to form a crust.

Partly slit through the pita bread so that it can open like jaws. Spread any
leftover spiced butter inside the bread. Next, holding a skewer in your left
hand and a pita in your right hand, use the pita like a baseball mitten to
wrap round the skewer and pull the row of liver and chilli pieces off.
Repeat so each pita contains the liver from two skewers. Open the bread
again and add a heaped tablespoon of salad between the two strips of
liver. Close the bread and serve immediately.

Ali Haydar’s liver stall at 6 am, just after morning prayers.

İNCİR UYUTMASİ
THE SLEEPING FIGS

‘While shepherds watched their flocks by night, all seated on the

ground, they also soaked their figs in milk, and then some sleep they
found.’ That’s essentially the back story of this dish. I love its name—
the Sleeping Figs—because it suggests the gentle process of warming
the milk and resting the pudding overnight.
A version of this dessert, called teleme, has been a typical goat
herder’s snack popular for thousands of years in northwestern
Anatolia. They’d milk their goats, add a few drops of sap from fresh
figs to the milk, mix it for a few minutes and let it set into yoğurt.
Then they would slice fresh figs through it. Of course, that restricted
the pleasure to early autumn, when figs are at their best. Our version
uses cow’s milk, walnuts and dried figs to make a healthy breakfast
for all seasons.

SERVES 4

10 dried figs
500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) milk
2 fresh figs

2 tablespoons grape molasses

60 g (2¼ oz/½ cup) walnuts

Put the figs in a bowl, cover with hot water and leave to soak for 15
Put the figs in a bowl, cover with hot water and leave to soak for 15
minutes. Transfer the figs to paper towel, leave to drain for 10 minutes,
then remove the stalks. Roughly chop each fig into about six pieces and
then set aside.

Warm the milk in a saucepan over low heat until it reaches a low simmer,
preferably using a simmer mat. Try to keep the temperature around
70°C (160°F) if you have a food thermometer, being careful not to let the
milk start to boil.

Add the chopped figs and, using a hand-held blender, mix to a purée.
Simmer for a further 5 minutes. (If you don’t have a stick blender, pour
the mixture into a blender and pulse until smooth, then pour it back into
the saucepan and warm for a further 7 minutes).

Half fill four small bowls with the fig purée. Put the bowls in a cool spot,
cover with a tea towel (dish towel) and rest for 2 hours. Cover the bowls
with plastic wrap and place in the fridge overnight.

When you’re nearly ready to serve, preheat the oven to 180°C

(350°F/Gas 4).

Cut each fresh fig into quarters. Place them on a baking tray with the skin
side down. Brush each fig piece with grape molasses, then bake for 5
minutes until slightly soft but still semi-firm.

Roughly chop the walnuts using a food processor, or by hand. Remove

the fig purée cups from the fridge. Place two fig quarters on each cup
and sprinkle the crushed walnuts over the top, then serve.
MENEMEN
SMASHED EGGS WITH BULLHORN
PEPPERS AND TOMATO

Menemen is a famous breakfast dish in Turkey—the nearest thing we

do to scrambled eggs—but nobody can agree on the perfect version. It
varies from village to village and from house to house—even in the
Aegean town called Menemen, which is not necessarily its place of
origin. There is constant debate among chefs and domestic cooks on
whether to use butter or oil, whether to include onions or garlic,
whether to include peppers or tomatoes, and whether to leave the
eggs whole for the eater to smash, or scramble them as part of the
cooking process.
I prefer to use oil, because I want to cook the onions and peppers
without burning the butter. I add the tomatoes at the last minute so
they taste fresh. And I prefer my eggs stirred not scrambled. You can
join the debate and vary the dish to your taste.

SERVES 4

4 ripe tomatoes
2 green bullhorn peppers (or 1 large green capsicum/pepper) 1 red onion
(optional) 2 tablespoons olive oil 4 eggs
1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon chopped flat-leaf (Italian) parsley

Score a shallow cross in the base of each tomato. Put the tomatoes in a
heatproof bowl and cover with boiling water. Leave for 30 seconds, then
transfer to a bowl of cold water and peel the skin away from the cross.
To seed, cut the tomato in half and scoop out the seeds with a teaspoon.
Chop the tomatoes into 1 cm (½ in) dice.

Cut the peppers in half and discard the stems and seeds. Chop the
peppers into 1 cm (½ in) pieces. If you are using an onion, finely slice it.

Heat the olive oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Add a drop of water
to the oil. If it sizzles, the oil is ready. Add the onion and cook for 5
minutes. Add the chopped peppers and cook for a further 5 minutes, or
until soft. Break the eggs into the pan and cook for 30 seconds. Add the
tomatoes, salt and pepper. Stir two or three times to mix in the eggs, but
don’t blend. Cook over medium heat for a further 3 minutes until the egg
whites are set.

Sprinkle with parsley and serve the menemen in the pan for people to
help themselves.
SUCUKLU YUMURTA
SPICY SAUSAGE WITH EGGS

There is nothing sophisticated about this recipe, but I had to include it

because it’s one of the most common breakfasts all over my land. It’s
our answer to Britain’s bacon and eggs. A wife might say of her
husband: ‘He’s so hopeless, he can’t even cook sucuk and eggs’.
You can buy sucuk everywhere in Turkey, so nobody would bother
to make it at home. But if you can’t find it near you, you could use the
recipe we offer here (or substitute chorizo). Bear in mind that this
won’t taste exactly like a professional sucuk, since that is stuffed into
intestine casings, then hung and dried for a month. But it will be
tasty.

SERVES 4

SUCUK*
2 garlic cloves, crushed 250 g (9 oz) minced (ground) veal or beef 150 g
(5½ oz) minced (ground) lamb 1 teaspoon cumin
1 teaspoon dried oregano 2 teaspoons chilli flakes

2 teaspoons smoked paprika

1 tablespoon capsicum (pepper) paste
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1 teaspoon butter
1 teaspoon salt

4 eggs
4 eggs
pide bread, to serve

To make your own sucuk, crush the garlic into a fine paste. Put the garlic
into a mixing bowl, add the ground meat and spices, and knead for 10
minutes.

Using a rolling pin, flatten the meat mixture into a strip about 1 cm (½ in)
thick and then roll it into a log about 4 cm (1½ in) wide. Wrap tightly with
plastic wrap, squeezing all the air out, then freeze for 1 hour.

Remove the sucuk from the freezer, remove the plastic wrap, and slice
off twenty thin slices (about 5 mm/¼ in thick). Put the remaining sucuk in
the fridge where it will keep, wrapped in plastic, for 2 weeks.

(If using store-bought sucuk or chorizo, soak in hot water for 15 seconds,
then peel off the skin. Slice into twenty thin slices.) Place a frying pan over
medium heat. Add the sucuk and spread out into a single layer. Add the
butter (and 1 tablespoon of water if the sucuk seems dry) and salt, then
cook for 1 minute. Once the sucuk begins to sizzle, take out eight slices
from the middle of the pan and break the eggs into the space created.
Put the eight sucuk back on top of the eggs.

Cook for 3 minutes, or until the egg whites begin to set, the sides curl, and
the yolk is soft but still formed in the centre. If you prefer your eggs more
cooked, cover with a lid and simmer for 1 minute more.

Place the sucuk in the middle of the table—the Turkish way—for people to
help themselves. Serve with pide.

NOTE
Instead of making your own sucuk you can use 100 g (3½ oz) of store-
bought sucuk or chorizo if you prefer.
ÇİLBİU
POACHED EGGS IN GARLIC
YOĞURT AND PAPRIKA

In Ottoman times, çılbır was the generic term for poached eggs, done
all sorts of ways. Palace records from the fifteenth century show that
a version of çılbır containing poached eggs and onion was cooked for
the mighty sultan Mehmet II. The imperial cooks kept improving on
it over the years. This recipe, with garlic yoğurt, was a favourite of the
second-last sultan in the empire, Abdulhamid II, in the early
twentieth century, and became the gold standard for çılbır in homes
and restaurants across Anatolia.

SERVES 4

1 garlic clove (or chopped garlic shoots) 500 g (1 lb 2 oz/2 cups) plain
yoğurt ½ small red capsicum (pepper)
125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) white vinegar
8 eggs

2 tablespoons butter
½ tablespoon aleppo red pepper flakes (or chilli flakes)

4 teaspoons smoked paprika

pide bread, to serve

Crush the garlic and mix it with the yoğurt (if the taste of raw garlic in the
morning is too strong for you, you could leave out this step, and instead
fry a little garlic or chopped garlic shoots later with the capsicum). Set
aside at room temperature.

Remove the seeds from the capsicum and finely chop.

Divide the yoğurt mixture into four bowls.

Put 1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) of water and the vinegar in a deep frying pan
over high heat. Bring to the boil, then reduce the heat to a gentle simmer.
Carefully break in the eggs, one at a time, with a maximum of three eggs
poaching at a time. Cook for 2–3 minutes, or until the whites are set and
the yolks are still soft and runny.

While the eggs are poaching, melt the butter in a saucepan, add the red
pepper flakes, paprika and capsicum (and garlic, if you’ve saved it for this
step) and cook for 3 minutes.

When ready to serve, scoop the eggs out of the simmering water with a
slotted spoon and place two in each bowl, on top of the yoğurt. Pour a
light stream of the melted butter and peppers over the eggs. Serve with
pide.
KAYGANA CRETAN EGGS WITH WILD
WEEDS

There’s a joke about a salad farmer who is having a tea in the village
café. A neighbour comes in and says: ‘There’s a goat in your field.’
The farmer says: ‘Don’t worry, he won’t eat much’. Shortly afterward,
the neighbour returns and says: ‘There’s a cow in your field.’ The
farmer keeps sipping his tea and says: ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Then the
neighbour returns and says: ‘There’s a man from Crete in your field.’
The farmer leaps up and rushes back to save his field before
everything green has been stripped.
People of Cretan background are famous for eating the dark-green
weeds that grow wild along the Aegean coast and that were ignored
for centuries by Turkish cooks. This egg dish uses the kind of wild
(and tame) greens the Cretans have taught the Turks to love.

SERVES 4

1 cup of any or all of these, mixed: nettles, curly endives, chicory,

dandelion greens, round radicchio, beetroot (beet) leaves, wild rocket
(but not witlof) 3 spring onions (scallions)

1 onion
80 ml (2½ fl oz/1/3 cup) olive oil 1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1 teaspoon hot paprika

4 eggs
pide bread, to serve

If you are using nettles, use gloves to handle them. To remove the sting,
put in a heatproof bowl and cover with boiling water for 30 seconds.
Transfer to cold water for 30 seconds. Pick the green leaves and discard
the stems.

Clean and finely chop the endives and the chicory, discarding the woody
stems. Wash the spring onions, then remove the roots and green outer
layer. Finely chop the onion.

Heat the olive oil in a non-stick frying pan over medium heat, then add
the onion and brown for 5 minutes. Add the spring onions and cook for
another 3 minutes, then add the wild leaves in this order (from toughest
to softest): endives, chicory, radicchio, nettle, dandelion, beetroot leaves,
wild rocket. Lightly fry for about 5 minutes to let any excess water
evaporate. Add the spices and stir. Make four wells in the mixture and
break an egg into each well. Continue to cook until the whites are set but
the yolks are still runny.

Serve the kaygana in the pan for people to help themselves. If the yolks
spread into the mixture, so much the better. Serve with pide.
Mustafa Hasırcı preparing mutton for beyran soup at Metanet, Gaziantep.
BEYRAN
FIERY LAMB AND RICE SOUP

Take a whole sheep, skin it and gut it. Boil it for 12 hours. Shred all the
meat. Boil the same weight of rice. Put some rice, a handful of meat
and a hell of a lot of garlic and chilli into a bowl. Put it over an open
flame so the fat on the surface catches fire. Serve.
That’s not the recipe we’re suggesting for beyran, but it’s what
Mustafa Hasırcı and his team do every day at Metanet, just behind
the central spice market in Gaziantep, southeastern Turkey. The
restaurant’s name means ‘endurance’ or ‘fortitude’, which is
presumably what you need to eat this spicy soup every day for
breakfast as many citizens of Gaziantep do (only tourists think of
having beyran for lunch).
Mustafa certainly has endurance. For the past forty years he’s been
getting up every day at 4 am to make his soup—following in the
footsteps of his father, the founder of Metanet. Mustafa has earned
the title usta, which means ‘master of your craft’. He has no equal in
Gaziantep.
Our soup is a modified version of Mustafa’s masterwork, and we
won’t tell anybody if you decide to have it for lunch or dinner.

SERVES 4

1 lamb neck, about 1 kg (2 lb 4 oz)

220 g (7¾ oz/1 cup) medium-grain rice

2 teaspoons salt
4 garlic cloves, crushed
1 tablespoon chilli flakes
Put the lamb neck in a large saucepan with 1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) of
water, then cover, and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for
about 1½ hours.

Lift out the neck and place on a rack or plate to cool. Do not discard the
cooking water. When the lamb is cool enough to handle, strip off the
meat and discard the bones. Shred the lamb into small strips and set
aside.

Pour the rice into the pot of lamb-flavoured water and bring it back to
the boil over medium heat. Cook the rice for 15 minutes, then add the
salt, garlic, shredded lamb and chilli flakes. Increase the heat to very high
and boil rapidly for 1 minute to spread the red-chilli colour through the
liquid. Serve immediately, while very hot.
Lunch heaven: one of Musa Dağdeviren’s three Çiya restaurant in Kadıköy, Istanbul.
LUNCH
Traditionally in Turkey, lunch was no big deal. People ate before
they went out to work in the fields, and carried with them
simple snacks such as bread, olives and cheese. In the late
nineteenth century, cheap eateries started appearing in the
cities, where tradesmen and shopkeepers could grab a soup, a
stew, and maybe a börek or a kebap. These places came to be
called lokanta (from the Italian word locanda).

In the 1980s, the lunchtime habit of going quick and casual made Turks
in Istanbul an easy target for the American fast-food chains, and for a
while it looked as if the midday formula of soup-stew-kebap was going
to turn into Coke-fries-Big Mac.
Then Musa Dağdeviren appeared and went in exactly the opposite
direction. He travelled round the countryside and spoke to farmers,
bakers, butchers, picklers, pastrymakers and home cooks, and figured
out how to recreate Turkey’s vast regional diversity in a commercial
kitchen.
Now his three lokantas—Çiya, Çiya Sofrası and Çiya Kebap—in the
Istanbul port suburb of Kadıköy are packed every lunchtime with people
desperate to test how many of the fifty dishes on display can be
crammed into their bellies, and looking forward to returning three
months later to find the new season has brought a different array of
‘forgotten’ recipes. Young chefs have been inspired by Musa’s
‘rediscoveries’ to open bistro-style lokantas across Istanbul.
Musa grew up in a family of bakers in southeastern Anatolia, and
moved to Istanbul in the late 1970s to operate the wood-fire oven in his
uncle’s kebap house. He became obsessed with preserving the great
regional repertoire that seemed to be disappearing in the rush towards
'modernisation’. Here’s a rough translation of his philosophy:

I travel all over the country to cook with people In their homes and also
study old books to find new leads. I get very excited when I discover new
poor-people’s dishes, because I believe only poor people can create great
food. If a man has money, he can buy anything, but a person who has
nothing must create beauty from within.

Since he opened his first Çiya in 1987, Musa has regularly found himself in
dispute with the Turkish food establishment which is prone to engage in
nationalist myth-making and wishful thinking about our cuisine. He fights
fantasies with facts, publishing a quarterly magazine called Yemek ve
Kültür (Food and Culture), which funds scholarship on the origins of
Anatolian dishes. He’s setting up a cooking school and research centre,
with a seed bank that will preserve native ingredients.
Luckily for me, Musa opened his first restaurant close to my father’s
tailor shop in Kadiköy, back when I was a teenager who carried a
McDonald’s cup to school to show how cool was. Çiya became my
favourite eating place and Musa became my food hero.
Many of the dishes in this chapter, whether rustic, regional or urban,
were inspired by Musa’s food philosophy. You would be more likely to
find them in Turkish homes far from Istanbul rather than in restaurants—
unless you were lucky enough to live in Kadıköy.
Musa at one of his Çiya restaurants, with candied pumpkins, eggplants and olives.
PİRPİRİM AŞI PURSLANE AND ANCIENT
GRAINS STEW

Vegetarians are always surprised by how many interesting dishes

the land of lamb lovers can offer. In season, this stew appears
regularly on the famous ‘Fifty Bowl’ display table at Çiya restaurant
in Istanbul’s Kadıköy market, using the kind of grains humans have
been boiling for millennia. While it is likely that lentils and chickpeas
originated in Anatolia, black-eyed peas are recent arrivals—brought
from Africa in the fifteenth century for palace chefs eager to surprise
the sultan.
The sour-salty green purslane, which contains more omega-3 than
any other leafy vegetable, is Turkey’s favourite weed, usually
consumed fresh in summer and dried in winter. In the first great
work on botany, written in the fourth century BC, the Greek
philosopher Theophrastus advises sowing purslane in mid-spring so
you can enjoy it in summer. If you can’t find purslane, the best
substitute is baby rocket (arugula).

SERVES 4

95 g (3¼ oz/½ cup) dried chickpeas 95 g (3¼ oz/½ cup) black-eyed

beans 110 g (3¾ oz/½ cup) green lentils 45 ml (1½ fl oz) olive oil
1 onion
2 garlic cloves

1 tomato
½ tablespoon capsicum (pepper) paste
90 g (3¼ oz/½ cup) coarse bulgur
2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
1 bunch purslane (or baby rocket/arugula) juice of ½ lemon
1 teaspoon sumac
1 tablespoon butter
2 teaspoons dried mint

2 teaspoons chilli flakes

pide bread, to serve

Cover the chickpeas with water and soak overnight. Cover the black-eyed
beans with water and also soak overnight.

Strain, then rinse the chickpeas and black-eyed beans. Rinse the lentils.
Boil the chickpeas in plenty of water for 20 minutes, covered, and then
add the black-eyed beans and lentils and boil, covered, for another 40
minutes.

Heat the olive oil in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion and
cook for 3 minutes, then add the garlic and cook for 1 minute more. Cut
the tomato in half and then grate it into the onion, discarding the skin.

Add the three pulses to the onion mixture. Dilute the capsicum paste in
250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of warm water and add it to the mix. Add the
bulgur and the pepper. Bring to the boil, then reduce the heat to a
simmer.

Pick the leaves from the purslane and add them, whole, to the stew.
Simmer, covered, for 10 minutes. Add the lemon juice and stir in the
sumac, then turn off the heat.

Melt the butter in a frying pan over medium heat. Add the mint and stir
for 1 minute. Add the chill flakes and stir for 1 minute more.

Divide the stew into four bowls and drizzle with mint butter. Serve with
Divide the stew into four bowls and drizzle with mint butter. Serve with
pide.
ANALI KİZLI ‘MOTHER AND DAUGHTER’
(DUMPLING AND CHICKPEA STEW)

This complex combination of large and small dumplings in a lamb

and chickpea stew comes from Malatya in eastern Anatolia, an area
best known for apricots. The mothers are a mixture of beef and
bulgur stuffed with minced lamb. The daughters are not big enough
to have stuffing. You won’t find this dish in many restaurants—only
home cooks (and my friend Musa) have the time to do it properly.
For the mums’ outer coating it’s important to choose beef with a
low fat content and to knead it thoroughly so it dissolves into the
bulgur.

SERVES 4

BASE
50 g (1¾ oz/¼ cup) dried chickpeas 400 g (14 oz) lamb leg 2 onions
1 tablespoon butter

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 tablespoon capsicum (pepper) paste
10 flat-leaf (Italian) parsley leaves, finely chopped juice of ½ lemon

STUFFING
1 onion

1 tablespoon butter
150 g (5½ oz) minced (ground) lamb ½ tablespoon tomato paste
½ tablespoon capsicum (pepper) paste
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ½ teaspoon cumin

SHELLS
250 g (9 oz) fine bulgur 200 g (7 oz) lean minced (ground) beef

1 egg
1 tablespoon tomato paste

1 tablespoon butter
½ tablespoon cornflour (cornstarch) TOPPING

2 tablespoons butter
½ tablespoon dried mint ½ tablespoon chilli flakes

Cover the chickpeas with water and soak overnight.

Strain and rinse the chickpeas, place in a saucepan with 500 ml (17 fl
oz/2 cups) of water and simmer, covered, for 1 hour.

While the chickpeas are simmering, make the stuffing. Finely chop the
onion. Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion
and cook for 3 minutes until soft. Add the minced lamb and cook for 2
minutes more.

Put the remaining ingredients in a bowl and mix with 125 ml (4 fl oz/½
cup) of water. Stir the mixture into the onion and minced lamb, and bring
to the boil, then simmer, with the lid on, for 5 minutes. Set the stuffing
aside.

Next, make the shells. Put all the ingredients in a mixing bowl. Slowly add
Next, make the shells. Put all the ingredients in a mixing bowl. Slowly add
45 ml (1½ fl oz) of warm water. Wet your hands and knead for 5 minutes
to make a smooth paste.

Mould the shell mixture into spheres about the size of a ping-pong ball.
Put a ball in your palm and with the fingers of the other hand, make c
well in the mixture. Place a teaspoon of stuffing in the middle and fold
the shell back around it. Repeat to make sixteen balls. With the rest of the
bulgur mixture, make about forty smaller chickpea-size balls.

Now, make the base. Chop the meat from the leg of lamb into small
cubes, removing any sinews and most of the fat. Finely chop the onions.
Melt the butter in a frying pan over medium heat. Add the olive oil and,
when sizzling, cook the onion for 5 minutes until translucent. Add the
capsicum paste and fry for 1 minute. Add the cubed lamb. Cook for 2
minutes, then add 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of water. Bring to the boil and
simmerfor5 minutes.

Add the small balls (daughters) and the large balls [mothers), chickpeas
and parsley to the lamb mixture. Bring back to the boil, then reduce the
heat and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the lemon juice. Divide the mothers
and daughters onto four plates, with the cubed lamb underneath.

For the topping, place a frying pan over medium heat and melt the
butter. Add the dried mint and chilli flakes and sizzle for 4 minutes. Drizzle
the mint and chilli butter over the anali kizli and serve.
TÜRLÜ
SUMMER VEGETABLE CASSEROLE

The Turkish word türlü means ‘with variety’, and implies that you
can use any kind of vegetable that’s available in summer. This is
sometimes called the Turkish ratatouille, but türlü has many more
ingredients than the French dish, and you can even include lamb or
beef and still call it türlü.
You need to layer the ingredients in a deep pot (traditionally clay),
with the slowest-cooking vegetables at the bottom, and simmer it for
a long time. So yes, it’s a casserole, which is normally thought of as a
winter warmer. But this version, which includes green beans and
okra, is perfect served cold on the hottest day, with a side of rice pilav
and yoğurt. It tastes even better the next day.

SERVES 4

1 long eggplant (aubergine) 1 zucchini (courgette) 1 boiling potato

2 onions
3 garlic cloves

1 carrot
2 green bullhorn peppers (or 1 large green capsicum/pepper) 1 red
capsicum (pepper) 150 g (5½ oz) green beans 100 g (3½ oz) okra

3 ripe tomatoes
45 ml (1½ fl oz) olive oil 1 thin slice of ginger 1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
rice pilav, boiled rice or plain yoğurt, to serve (optional)

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Peel the eggplant and zucchini and chop both into 3 cm (1¼ in) pieces.
Wash and peel the potato, and chop into 3 cm (1¼ in) cubes. Finely slice
the onions and chop the garlic. Peel the carrot and cut into 1 cm (½ in)
pieces. Seed and chop the bullhorn pepper and capsicum into pieces
about 3 cm (1¼ in) long. Cut the tips off the green beans and chop into 3
cm (1¼ in) pieces.

Cut the stalks off the okra. Score a shallow cross in the base of the
tomatoes, then transfer to a heatproof bowl and cover with boiling
water. Leave for 30 seconds, then plunge in cold water and peel the skin
away from the cross. Roughly chop. Very finely chop the ginger.

Heat the olive oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion
and cook for 5 minutes, or until soft. Add the garlic and fry for another 2
minutes. Add the ginger, vegetables, salt, pepper and 500 ml (17 fl oz/2
cups) of water. Seal the pan with foil, then put the lid on. Simmer for 20
minutes. Turn off the heat and leave to rest for 20 minutes without
opening the lid.

Serve warm with rice pilav or boiled rice, or cold with yoğurt on a hot
summer day.
KUL AŞI
BEEF GOULASH

There’s too much mythology and not enough research in discussions

about food in Turkey. Turkish chefs like to claim the Hungarians got
their word ‘goulash’ from the Turkish term kul aşi (which means
‘common man’s dish’—a stew served to soldiers 300 years ago). But, if
they’d bothered to check, they’d find that in Hungarian the word
gulyas means a ‘cattle herder’, and since the ninth century, the
Hungarian herders have been in the habit of carrying beef and
vegetables and making a kind of stew out in the field.
Throughout the seventeenth century, the soldiers of the Ottoman
Empire regularly met the soldiers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in
battles for the control of Vienna. Presumably, the Turkish troops were
eating kul aşi on one side while the Hungarians were eating goulash
on the other. Both would have been flavouring their stews with
peppers, which arrived from the Americas in the early 1500s and
were first cultivated by Turks living in Budapest.

SERVES 4

500 g (1 lb 2 oz) topside or chuck steak 2 tablespoons plain (all-purpose)

flour 2 onions
4 garlic cloves

2 tomatoes
2 green bullhorn peppers (or 1 large green capsicum/pepper) 1 carrot
2 boiling potatoes
1 parsnip
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 tablespoon capsicum (pepper) paste
½ tablespoon tomato paste

1 bay leaf
8 celery leaves, chopped 1 tablespoon cumin
1 tablespoon chilli flakes 1 tablespoon salt

1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper

rice pilav, to serve

Chop the beef into cubes about 3 cm (1¼ in) wide. Toss in the flour, then
shake off the excess.

Finely chop the onions and the garlic. Roughly chop the tomatoes.
Remove the stalks and seeds from the peppers and chop. Chop the
carrot, potatoes and parsnip.

Heat the vegetable oil in a heavy-based saucepan over medium heat.

Add the onions and garlic and sauté for 3 minutes. Increase the heat to
medium-high and brown the beef cubes evenly for 5 minutes. Add the
tomatoes, peppers, capsicum paste and tomato paste. Stir for 2 minutes.
Add the bay leaf, celery leaves and 750 ml (26 fl oz/3 cups) of water,
then bring to boil.

Add the vegetables and the spices. Continue to boil over medium heat for
about 15 minutes, or until the potato and parsnip are soft.

Serve with rice pilav.

PAPARA
GRANDMA’S BREAD AND BEEF
STEW

I learned this dish from my mother’s mother, who died in 2010 at the
age of 103. Living through two world wars and three military coups,
she raised three kids by herself. She knew how to survive, how to
improvise and how not to waste a single grain.
I remember when she made papara the first time, from leftover
bread, rice and a handful of minced meat. The origin of the dish is
uncertain, but it is part of the peasant culture of Anatolia and the
Balkans. In Istanbul during the seventeenth century, there were
shops that sold ‘papara cubed bread’ as an ingredient for this dish—
because, of course, the rich gourmands didn’t have stale bread of
their own.

SERVES 4

375 g (13 oz/1½ cups) plain yoğurt 1 onion

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

200 g (7 oz) minced (ground) lamb or veal 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) beef
stock
1 tablespoon tomato paste
3 slices stale bread

2 tablespoons butter
185 g (6½ oz/1 cup) leftover rice (optional) 2 garlic cloves
1 teaspoon chilli flakes
1 teaspoon sweet paprika

1 tablespoon dried mint

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Place the yoğurt on a sheet of muslin (cheesecloth) and tie up the

corners. Hang the muslin over a pot for 3 hours to allow the yogurt to
thicken.

Finely chop the onion. Heat the vegetable oil in a frying pan over medium
heat. Add the onion and sauté for 3 minutes. Add the meat and cook for
5 minutes. Add the beef stock and bring to the boil. Mix in the tomato
paste and simmer for 15 minutes.

Chop the stale bread into 2 cm (about 1 in) cubes. Melt half the butter in a
frying pan over medium heat. Brush the bread with the melted butter,
then roast in the oven for 5 minutes, or until golden.

Add the bread to the minced meat and mix it through. If you want to
thicken it with rice, stir that into the mixture now. Simmer for 5 minutes.

Pour the papara into a serving bowl.

Crush the garlic into a smooth paste using a mortar and pestle (or in a
bowl with a wooden spoon) and fold it into the yoğurt. Pour the garlic
yoğurt over the dish.

Melt the remaining butter in a small frying pan, add the chilli flakes and
paprika, and sizzle for 2 minutes. Pour the butter mixture onto the yoğurt.
Top with dried mint and serve.
Every village has a day of the week devoted to a fresh food market where local farmers’ wives
off er their produce.
The local market also sells many brands of olive oil.
KARNIYARIK
‘SPLIT BELLY’ (BAKED EGGPLANT
STUFFED WITH BEEF) As a chef, I
often get asked: ‘What would be
your last meal?’ I always reply: ‘My
grandmother’s karnıyarık’. She
put something in there that I have
never been able to replicate.
The name ‘split belly’ is not a reference to what this dish will do to
you, but to what you need to do to the eggplant. This dish first
appeared in the nineteenth century on palace menus, but now it’s a
lokanta favourite.
There’s a mistaken belief that the next recipe, İmam bayıldı (‘The
priest fainted’), is just a vegetarian version of this one. The recipes
both include eggplant and they look alike, but the other ingredients
and the cooking methods are different. And the priest fainted years
before the belly got split.

SERVES 4

4 long eggplants (aubergines)

135 ml (4½ fl oz) vegetable oil, plus extra for greasing 1 onion

1 garlic clove
250 g (9 oz) minced (ground) beef

1 tomato
1 tomato
2 tablespoons tomato paste
½ tablespoon sugar
4 cherry tomatoes, halved
4 long sweet chillies (or 1 green bullhorn pepper) ½ tablespoon
capsicum (pepper) paste
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ½ teaspoon salt
10 flat-leaf (Italian) parsley leaves rice pilav or boiled rice, and plain
yoğurt, to serve

Slice three strips off the skin of each eggplant, starting about 2 cm (¾ in)
below the top and finishing 2 cm (¾ in) above the base. The eggplants
should now look like they’re wearing striped pyjamas.

Heat 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) of the vegetable oil in a frying pan over high
heat. Add a drop of water to the oil. If it sizzles, the oil is ready. Carefully
add the eggplants and cook for 2 minutes on each side, or until the
exposed flesh is golden. Place the eggplant on paper towel to absorb the
excess oil.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Finely dice the onion and slice the garlic. Heat the remaining ½
tablespoon of vegetable oil in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the
onion and cook for 5 minutes or until translucent. Add the garlic and cook
for 2 minutes more. Add the beef and cook for 3 minutes, stirring
regularly.

Cut the tomato in half and grate it over the mixture, discarding the skin.
Dilute 1 tablespoon of tomato paste in 1 tablespoon of water and stir it
into the beef. Cook for 3 minutes more, stirring regularly.

Slit each eggplant lengthways, starting 2 cm (¾ in) from the tip and
finishing 2 cm (¾ in) from the base. With the slit facing upwards, use the
back of a tablespoon to push the slit open and give the eggplant a canoe
shape. Brush a baking tray with oil. Put the eggplant boats into the
shape. Brush a baking tray with oil. Put the eggplant boats into the
greased tray. Add a pinch of sugar to each eggplant and fill each boat
with the beef mixture. Cut the chillies in half (or cut the bullhorn pepper in
quarters) and remove the stalks and seeds. Place 1 sweet chilli (or a slice
of bullhorn pepper) and 1 halved cherry tomato on top of the beef
stuffing in each eggplant.

Dilute the remaining 1 tablespoon of tomato paste and the capsicum

paste in 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of boiling water. Spoon the liquid over the
eggplants to prevent them drying out while baking. Put the karnıyarık in
the oven and bake for 20 minutes, until the pepper starts to brown.

Serve one boat per person, hot, with rice pilav or boiled rice, and yoğurt
on the side.
İMAM BAYILDI
‘THE PRIEST FAINTED’ (BRAISED
EGGPLANT STUFFED WITH
PEPPERS AND TOMATOES)

Why did this dish (first discussed in an 1844 cookbook) make the
priest faint? Some say it was with pleasure, some say because of the
extravagant amount of oil in it and some say because it used up
every ingredient in his pantry. The story I like comes from Moveable
Feasts: The History, Science and Lore of Food, where Gregory
McNamee says the imam married the daughter of an olive oil seller.
Every day after the wedding she made him an eggplant dish cooked
in her father’s olive oil. On the thirteenth day the oil ran out and her
husband collapsed in shock.
Most Turkish cooks would start this dish by frying the eggplant, but
the famous Istanbul chef Şemsa Denizsel of Kantin showed me what
she says is the original method—steaming the eggplants in a pot with
the stuffing mixture before filling them. This makes them a lot
lighter, and more delicious. With this recipe, the imam might have
lasted a few more days.

SERVES 4

4 tomatoes
25 flat-leaf (Italian) parsley leaves 4 onions
1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon sugar
4 long eggplants (aubergines) 150 ml (5 fl oz) olive oil, plus extra for
greasing 16 garlic cloves, whole and peeled 1 red bullhorn pepper (or
½ large red capsicum/pepper)

Score a shallow cross in the base of the tomatoes, then transfer to a

heatproof bowl and cover with boiling water. Leave for 30 seconds, then
plunge in cold water and peel the skin away from the cross. Cut the
tomatoes in half and scoop out the seeds with a teaspoon. Roughly chop.

Finely chop the parsley leaves. Put the onions, tomato, parsley, salt and
sugar in a large saucepan and knead the mixture for 2 minutes.

Slice three strips off the skin of each eggplant, starting about 2 cm (about
1 in) below the top and finishing 2cm (about 1 inch) above the base. The
eggplants should now look like they’re wearing striped pyjamas. Put
them on top of the mixture. Pour in the olive oil and simmer over low
heat for 30 minutes, with the lid on. Add the garlic cloves and simmer for
another 20 minutes.

Remove the eggplants from the pan and slit lengthways, starting 2 cm
(¾ in) from the tip and finishing 2 cm (¾ in) from the base. With the slit
facing upwards, use the back of a tablespoon to push the slit open and
give the eggplant a canoe shape. Brush a baking tray with oil. Put the
eggplant boats into the greased tray. Remove the garlic cloves from the
tray and set aside. Spoon the onion mixture from the pan into each
eggplant.

Remove the stalk and seeds from the pepper and cut into four slices,
length ways. Place one slice of pepper and four garlic cloves on top of
each canoe. Spoon the remaining sauce over the top, then set aside until
you’re ready to serve.

Serve the İmam bayıldı at room temperature, or do what I do in my

restaurant and reheat them in a 180°C (350°F/Gas 4) oven for 10
minutes.
PASTIRMALI KURU FASULYE
BAKED WHITE BEANS WITH
SPICE-CURED BEEF

The beans in this recipe are native to South America and didn’t reach
Anatolia until the eighteenth century. But they quickly became a
staple food.
Stewed white beans in tomato sauce is the cheapest and most
popular snack in lokantas throughout Turkey and generally served
with rice and pickles.
Back in 1960, a political columnist named Çetin Altan kept having
his columns banned or heavily censored by the government. In
exasperation, he finally began a column with the words ‘Let’s talk
about the benefits of white beans’. That phrase has become a kind of
code to signal when a journalist is being censored.
Don’t try to rush this preparation. If you don’t soak the beans
overnight and change the water several times, be prepared for
digestive difficulties.

SERVES 6

500 g (1 lb 2 oz) dried cannellini beans 1 tablespoon dried oregano

1 teaspoon cumin
2 onions

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 tablespoon capsicum (pepper) paste
2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1 tomato
3 green chillies

2 tablespoons butter
150 g (5½ oz) thinly sliced pastırma

Wash the beans, transfer to a large saucepan and cover with water. Bring
to the boil. Change the water and then leave to soak overnight.

Strain and rinse the beans thoroughly. Put the beans back in the pan and
cover with water (to about 5 cm/2 in above the beans). Stir in the dried
oregano and cumin. Bring to the boil, then reduce to a simmer and cook
for 20 minutes, or until the water evaporates from the top and the beans
are soft but not mushy.

Meanwhile, place a clay pot or casserole dish in the oven and preheat to
180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Roughly chop the onions. Heat the vegetable oil in a deep frying pan over
medium heat. Add the onion and cook for 5 minutes, or until translucent.
Stir in the tomato paste, capsicum paste, salt and pepper. Strain the
beans and add them to the pan. Cook for 15 minutes.

Slice the tomato into rounds. Remove the stalks from the chillies and slit
down one side to remove the seeds. Chop the chillies into pieces about 1
cm (½ in) wide.

Carefully take the pot out of the oven. Add the butter and pour in the
bean mixture. Spread the slices of pastırma over the top, then layer with
the tomato and chilli. Put the pot back in the oven and cook, covered, for
10 minutes.

Serve the pastırmali kuru fasulye in the pot for people to help themselves.
Hatice Kalan and friends tell stories and prepare tiny yuvalama at Yörem restaurant, Gaziantep.
YUVALAMA ‘STORYTELLER SOUP’ (LAMB
AND BEEFBALL SOUP)

Because this dish takes a long time, it was traditional in the town of
Gaziantep to hire a professional storyteller to keep the cooks
entertained while they rolled hundreds of tiny balls of meat and rice.
Yuvalama is consumed in vast quantities during the three-day
eating festival called Bayram that follows Ramadan.
The word yuvalama means ‘rolled’, and it is said that it takes one
person four hours to roll 1 kilo of meatballs. Few restaurants serve
yuvalama these days, because their kitchen staff just don’t have the
time, but it remains a signature dish at the Gaziantep restaurant
Yörem. Hatice Kalan, a rare female restaurateur in this male-
dominated town, sits rolling and storytelling through the afternoon
with a bunch of friends and employees. The meatballs they make go
into her soup (decorated with a yin and yang of mint oil and paprika
oil) and also get sold as takeaway to locals who add them to their own
soups at home—grateful not to do all that rolling themselves (but
missing out on the stories).

SERVES 4

95 g (3¼ oz/½ cup) dried chickpeas 440 g (15½ oz/2 cups) medium-
grain rice

1 tablespoon salt
750 g (1 lb 10 oz) plain yoğurt 250 g lean minced (ground) beef

1 teaspoon white pepper

165 g (5¾ oz/1 cup) rice flour
165 g (5¾ oz/1 cup) rice flour
2 onions

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

400 g (14 oz) lamb (preferably lamb leg), trimmed and cubed 1 egg
2 tablespoons butter

1 tablespoon dried mint

½ tablespoon chilli flakes

Cover the chickpeas with water and soak overnight. Cover the rice with
water, add half the salt, and also soak overnight.

Place the yoğurt on a sheet of muslin (cheesecloth) and tie up the

corners. Hang the muslin over a pot for 3 hours to allow the yoğurt to
thicken.

Strain and rinse the chickpeas, place in a saucepan with 500 ml (17 fl
oz/2 cups) of water and simmer, covered, for 1 hour.

Strain and rinse the rice, then blend in a food processor or blender.
Transfer the rice to a mixing bowl and add the beef and white pepper.
Knead the mixture with wet hands for at least 5 minutes, or until it
becomes a thick paste-almost like a dough.

Spread the rice flour onto a baking tray. Shape the dough into chickpea-
size balls, regularly dipping your hands into the rice flour on the tray to
keep them dry. You can roll the balls between your palms three or four at
a time. Even so, this will take a long time, so enlist other family members
to help, or have a storyteller ready. When all the mixture has been made
into balls, space them out on the rice flour so they don’t stick together.

Roughly chop the onions. Heat the vegetable oil in a saucepan over
medium heat. Add the onion and cook for 2 minutes. Add the cubed
medium heat. Add the onion and cook for 2 minutes. Add the cubed
pieces of meat and brown for 5 minutes, stirring regularly. Add 1 litre (35
fl oz/4 cups) of water, bring to the boil and simmer, covered, for 20
minutes.

Toss the rice balls lightly in the flour and add them to the lamb. Simmer,
covered, for another 15 minutes.

Whisk the yoğurt and egg in a bowl, then whisk in 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup)
of the lamb cooking liquid. Slowly pour the yoğurt mixture into the pan,
whisking constantly. Add the chickpeas. Bring the liquid back to the boil
and simmer, covered, for 5 minutes.

Melt the butter in a frying pan over medium heat. And the mint and chilli
flakes and stir for 2 minutes.

Ladle the soup into four bowls, drizzle the mint and chilli butter over the
top and serve.
LAHMACUN
THIN-CRUST PIDE WITH SPICY
LAMB TOPPING

When I say thin-crust pizza is Italy’s answer to lahmacun

(pronounced ‘lah-mahjun’), I’m not trying to start a fight. The idea of
putting spiced mince on a disc of dough would have occurred to
human beings long before there were nations called Italy or Turkey—
or for that matter Armenia, Greece or Syria—all of whom have
claimed to be the originators of this addictive pastry. What we do
know is that nowadays lahmacun is a speciality of the town of
Şanhurfa, in southeastern Turkey where they pride themselves on
the crispness of their bases.
Lahmacun should not be confused with the heavier kıymalı pide,
well known in and out of Turkey for the thickness of its dough and
the coarseness of its meat topping. For lahmacun you need a light
touch.
In Şanliurfa, they turn out hundreds of lahmacuns every
lunchtime from big stone ovens. The best way to get the same effect
at home is to use a pizza stone or an unglazed terracotta tile, and to
ensure your oven is preheated to the max.

SERVES 4

BASE
200 g (7 oz/11/3 cups) plain (all-purpose) flour, plus extra for dusting

1 teaspoon salt
70 g (2½ oz/½ cup) wholemeal flour (if using a baking tray) TOPPING

2 tomatoes
1 red capsicum (pepper)
75 g (22/3 oz) capsicum (pepper) paste

5 garlic cloves
½ bunch flat-leaf (Italian) parsley
2 teaspoons chilli flakes
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon salt
200 g (7 oz) minced (ground) lamb (about 25 per cent fat) RED ONION
AND SUMAC SALAD (OPTIONAL) ½ red onion, finely sliced
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sumac

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

juice of ½ lemon, plus extra to serve

Preheat the oven to its maximum temperature (as close to 300°C/570°F

as possible). If you have a pizza stone or tile, place it in the oven. Or leave
your baking tray in the oven so it will preheat.

Sift the flour into a mixing bowl and add the salt. Make a well in the
middle and slowly pour in 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) of lukewarm water.
Knead the dough for 5 minutes. Sprinkle some flour on your work surface
and then divide the dough into four balls. Cover the bowl with a damp
cloth and leave to rest.
Score a shallow cross in the base of the tomatoes, then transfer to a
heatproof bowl and cover with boiling water. Leave for 30 seconds, then
plunge in cold water and peel the skin away from the cross. Cut the
tomato in half and scoop out the stalks and seeds with a teaspoon.
Roughly chop. Remove the seeds from the capsicum and roughly chop.
Coarsely blend the tomatoes and capsicum with the capsicum paste,
garlic, parsley, chill flakes, pepper and salt. Combine the mixture with the
lamb mince and stir thoroughly.

Place a ball of dough on the floured work surface and, with floured hands
or a rolling pin, flatten into a round about 25 cm (10 in) wide and less than
5 mm (¼ in) thick. Repeat with the remaining dough balls.

Using a tablespoon, thinly spread the lamb mixture onto the rounds.
Then press in with your hands.

If you are using a baking tray, take it out of the oven and put a piece of
baking paper over it. Dust the baking paper with a little wholemeal flour.
Place the rounds of dough on the baking paper and bake for about 5
minutes, or until the edges are crisp.

Meanwhile, if you are making the salad, finely slice the onion and place in
a bowl. Sprinkle with salt and sumac, add the lemon juice and olive oil,
then mix together with your hands.

Sprinkle the salad over the lahmacuns, squeeze on some lemon juice,
and serve.
A butcher shop in Gaziantep preparing lamb to mince with peppers for the topping of lahmacun.
ÇIĞ BÖREK
HALF MOON PASTRY WITH BEEF
AND CHILLI

My ancestors are Tartars who moved to central Anatolia from an

area that is now close to Russia on the Black Sea. This is one of their
dishes. Using raw beef (the meaning of the word çiğ in the Turkish
name), you must knead it tenderly before stuffing inside yoğurt
pastry in a half moon shape. It is vital to seal the pastry tightly so the
meat steams inside without making contact with the frying oil.

SERVES 4

2 tablespoons plain yoğurt 100 ml (3½ fl oz) vegetable oil

2 teaspoons salt
juice of ½ lemon

1 egg
750 g (1 lb 10 oz/5 cups) plain (all-purpose) flour, plus extra for dusting
STUFFING

1 brown onion
250 g (9 oz) minced (ground) beef 1 tablespoon chilli flakes

1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper
½ tablespoon salt

5 ice cubes
500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) vegetable oil ayran or basil lemonade, to serve

Mix the yoğurt vegetable oil, salt and lemon juice in a bowl. Break the egg
into the mixture and whisk. Sift the flour into the mixture, add 250 ml (9 fl
oz/1 cup) of water and knead for 10 minutes into a soft dough. Cover the
bowl with a damp cloth and rest for 30 minutes.

Sprinkle a little flour on your work surface and divide the dough into ten
pieces, then roll into balls. Return the dough to the bowl, cover again with
a damp cloth and rest for 15 minutes.

Finely chop the onion. Combine it with the minced beef, chilli flakes,
pepper and salt.

Wrap the ice in a tea towel (dish towel) and crush into small pieces. Add
the crushed ice to the meat mixture and knead until it dissolves. The
meat mix should be very moist, but not runny. If it seems watery, pour
off the excess water.

Place a ball of dough on the floured work surface and, with floured hands
or a rolling pin, flatten into a round 25 cm (10 in) wide and about 2 mm
(about 1/16 in) thick. Imagine each round is two half moons joined
together. Put 2 tablespoons of the meat mix in the middle of the right
half moon, leaving a 5 cm (2 in) gap around it. Fold the other half of the
dough over. Dip your fingers in water and press down all around the
edges to tightly seal the package. Fold 1 cm (½ in) of the outer edge over
to ‘double lock’ it. This ensures the filling will stay moist when cooked.
Repeat with the remaining dough and stuffing.

Heat the vegetable oil in a deep frying pan over high heat. Add a drop of
water to the oil. If it sizzles the oil is ready. Add the böreks, two at a time,
and cook for 2 minutes until they start to puff up. Turn over and cook for
1 minute more, or until the böreks have golden-brown spots. Scoop the
böreks out of the oil and rest on paper towel. Repeat with the remaining
pastries.

Serve two böreks per person, with a glass of ayran or basil lemonade.
TALAŞ BÖREĞİ
FLAKY PASTRY WITH LAMB AND
PEAS

The puff pastry in this dish is what the French would call a mille-
feuille (thousand leaves)—which suggests the dish appeared in
Turkey with European influences during the past 300 years. In the
absence of an origin story, I’ll tell a personal one. When I was at high
school I used to jump the fence to eat lunch in the neighbouring high
school because its cook made fabulous flaky börek. When I
graduated, I pretended to be an old boy of the other high school so I
could attend their reunions and eat the flaky börek, which became
famous throughout Istanbul and caused other high schools to start
serving the dish at their own reunions. As with most French-
influenced dishes, the use of too much butter is essential, along with
infinite patience.

SERVES 4

600 g (1 lb 5 oz/4 cups) strong flour

1 teaspoon salt
juice of ½ lemon
210 ml (7½ fl oz) soda water
155 g (52/3 oz/1 cup) fresh shelled peas 1 small sweet potato
1 baby carrot

1 brown onion
1 brown onion
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) lamb backstrap or trimmed lamb leg 2 tablespoons
plain (all-purpose) flour, plus extra for dusting 2 tablespoons
vegetable oil, plus extra for greasing ½ bunch flat-leaf (Italian)
parsley ½ teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

250 g (9 oz) butter

2 eggs
wild thyme salad and ayran, to serve (optional)

To make the dough, sift the strong flour into a mixing bowl. Make a well
in the middle and add the salt and lemon juice. Slowly add the soda
water and 80 ml (2½ fl oz/1/3 cup) of water. Knead for 5 minutes into a
hard dough. Cover the bowl with a damp cloth and rest for 30 minutes.

Put the peas in a heatproof bowl and cover with boiling water. Leave for 1
minute, then plunge them into iced water for 30 seconds. Strain and set
aside.

Peel and chop the sweet potato into 1 cm (½ in) cubes. Peel and chop the
carrot into 1 cm (½ in) rounds. Finely slice the onion. Chop the meat into 2
cm (¾ in) cubes. Toss in the plain flour, then shake off the excess.

Heat the vegetable oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Add a drop of
water to the oil. If it sizzles, the oil is ready. Add the chopped lamb and
brown for 2 minutes. Add the onion, carrot and sweet potato and sauté
for 3 minutes. Reduce the heat and simmer for 5 minutes. Finely chop
the parsley. Add the peas, parsley, salt and pepper to the pan and
simmer for 5 more minutes. Remove from the heat.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Melt the butter in a small frying pan (or microwave for 30 seconds).
Sprinkle some flour on your work surface. Divide the dough into four
pieces and, using a thin rolling pin, roll out each piece as thinly as possible.
Brush the butter onto the dough and fold each piece twice (to make four
layers). Rest for 5 minutes. Roll each dough piece out, butter and fold
again. Repeat the fold and butter process twice more. Finally, roll each
piece of dough into a square, roughly 20 cm (8 in) wide and 5 mm (¼ in)
thick, using your fingers to create the shape.

Separate the eggs and keep the whites and the yolks handy in two bowls.
Spoon 3 tablespoons of the meat mixture into the middle of each square,
leaving a margin about 6 cm (2½ in) wide on each side. Fold each corner
in like an envelope, slightly overlapping them and brush the edges with
egg white to help them stick together.

Line a baking tray with baking paper and brush with oil. Arrange the
böreks on the tray, folded side down, and brush the tops with egg yolk.
Bake for 30 minutes, or until golden.

Serve the talaş böreği warm, with wild thyme salad and ayran.
SU BÖREĞI
WATER PASTRY WITH FETA AND
KALE

Although the börek translated as ‘water pastry’ is usually credited to

the central Anatolian cities of Ankara and Çorum, ancient cookbooks
reveal the Romans were layering lasagne, under the name laganum,
in the first century—which was when they moved into Byzantion in
northwest Anatolia. So we should probably credit the Romans with
starting the fad for layering dough with cheese and greens between.
Getting it right is a laborious process, because you must boil and
butter each of the eleven layers, then fry or bake the whole thing. But
the result is worth the effort, as our Italian culinary cousins would
agree.
Normally in my restaurant I cook water börek in the oven in a
rectangular tray, and slice it into squares (as shown in the picture
opposite). For this recipe though, I’m suggesting you use a round,
deep frying pan, and slice the börek into wedges, which makes it look
less like lasagne but is easier to work with.

SERVES 4

8 kale leaves
1 bunch flat-leaf (Italian) parsley
3 garlic shoots (or 1 garlic clove)
1 heaped tablespoon plain yoğurt
250 g (9 oz) hard feta
4 eggs
4 eggs

2 teaspoons salt
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) strong flour

2 tablespoons olive oil

300 g (10½ oz) butter
ayran, to serve

Put the kale in a heatproof bowl and cover with boiling water. Leave for
30 seconds, then plunge in cold water. Remove the white stalks and
finely chop the leaves.

Discard the parsley stalks and finely chop the leaves. Finely chop the
garlic shoots (or crush the garlic) and mix in a bowl with the yoğurt.
Crumble the feta into the mixture.

Whisk the eggs in a deep mixing bowl. Add 1 tablespoon of water and the
salt. Sift the flour into the bowl and mix well. Knead for 10 minutes, or
until the mixture becomes a hard dough. Dust your work surface with
flour and divide the dough into eleven balls. Dust the dough with flour
and rest in a bowl, covered with a damp cloth, for 15 minutes.

Flour a board and, using a thin rolling pin, roll each ball into a 30 cm (12
in) wide round. (Turning the dough on the work surface 90 degrees at a
time will ensure a circular pastry.) You can stack the eleven sheets while
you do the next step, but be sure to scatter plenty of flour between the
sheets so they don’t stick together.

Pour the olive oil into a large non-stick frying pan and brush to coat. (The
pan should be at least 25 cm/10 in across and 10 cm /4 in deep.) Warm
the butter in a small saucepan.

Fill a deep saucepan with water and bring to the boil. Using a thin rolling
Fill a deep saucepan with water and bring to the boil. Using a thin rolling
pin or the handle of a long wooden spoon, lift one round of dough at a
time and dunk it into the pan for 2 minutes. Lift out and pat dry on a
clean cloth. Repeat with the remaining rounds of dough.

Place a round of dough in the large oiled non-stick frying pan and brush
with butter. Slice around it to remove any overlap, and scatter the sliced-
off bits on top of it. Place another dough round loosely on top, and brush
with butter. Continue to stack to make six layers. Spread the kale and
cheese mixture on the sixth layer, then continue to stack another four
buttered layers. Cut the final (eleventh) layer to fit as a round over the top
(discarding any leftover pastry). Pour the remaining butter on top.

Place the pan over medium heat and cook for 10 minutes, constantly
tilting the pan to prevent the bottom layer sticking. Place a large plate
over the frying pan and, with one hand on the plate and the other hand
on the handle, upend the pastry onto the plate.

Brush the inside of the pan again with olive oil and slide the upturned
börek into the pan—with the cooked layer now on top. Cook for 8
minutes.

Cut across the börek to make four quarters (with one wedge per person).
Serve in the pan with glasses of ayran to accompany the meal.
CEVİZLİ ERİŞTE
EGG PASTA WITH WALNUT AND
BOTTARGA

Here’s another dish where we acknowledge an Italian connection.

Italians are known in Turkey as makarnacı, which literally translates
as ‘macaroni maker’ or ‘pasta maker’, because the suffix -ci means
‘maker of or ‘doer of’. On the same principle, an Argentinian is a
tangocu (a maker of the tango) and Brazilians are sambaci.
What the Turks call erişte is the kind of flat ribbon pasta the
macaroni makers call tagliatelle or fettuccine. But we can trace the
Turkish version as far back as the fifteenth century, when a central
Anatolian doctor called Şirvani wrote that erişte should be made
from flour kneaded with egg whites, cut into thin strips and dried in
the sun. In the sixteenth century the palace chefs were boiling it in
soup.
The Turks like to eat their pasta bland, usually just tossing it with
butter. I decided to boost the flavour with dried mullet roe—what the
Italians call bottarga and what the Turks call mumlu havyar (a word
which sounds like caviar for a very good reason). The best havyar
comes from the beautiful Dalyan region, at the point where the
Mediterranean coast meets the Aegean coast. There they eat their
bottarga with bread, and take their erişte straight.

SERVES 4

EGG PASTA

3 eggs
3 eggs
150 ml (5 fl oz) milk
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) plain (all-purpose) flour (preferably durum wheat), plus
extra for dusting
1 teaspoon salt, plus extra for cooking the erişte

WALNUT SAUCE

1 tablespoon butter
100 g (3½ oz) walnuts

1 teaspoon turmeric
45 ml (1½ fl oz) thickened (whipping) cream
100 g (3½ oz) sharp white cheese (such as barrel-aged feta)

1 tablespoon chopped tarragon

1 tablespoon finely grated bottarga (or 2 tablespoons fresh mullet roe)

Whisk the eggs and milk together with a fork. Sift the flour into a mixing
bowl, make a well in the middle and add the salt. Pour in the egg mixture
and knead for 10 minutes until it’s stretchy. Cover the bowl with a damp
cloth and rest for 30 minutes.

Knead the dough for 5 minutes, making sure there are no bubbles. Dust
your work surface with flour and divide the dough into three balls. With
floured hands or a rolling pin, flatten into a round 30 cm (12 in) wide and
less than 5 mm (¼ in) thick. Repeat with the remaining dough. Rest in a
warm spot (preferably in direct sunlight) for 30 minutes. (You could drape
them over your clothesline, or over a rolling pin between two chairs).

Place the rounds on the floured work surface and cut into strips about 5
Place the rounds on the floured work surface and cut into strips about 5
mm (¼ in) wide and 5 cm (2 in) long. Don’t worry if the shapes are
irregular. If you have a pasta machine, you can follow the same process
and make the strips as if they were fettuccine.

Bring a large saucepan of salted water to the boil. Add the erişte and boil
for 2 minutes. Melt the butter in a large frying pan over low heat, then
add the walnuts, turmeric and cream. Toss the pasta in the sauce for 1
minute over low heat. Transfer to a bowl and grate the cheese over the
top. Sprinkle on the chopped tarragon. Finely grate the bottarga over the
top and serve.
 MARRIED AND FEASTED IN
ANATOLIA

The next three dishes are served at wedding feasts in rural Turkey. Here’s
what happens first ...
Boy meets girl. Boy tells his mother this girl might be the one for him.
Mother makes inquiries in the village to check out girl’s suitability, then
contacts her mother, saying: ‘We would like to visit you for a good
reason.’ Girl’s mother has a pretty good idea what this means, and
replies: ‘Would you like to come over for afternoon tea?’
Girl’s mother asks the girl if she’s interested in the boy, and if she gets
the reply ‘It’s up to you’, she tells the father there may be an offer to
consider. (If the girl is not interested, the afternoon tea would still go
ahead, but it would not end happily.)
On the appointed day, boy’s family brings Turkish delight and baklava,
beautifully packaged. Girl’s family serves tea and other pastries, on the
principle ‘Tatlı ye, tatlı konuş’ (‘Eat sweet, talk sweet’).
Girl is not present during the family chat, but if the conversation goes
well, her mother will ask her to make coffee for everybody. She might
then put salt instead of sugar into the cup intended for her suitor, in order
to test his manners. If he compliments her on the coffee, he will be a
patient husband.
Assuming everybody is getting on well, boy and girl will now be allowed
to go out together, accompanied by a chaperone, of course. This will
progress to a small ring, which means they are ‘promised’, followed by a
bigger ring, which means they are engaged. Girl’s family will pay for the
engagement party.
On the day before the wedding, girl will have her hands coloured with
henna, and on the morning of the wedding, boy will be shaved by the
town barber. Everyone in the village—and anybody who happens to be
passing through town—will be invited to the festivities.
passing through town—will be invited to the festivities.
After the imam has conducted the formalities, the bride will then ride
into the town square on horseback, carrying the possessions she will
bring to the marriage and accompanied by drummers, clarinet players
and car horns. And so the feasting begins.
This was where we came in. Photographer Bree Hutchins and I were
chatting to a farmer selling peppers and eggplants in the markets at
Bodrum, on Turkey’s west coast. The young farmer took a liking to us (to
be honest, more to Bree) and asked if we’d like to come to his cousin’s
wedding feast. We said of course.
We arrived on the third day of a five-day festival. The food was
cooking in huge pots all around the square. They’d slaughtered cattle and
sheep specially for the occasion, which they were roasting over open
fires. The three dishes you are about to read about were a tiny part of the
banquet.
The bride and her brother at a Yörük wedding in the Aegean village of Milas.
DÜĞÜN CORBASI WEDDING SOUP WITH
CHICKEN AND YOĞURT

This is a yoğurt soup with chicken or lamb meat, usually cooked over
an open fire and served early in a wedding feast for up to 1000
invited guests from surrounding villages. A wedding feast can
continue for five days, with cooking duties alternating between the
bride’s family and the groom’s family. This dish takes 24 hours to
prepare, so better hope the bride doesn’t change her mind.

SERVES 8

50 g (1¾ oz/¼ cup) dried chickpeas 500 g (1 lb 2 oz/2 cups) plain yoğurt

1 small chicken
220 g (7¾ oz/1 cup) medium-grain rice 1 teaspoon salt

1 egg
2 tablespoons plain (all-purpose) flour 2 tablespoons butter
2 teaspoons dried mint

2 teaspoons paprika
Cover the chickpeas with water and soak overnight.

Strain and rinse the chickpeas. Place the yoğurt on a sheet of muslin
(cheesecloth) and tie up the corners. Hang the muslin over a pot for 3
hours to allow the yoğurt to thicken.

Put the chicken and chickpeas in a large saucepan, cover with water and
boil, with the lid on, for 30 minutes. Take out the chicken and remove the
skin. Strip off the meat and shred, then set aside. Put the chicken bones
and skin back in the pan and boil for a further 15 minutes, with the
chickpeas, to make a stock.

Put 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) of the stock in another saucepan. Rinse the
rice. Add the rice and salt to the pan and bring it to the boil. Boil for 10
minutes, until not quite soft.

Whisk the egg and flour together in a bowl. Add the yoğurt and 2
tablespoons of the warm chicken stock and combine.

Take the carcass and skin out of the stock, and discard. Add the yoğurt
mixture to the stock and slowly simmer for 5 minutes, stirring constantly.
Slowly pour in the strained rice and continue to stir. Bring to the boil over
medium heat and add the shredded chicken. Reduce the heat and
simmer for another 10 minutes.

Divide the soup into four bowls. Heat 1 tablespoon of butter in a frying
pan. Once it sizzles, add the mint and stir for about 30 seconds. Drizzle it
over the soup in splashes. Heat the remaining butter and add the paprika.
Sizzle for 30 seconds, then drizzle it over the soup in spaces not covered
by the mint butter.

Serve with pide (pee-day) and pride.

GAVURDAĞ
‘SPOON SALAD’ (CHOPPED
TOMATO, WALNUT AND SUMAC
SALAD)

This salad is served with kebaps all over Turkey, and is designed to be
eaten with a spoon. It’s just a finely chopped salad, with the tomato
pieces no bigger than the pomegranate seeds, but you’ll see it on
menus in Istanbul described as the famous ‘Gavurdağ’ salad
(apparently named after a mountain in southeast Anatolia). My
friend Musa points out in his scholarly journal Yemek ve Kültür
(Food and Culture) that there’s a trend in Turkey for chefs to give
obscure names to standard dishes in an attempt to suggest authentic
regional origins. This could well be one of those.

SERVES 4

6 ripe tomatoes
1 red onion

1 bunch mint
½ bunch flat-leaf (Italian) parsley 115 g (4 oz/1 cup) walnuts 3 green
bullhorn peppers (or 1 green capsicum/pepper) 1 green chilli

1 tablespoon sumac
2 tablespoons pomegranate molasses
60 ml (2 fl oz/¼ cup) olive oil 1 teaspoon apple vinegar
1 teaspoon sea salt
150 g (5½ oz/½ cup) pomegranate seeds

Quarter the tomatoes, remove the white centres and then finely chop.
Finely chop the red onion. Discard the mint and parsley stalks and finely
chop the leaves. Finely chop the walnuts. Cut the bullhorn peppers and
the chilli in half, and remove the seeds and stalks. Finely chop. Mix all the
chopped ingredients together in a salad bowl.

Mix the sumac, molasses, olive oil, vinegar and salt together, pour onto
the salad and toss.

Sprinkle the pomegranate seeds on top and serve.

ZAHTER SALATASI WILD THYME AND
BLOOD ORANGE SALAD

Wild thyme (zahter) grows near the southeastern city of Antakya

(once known as Antioch, where the followers of Jesus were first called
Christians). The locals use the fresh leaves to make salads and an
invigorating form of tea, and use the dried leaves as a substitute for
oregano in meat dishes. The region was formerly part of Syria, only
added to the Turkish republic in 1938, so its food is surprising to most
Turks. In addition to this salad, we can credit the Antakyans with
künefe and muhammara sauce.

SERVES 4

10 thyme sprigs

5 oregano sprigs
3 spring onions (scallions) 1 green chilli (optional) 1 garlic shoot (if
available) 2 blood oranges

3 teaspoons olive oil

½ teaspoon sea salt

Pick the leaves off the thyme and oregano. Discard the stalks. Wash the
spring onions, then remove and discard the roots and tough outer leaves.
Finely chop. Remove the seeds and stalk from the chilli (if you are using it)
and finely chop. Finely chop the garlic shoot. Mix together in a salad
bowl.
bowl.

Peel the oranges and divide into segments, removing the white pith. Add
to the salad bowl. Splash on the olive oil and salt, toss together and serve.
BALIK EKMEK
WHITING SANDWICH WITH
TARATOR

This is my attempt to recreate a memory. When I was a teenager, I

used to buy sandwiches from fishermen who would moor their boats
next to one of the pillars of the Galata Bridge, just across the road
from Istanbul’s spice market. They would fillet their catch and cook
fish pieces over a little charcoal grill, then shove them inside pide.
Nowadays, this has turned into a tourist experience, where colourful
boats, permanently moored, sell frozen fish cooked on flat griddles.
You can come close to the original experience by walking across to
the other side of the Galata Bridge and turning left into the fish
market. There they sell genuine fish sandwiches from carts in the
street. They use locally caught fish and cook them over charcoal.
They then add salad and lemon—not the walnut tarator (sauce) in
this recipe, which is my improvement on the memory.

SERVES 4

TARATOR
15 g (½ oz/¼ cup) breadcrumbs 60 g (2¼ oz/½ cup) walnuts

2 garlic cloves
juice of ½ lemon
pinch of salt
60 ml (2 fl oz/¼ cup) extra virgin olive oil ROCKET SALAD
12 large rocket (arugula) leaves 1 bunch flat-leaf (Italian) parsley 1 red
12 large rocket (arugula) leaves 1 bunch flat-leaf (Italian) parsley 1 red
onion
1 tablespoon chilli flakes

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

60 ml (2 fl oz/¼ cup) extra virgin olive oil

2 teaspoons salt
juice of ½ lemon

PAN-FRIED WHITING

8 school whiting
185 g (6½ oz/1¼ cups) plain (all-purpose) flour 2 teaspoons salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) soda water 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) vegetable oil
pide bread, to serve şalgam, to serve

First make the tarator. Soak the breadcrumbs in 50 ml (2 fl oz/¼ cup) of

water for 5 minutes.

Put the breadcrumbs, walnuts, garlic, lemon juice and salt in a food
processor, and pulse. While you’re pulsing, slowly add the olive oil— you
are aiming for a spreadable paste like mustard, so add a little more water
if it does not seem smooth enough.

Now make the salad. Remove the stalks from the rocket and the parsley.
Finely chop the leaves. Finely chop the onion. Mix the leaves, onion, chill
flakes, red wine vinegar and oil together in a bowl, then add the salt and
flakes, red wine vinegar and oil together in a bowl, then add the salt and
lemon juice.

Next, prepare the fish. Slice each fish through the stomach, removing the
gut. Butterfly each fish and remove the spine and any bones. Cut off and
discard the heads and tails and wash thoroughly Pat the fish dry and
dust in about 35 g (1¼ oz/ ¼ cup) of the flour.

Put the remaining flour in a mixing bowl and add the salt and pepper.
Make a well in the middle and whisk in the soda water to make a batter.

Heat the vegetable oil in a deep frying pan over high heat. Add a drop of
water to the oil. If it sizzles, the oil is ready.

Dip the fish in the batter, allowing the excess to drip off. Carefully lower
the whiting into the hot oil and fry for 2 minutes on each side, or until
golden. Using a slotted spatula, remove the fish from the pan and place
on paper towel to absorb the excess oil.
Cut each pide in half. Spread the tarator on the top and bottom. Put the
fillets from two fish on each sandwich, then 2 tablespoons of salad, then
close the lid. Serve with a glass of şalgam.
ŞALGAM
PICKLED CARROT AND BEETROOT
JUICE

There are certain elements of the Turkish culinary repertoire with

which an outsider will have a love-hate relationship—lamb testicles,
sheep’s head soup, fried pickles, boza beer, rakı, and şalgam— the
earthy refreshment in this recipe. I Love şalgam—especially washed
down with rakı, which is a pairing perfected in the Mediterranean
town of Adana.

SERVES 16

1 round red turnip

1 beetroot (beet)

1 purple carrot
1 red or green chilli (optional) 165 g (5¾ oz/½ cup) rock salt 1½
tablespoons citric acid 100 g (3½ oz) dried chickpeas

Peel the turnip, beetroot and carrot. Quarter the carrots lengthways.
Quarter the turnip and beetroot. If you want your şalgam hot slit down
one side of a green or red chilli so the liquid will pull the heat out of the
seeds.

Put the vegetables (and the optional chilli) in a 4 litre (140 fl oz/16 cup)
Put the vegetables (and the optional chilli) in a 4 litre (140 fl oz/16 cup)
preserving jar. Dissolve the rock salt and citric acid in 250 ml (9 fl oz/ 1
cup) of lukewarm water. Pour into the jar. Wrap the chickpeas in a parcel
of muslin (cheesecloth) and knot tightly. Put the muslin parcel into the jar.
Fill the jar, to the brim, with water. Seal the lid tightly. Leave in a cool spot
for 15 days.

After 15 days take out the chickpea parcel and discard. If you keep the jar
in the fridge, you can drink the juice, or eat the pickled vegetables for up
to 3 months.
AYRAN
MINTED YOĞURT SHAKE

Ayran is the most popular cold drink in Turkey. Religious

conservatives call it THE National Drink—as opposed to rakı, alcohol
of choice on any meze table. I love the frothy crema rural villagers
used to achieve with the traditional method of shaking the yoğurt in
a sheepskin or wooden barrel. I’ve found a simpler way using a
cocktail shaker and a bit of milk.

SERVES 4

1 bunch mint
135 g (4¾ oz /1 cup) ice 750 g (1 lb 10 oz/3 cups) plain yoğurt 125 ml (4
fl oz/½ cup) milk 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) soda water

1 tablespoon salt
Finely chop the mint. Put the ice and all the other ingredients in a cocktail
shaker. Shake vigorously for 30 seconds. Strain into four glasses and
serve.
KADINBUDU
‘LADIES’ THIGHS’ (VEAL
MEATBALLS WITH RICE AND
EGGS)

Probably because of the puritanism of their governments over the

centuries, Turks have expressed their fascination with anatomy in
their approach to naming foodstuffs. There are treats called woman’s
bellybutton, vizier’s finger, lady’s lips, sluts’ dumplings and brothel
donuts. The plump patties in this recipe made from young cows
obviously reminded some nineteenth-century chef of a pleasant
experience. The first published mention of this kind of köfte, using
mince, watercress and eggs, appears in a Persian dictionary
published around 1800— under a more polite name.

SERVES 4

1 onion
2 garlic cloves

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

500 g (1 lb 2 oz) minced (ground) veal mince 110 g (3¾ oz/½ cup)
medium-grain rice 2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1 teaspoon cumin
1 teaspoon ground pimento 2 tablespoons chopped marjoram leaves

3 eggs
150 g (5½ oz/1 cup) plain (all-purpose) flour 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup)
vegetable oil, for frying spoon salad, to serve

Finely chop the onion and garlic. Heat the vegetable oil in a frying pan
over medium heat. Add the onion and garlic and sauté for 3 minutes,
until soft. Add half the mince and stir. Cook for 5 minutes, to evaporate
any water it puts out. Transfer to a mixing bowl.

Wash the rice under cold running water. Put 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of
water in a saucepan. Add the rice and salt, and bring to the boil. Boil for
10 minutes, until soft. Strain.

Add the rice to the cooked mince, then add the spices and marjoram.
Break 1 egg into the mixture.

Add the remaining (raw) mince. Knead with wet hands for 5 minutes to
combine. Cover the bowl with a damp cloth or plastic wrap and rest in
the fridge for 30 minutes. Divide the mixture into eight rounds, each
about the size of an egg, then flatten each into a patty about 1-2 cm (½-
¾ in) thick. Put the flour in a bowl. Lightly beat the remaining eggs in a
separate bowl. Coat both sides of each patty in the flour and dip in the
egg. Heat the vegetable oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Toss a drop
of water into the oil. If it sizzles, the oil is ready. Carefully add the four
patties to the pan and cook for 3 minutes on each side, or until golden
brown. Using a spatula, remove the patties from the pan and place on
paper towel to absorb the excess oil. Repeat with the remaining patties.

Serve two kadınbudu per person, with the spoon salad.

SİMİT KEBABI
LAMB KEBAPS WITH BARBECUED
SALAD

Kebap restaurants in Turkey never buy lamb mince. They always

make their own using leg and belly meat, and a mighty machete
called a zırh. A kebap master will choose an apprentice by putting a
piece of paper between the chopping board and the lamb and asking
the candidate to mince the meat using only a zırh. If there are no cuts
in the paper, the candidate gets the job.
With this kebap it’s important to use the finest bulgur, which is
known in Gaziantep as simit. This is not to be confused with the
sesame rings we discussed in the breakfast chapter. In Antep dialect,
simit means the smallest grains of wheat that fit through a sieve.
Their other name is elek altı, which means ‘under the sieve’.
This is a perfect dish for a barbecue, because the salad is char-
grilled along with the meat.

SERVES 4

LAMB KEBAPS
90 g (3¼ oz/½ cup) extra fine bulgur 1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1 tablespoon cumin
1 teaspoon chilli flakes

10 mint leaves
600 g (1 lb 5 oz) minced (ground) lamb (about 30 per cent fat)
3 garlic cloves
½ onion

SALAD KEBAPS
4 tomatoes

4 shallots
4 green bullhorn peppers (or 2 large green capsicums/peppers)

8 garlic cloves
2 tablespoons pomegranate molasses
1 tablespoon sweet paprika

1 tablespoon hot paprika

2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon pepper
1 piece pita bread, for holding the skewer

Put the bulgur, salt, pepper, cumin and chilli flakes in a mixing bowl. Add
60 ml (2 fl oz/¼ cup) of hot water. Knead the mixture with wet hands for
1 minute. Finely chop the mint leaves and stir through the mixture.

If you’re using a charcoal grill, you should light it 1 hour before you want
to cook. Burn the charcoal for at least 45 minutes and when the flames
have died down, and the coals are glowing with a covering of white ash,
the barbecue is ready. (If you’re using a gas barbecue, turn it on to
the barbecue is ready. (If you’re using a gas barbecue, turn it on to
medium heat about 5 minutes before you’re ready to cook.) Put the lamb
in a separate bowl. Finely grate the garlic and the onion, and add it to the
mince. Add the bulgur mixture and knead with wet hands for 8 minutes,
to make a smooth paste. Cover the bowl with a damp cloth and rest for
30 minutes.

Using eight thick metal skewers (ideally 2 cm/¾ in thick), divide the lamb
and bulgur into four balls and squash each ball around a skewer, pressing
the mixture so it spreads 5 cm (2 in) from the top to 10 cm (4 cm) from
the bottom.

To make the salad, cut the tomatoes in half. Skin the shallots. Cut the
bullhorn peppers in half. Push the salad pieces onto the four remaining
skewers.

Place the eight kebaps on the charcoal grill or barbecue. Cook for 2
minutes, then when the meat on that side is seared, turn and cook the
other side for 2 minutes. Turn again, and grill for another 2 minutes on
each side. (The fat from the meat will drip on the charcoal and burn, but
that smoke adds to the flavour.) Constantly check to see if the meat is at
risk of falling off the skewer, and if so, turn it over. Take all the skewers
off the heat.

Pull the salad ingredients off their skewers and pulse in a food processor
to make a chunky purée. Add the pomegranate molasses, sweet paprika,
hot paprika, tomato paste, salt and pepper, and stir.

Divide the salad mix onto four plates. Using the pita bread as a mitten,
pull the kebaps off the skewers and place on top of the warm salad.
Serve immediatley.
YAPRAK KEBAP
HOME-STYLE VEAL DÖNER
KEBAP

Sadly, the world sees döner kebap (also known by the Greek word
gyro or the Arabic word shawarma) as the pinnacle of Turkey’s
cooking culture. Tourists in Turkey are often told that this vertical
way of grilling sliced meat was invented by the Iskender family in
the 1860s in the town of Bursa as a way to avoid fat dripping onto the
coals and creating a lot of smoke. In one tale we hear that Mr
Iskender skewered slices of meat on his sword and stuck it in the
ground next to a stack of burning wood. My scholarly friend Musa
has discovered that this way of cooking was used throughout
Anatolia and the Middle East long before Mr Iskender opened his
restaurant.
The Iskender family from Bursa now has a chain of restaurants
around Turkey serving döner kebap with yoğurt pide and their own
barbecued tomato sauce. They call it Iskender kebap—a name that
has been copied and a dish that has been bastardised all over the
world. This recipe is my suggestion of how to get a similar effect
when you don’t have a vertical rotisserie. Most offerings outside
Turkey use pressed mince. The real döner kebap should be made with
slices of veal, with minced meat only used to stick the veal slices
together.

SERVES 4

VEAL KEBAP
800 g (1 lb 12 oz) veal backstrap 8 onions
2 garlic cloves
1 tablespoon capsicum (pepper) paste
1 tablespoon plain yoğurt 1 tablespoon dried oregano

1 dried bay leaf

6 slices day-old bread (or 3-day-old pide bread) 2 tablespoons butter,
plus extra for greasing DÖNER KEBAP SAUCE
2 tablespoons butter, melted
2 tablespoons tomato paste
500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) beef stock ½ tablespoon salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1 teaspoon sugar

1 teaspoon dried mint

250 g (9 oz/1 cup) plain yoğurt, to serve

The day before you are planning to serve this, clean the outer fat and
sinews off the backstrap. Slice as thinly as you can, then pound each slice
with the back of a wooden spoon (or a meat tenderiser if you have one)
to make a slice about 8 cm (3¼ in) across and less than 5 mm (¼ in)
thick. Cut the slices in half.

Finely grate the onions. Squeeze all the onion juice through a fine sieve or
muslin (cheesecloth) into a non-metallic bowl.

Crush the garlic and add it to the onion juice, along with the capsicum
paste, yoğurt oregano and bay leaf. Mix well. Add the veal and coat in the
onion mixture. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap, transfer to the fridge
and leave to marinate overnight.

If you’re using a charcoal grill, you should light it 1 hour before you want
to cook. Burn the charcoal for at least 45 minutes and when the flames
have died down, and the coals are glowing with a covering of white ash,
have died down, and the coals are glowing with a covering of white ash,
the barbecue is ready.

(If you’re using a gas barbecue, turn it on to medium-high about 5

minutes before you’re ready to cook.) Preheat the oven to 180°C
(350°F/Gas 4).

Cut the bread into 2 cm (¾ in) cubes. Brush with butter. Grease a baking
tray, place the bread in the tray and bake for 5 minutes until golden.

To make the sauce, melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat,
add the tomato paste, cook for 1 minute, add the beef stock, salt, pepper,
sugar and mint, and then bring to the boil.

Cook the veal slices on the charcoal grill or barbecue for 2 minutes each
side.

Divide the bread pieces onto four plates. Put five or six pieces of veal on
each plate, pour over the sauce, dollop with yoğurt and serve.

Turks prefer to eat lunch all day long outside casual ‘salons’ that serve döner kebabs sliced from
a giant ball of meat and a vertical grill.
YENİ DÜNYA KEBABI LOQUAT KEBAPS

This is one of the many seasonal kebaps of Gaziantep in southeastern

Anatolia, appearing at the beginning of spring and served for only
three weeks. It uses loquats picked just before they are ripe (if you
can’t find loquats, try to use almost-ripe apricots). Usually a family
will layer the fruit and meat in their own baking tray and get the kids
to carry the tray to the nearest bakery to be cooked in a wood-fire
oven. At other times of the year they might layer garlic, shallots and
eggplant (aubergine) with the meat.
There are two ways of cooking this dish: one over charcoal, the
other in the oven. I mix both methods here, first giving the kebaps a
smoky flavour on the barbecue, then finishing them off in the oven. If
you don’t have a barbecue, do the whole thing in the oven.

SERVES 4

500 g (1 lb 2 oz) lamb mince (with about 25 per cent fat) 1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

20 loquats (or apricots) 2 spring onions (scallions) 3 garlic shoots (or 1
garlic clove)

8 cherry tomatoes
2 tablespoons pomegranate molasses
1 tablespoon sumac
1 tablespoon olive oil

1 tablespoon chilli flakes

1 tablespoon chilli flakes
pita bread, to serve

If you’re using a charcoal grill, you should light it 1 hour before you want
to cook. Burn the charcoal for at least 45 minutes and when the flames
have died down, and the coals are glowing with a covering of white ash,
the barbecue is ready. (If you’re using a gas barbecue, turn it on to
medium heat about 5 minutes before you’re ready to cook.) Put the lamb
in a mixing bowl. Add the salt and pepper, and knead with wet hands for
2 minutes. Divide the meat into twenty balls about the size of walnuts.

Slit each loquat (or apricot) down one side, pull the halves partly apart
and remove the seeds and the surrounding membrane. Stuff a ball of
meat into each loquat.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Using four flat metal skewers (ideally 1 cm/½ in thick), push five loquats
onto each skewer. Each loquat should have the open side facing
upwards, so the skewer passes through both sides of the fruit and also
the meat.

Put the kebap skewers on the charcoal grill or barbecue, with the open
sides of the loquats facing upwards. Cook for 3 minutes on each side
then remove from the heat. Remove the loquats from the skewers and
put them in a round baking dish (preferably terracotta) leaving a space in
the middle.

Wash the spring onions, then remove the roots and tough outer leaves.
Roughly chop the spring onions and the garlic shoots (or garlic clove).
Halve the cherry tomatoes and mix them with the spring onions and
garlic shoots in a salad bowl. Add the pomegranate molasses, sumac,
olive oil and chill flakes. Toss the salad.

Make a mound of the tomato salad in the middle of the loquats (pushing
the loquats to make it fit). Put the tray in the oven and cook for 15
the loquats to make it fit). Put the tray in the oven and cook for 15
minutes.

Serve with pita bread.

ALİ NAZİK
‘THE GENTLE KEBAP’ (LAMB AND
SMOKED EGGPLANT)

The literal translation of the Turkish name for this dish is ‘gentle Ali’,
leading to the theory that the creator was a chef named Ali. More
likely, though, the name is a corruption of ala nazik (good and gentle)
or eli nazik (gentle hand). In the land of dubious etymologies, the
name is often said to have come from an event in the early 1500s,
when Sultan Selim I ate a dish of eggplant and lamb and asked:
‘What gentle hand made this?’ Hopefully the answer was a good chef
named Ali.
While I have adapted many of the regional recipes in this book to
modern forms, this one is exactly as I first consumed it in Gaziantep.
It won us the ‘Best in Taste’ award at the Taste of Sydney festival in
2012. Thanks, Ali.

SERVES 4

1 red capsicum (pepper)

700 g (1 lb 9 oz) lamb (at least 25 per cent fat), coarsely minced
(ground) 1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon paprika

1 tablespoon chilli flakes

500 g (1 lb 2 oz/2 cups) plain yoğurt 4 large eggplants (aubergines)
juice of 1 lemon
4 garlic cloves

2 teaspoons salt
2 teaspoons salt
75 g (22/3 oz) butter CHILLI AND CAPSICUM BUTTER
75 g (22/3 oz) butter 1 red capsicum (pepper), chopped 50 g (1¾ oz) chilli
flakes

1 piece pita bread, for holding the skewer

Cut the capsicum in half and remove the stalk and seeds. Chop into
quarters and pulse in a blender until finely minced. Transfer the capsicum
to a mixing bowl and add the lamb, salt, paprika and chilli flakes. Knead
the mixture for 5 minutes with wet hands to make a smooth paste. Cover
the bowl with plastic wrap, transfer to the fridge and leave to marinate
overnight.

Place the yoğurt on a sheet of muslin (cheesecloth) and tie up the

corners. Hang the muslin over a pot overnight to allow the yoğurt to
thicken.

In the morning, take the meat mixture out of the fridge and divide it into
four balls, each about 180 g (6½ oz). Wrap the meat around four flat
metal skewers (ideally 2 cm/¾ in thick). Squash each ball around the
skewer, pressing the mixture so it spreads 5 cm (2 in) from the top to 10
cm (4 in) from the bottom. Once all four skewers are firmly covered, put
them back in the fridge for at east 1 hour.

If you’re using a charcoal grill, you should light it 1 hour before you want
to cook. Burn the charcoal for at least 45 minutes and when the flames
have died down, and the coals are glowing with a covering of white ash,
the barbecue is ready. (If you’re using a gas barbecue, turn it onto
medium heat about 5 minutes before you’re ready to cook.) Char the
eggplants on an open flame until the skin is blackened. When they are
cool, scoop out the flesh and put the pieces in a colander for 10 minutes
to lose some of their water. Drizzle on the lemon juice to help them retain
their colour.

Roughly chop the eggplant into a chunky purée. Crush the garlic with 1
teaspoon of the salt. Mix the strained yoğurt with the crushed garlic. Set
aside.

To make the chilli and capsicum butter, melt the butter in a frying pan
over low heat. Add the capsicum and chilli flakes. Cook for 2 minutes. Set
aside.

Melt the butter in a frying pan. Add the chopped eggplants and the
remaining salt. Heat the mixture for 1 minute then divide onto four plates.
Spread the garlic yoğurt over the eggplant.

Put the kebaps on the charcoal grill or barbecue. Cook for 2 minutes, until
the meat on one side has seared, then turn over and cook the other side
for 2 minutes. Turn again, and cook for 2 minutes on each side. The fat
will drip on the charcoal and burn, but that smoke adds to the flavour.
Constantly check to see if the meat is at risk of falling off the skewer, and
if so, turn it over.

Use the piece of pita bread as a mitten to grip the meat and pull it off the
skewer. Cut the meat from each skewer into three and place the three
pieces on the yoğurt. Pour the chilli and capsicum butter into a jug
(pitcher) for people to help themselves and serve immediately.
AFTERNOON TEA
If you’ve a sweet tooth like the average Turk, these are the signs
you’ll be looking for as you wander through the streets of any
Turkish town. A tatlıcı will sell you helva, Turkish delight and ice
creams; a şekerci will sell confectionery; a muhallebici will sell
milky puddings; and a pastane will sell pastries (often including
baklava, but if you’re a connoisseur of the prince of pastries,
you should look for a baklavacı, which serves nothing else). And
at street stalls in Tarsus, on the Mediterranean coast, you’ll find
the iced rosewater pudding called bici bici (pronounced ‘beegee
beegee’).

A Turk would drink tea with any of those desserts, but if you insist on
coffee, you should look for a sign saying ‘Café’, which will offer a
European mix of snacks. If you see the older word Kahve, you’ll
encounter a hole in the wall where men play cards and backgammon.
As you’ll gather, Turks have a sugary treat for every occasion. For
example, on the tenth day of the month of Muharram in the Islamic
calendar, they share a desert called aşure, which has up to forty-one
ingredients, supposedly based on the dried fruits, nuts and pulses that
Noah had in the cupboard when his ark finally settled on dry land. In
Ottoman times, the fifteenth day of the month of Ramadan was
associated with the gift of baklava to the janissaries—the soldiers of the
sultan in the Topkapı Place. They were kept from staging military coups
for two centuries by their annual sweet crunchy bonus.
There’s even a pastry called kerhane tatlısı, which translates as ‘brothel
sweet’ because it is sold outside houses of ill repute. If you buy one of
these syrupy pretzels, the street seller won’t wish you the usual Afiyet
olsun (bon appétit) but rather Beline kuvvet (power to your back).
Sweet treats are more usually associated with the other end of the
morality spectrum. In my parents’ day, it was customary for a young
man, seeking to get to know a young woman, to ask nervously: ‘Would
you like to meet me in the pudding shop?’ The couple might bond over a
sütlaç (rice pudding) and a house-made lemonade before he asked his
mother to ask her mother if a marriage might be possible. Then the
families would meet over pastries and Turkish delight. With tea, of course.
For 500 years, the Ottoman sultans were mad for rice puddings but
their chefs showed off by inventing micro-thin filo pastry and forty-layer
baklava some time in the late fifteenth century. In the nineteenth century,
the fad for cakes spread from the palace to the people as French
pâtissiers arrived in Istanbul to serve the tourist trade from Europe.
Lokum (Turkish delight) is a vital element in Turkish hospitality,
surrounded by rituals. You never eat it before midday, and it’s better with
coffee than with tea. And you should never arrive at somebody’s house
without a package of it to conclude an afternoon.
A sacred site for pastry lovers is the Markiz Pastanesi in the Istanbul
suburb of Beyoglu—not for the pizzas and kebaps it serves nowadays,
but because it started life in the 1880s as Café Lebon, a magnificent art-
nouveau salon where the former chef of the French Embassy served
crunchy creamy confections to passengers from the Orient Express. His
slogan was ‘Chez Lebon, tout est bon’.
In the early twentieth century, Albanian patissiers took over from the
French, opening Inci (specialising in profiteroles); Sariyer Muhallebicisi
(specialising in sütlaç, aşure, and keşkül); and Baylan in my suburb of
Kadıköy (the first pudding shop I visited as a child—specialising in ice
cream with caramel and bitter almonds).
Outside of Istanbul, certain regions are identified with certain desserts.
The western town of Afyon is the place to go for kaymak (clotted cream).
For the crunchy cheesy pastry künefe, you’d go south to Antakya
(formerly Antioch). For dondurma (stretchy ice cream), you’d move east
to Kahraman Maraş.
Or you could stay in your own kitchen and make this chapter your
journey through the sweet history of Anatolia.
Contrary to popular belief, Turks drink more tea than cofee—7.5 kilos per person a year—
especially if they’re retired gents meeting in the local kahve.
YALANCI KAZANDİBİ
‘TRICKSTER’S
POTSTICKER’(BURNT MILK AND
MASTIC PUDDING)

In the Turkish title, the word kazandibi means ‘bottom of the pan’,
which I’ve loosely translated as ‘potsticker’. Yalancı (pronounced
‘yalanjuh’) means a liar or trickster—the kind of person who’d
promise a pudding that is usually made with chicken breast, but
who’d then leave out the chicken breast. In other words, me and most
of the pudding shops in modern Istanbul.
The very last recipe in this book is a variant of that classic chicken
breast pudding (called Tavuk göğsü). In Turkey, it was customary to
scrape up the bits left at the bottom of the pan after the chicken
breast pudding had been served, fold them over neatly, caramelise
the outside, and present them as a new dessert called ‘bottom of the
pan’. Nowadays, cooks usually leave out the chicken breast. I’ve
followed the modern style because I wanted a dish suitable for
vegetarians—or maybe just because I’m a trickster.

SERVES 8

1 piece mastic crystal (less than 1 g/1/25 oz) 150 g (5½ oz) sugar
1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) milk

2 tablespoons rice flour

70 g (2½ oz) arrowroot powder 2 tablespoons butter, melted 100 g (3½
oz) icing (confectioners’) sugar
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
Crush the mastic crystal into a powder, using a mortar and pestle or the
handle of a knife, and then mix with the sugar. Heat the milk and mastic
mixture in a saucepan over medium heat. Meanwhile, add the rice flour
and arrowroot to 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of water and stir to combine.
Pour the arrowroot mixture into the milk and bring to the boil, then
reduce to a simmer and cook, whisking constantly, for 5 minutes.

Brush a 30 x 40 x 4 cm (12 x 16 x 1½ in) baking tray with the melted

butter. Sprinkle the icing sugar evenly over the tray. Place the tray over
medium heat on the cook top and gently shake so that the sugar
caramelises evenly but does not burn. Pour the milk mixture over the
caramelised sugar. Remove the tray from the heat and tap it on a solid
surface to make the pudding settle evenly. Put the pudding back over the
heat and gently shake so that the mixture cooks evenly. Once all corners
of the pudding have started to brown and the pudding starts to bubble,
take the tray off the heat and sit it in a larger tray of iced water. Leave to
cool to room temperature and then place the pudding tray in the fridge
for 1 hour to chill.

Remove the pudding from the fridge and cut it into six slices (once
lengthways and twice across). Fold each strip of pudding over to expose
the burnt underside. Push a plastic spatula under one end and roll about
a third of the strip over the top. Repeat with the remaining strips.

Dust each snail with cinnamon and serve at room temperature.

ELMA ÇAYI APPLE AND CINNAMON TEA

A cheap version of apple tea—over-sweetened and made with

crystals instead of real fruit—is served to tourists in Istanbul’s grand
bazaar by carpet sellers who think it will help seduce visitors into
paying twice as much as a carpet is worth. If you’re not a good
negotiator, it could be the most expensive tea you ever drink.
The first time I had apple tea was from a Turkish family in
Australia—because the carpet sellers never saw any reason to serve it
to me in Istanbul. I’ve been trying to perfect it ever since. You can use
all the parts of the apple you would normally throw away, and the
peppercorns, cloves and star anise add intriguing complexity.
Genuine apple tea, with no hidden agenda, is the ideal
accompaniment for the three little treats coming up next.

SERVES 4

2 apples
2 slices lemon 2 cinnamon sticks 2 black peppercorns 1 star anise

4 cloves
3 tablespoons honey, to taste

Preheat the oven to 100°C (200°F/Gas ½).

Thinly slice the apples across the core, place on a baking tray and bake
for 1 hour until they are dried and browned.

Put the baked apple, lemon, cinnamon, black peppercorns, star anise and
cloves in a saucepan with 1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) of water over low heat.
Bring to the boil and simmer for 15 minutes, and then strain the tea into a
teapot, gently pressing the apples. Sweeten with honey, then pour into
teapot, gently pressing the apples. Sweeten with honey, then pour into
tea glasses and serve.
ÇİKOLATALI HURMA

CHOCOLATE DATES

Purists would say this is not a very Turkish dish, since dates tend to
come from Arab countries further to the south and east, and
chocolate is a rare ingredient in our desserts (disappointing for a
chocoholic like me). But we certainly use almonds and pistachios, so
I’ve included them to appease the nationalists. Çikolatalı hurma has
the great advantage of being easy to make with just a few minutes’
notice—assuming your pantry is equipped with the right balance of
Turkish and Arabic pleasures.

MAKES 16

16 dates (preferably medjool) 150 g (5½ oz/1 cup) slivered almonds 150
g (5½ oz) bitter chocolate (70 per cent cocoa) 70 g (2½ oz/½ cup)
ground pistachios

Slit each date and remove the pit. Stuff the cavity with slivered almonds.

Bring 750 ml (26 fl oz/3 cups) of water to the boil in a large saucepan.
Reduce the heat to a simmer and place a small metal mixing bowl over
the pan, making sure it covers the sides like a lid but does not touch the
water below. Line a baking tray with baking paper and set aside. Break
the chocolate into small pieces and gradually add to the bowl, stirring
constantly so that the chocolate melts but doesn’t separate. Using tongs
or a slotted spoon, place the dates, one at a time, in the hot melted
chocolate and coat completely. Remove the chocolate-coated dates,
place them on the prepared tray, and leave to cool slightly.

Put the pistachios in a small bowl. Dip the still-warm dates in the nuts to
half cover, and then transfer to a clean tray. Put the tray in the fridge for
30 minutes for the chocolate to set, and then serve.
BADEM EZMESİ
BEBEK ALMOND TRUFFLES

Bebek, on the European side of the Bosphorus, is Istanbul’s most

expensive suburb, lined with elegant restaurants and bars that will
charge you $25 for a cocktail.
That was where I came across almond truffles, served in wooden
boxes emblazoned with the golden logo of a shop called Meşhur
Bebek Badem Ezmesi (Famous Bebek Almond Paste). It opened in
1904 and it sells only almond confectionery. If you make my version,
you’ll save a fortune—even when you include the orange blossom
water and hazelnut liqueur.

MAKES ABOUT 10

50 g (1¾ oz) sugar

4 drops lemon juice

½ teaspoon orange blossom water 150 g (5½ oz/1 cup) blanched
almonds 1 tablespoon Frangelico (or hazelnut liqueur) 50 g (1¾ oz)
dark cocoa powder

Bring 50 ml (12/3 fl oz) of water to the boil over high heat. Add the sugar
and stir to dissolve. Reduce the heat to a simmer, then add the lemon
juice and the orange blossom water. Put the almonds in a mixing bowl
and gradually add the syrup, in four batches, pounding the mixture with a
wooden spoon each time. Add the Frangelico and then knead the
mixture for 5 minutes until a smooth paste forms. Roll the almond
truffles into about ten walnut-sized balls, coat with cocoa powder and
serve.
In Mersin market (southeastern Anatolia), this stall specialises in every kind of confectionery—
fruit candies, nougat, dried fruits, dried molasses stuffed with nuts, and lokum (Turkish delight).
CEZERYE
MERSİN CARROT AND COCONUT
BALLS

Every city in Turkey makes a sweet they claim is ‘a natural Viagra’.

Cezerye (pronounced ‘jez-air-yeh’) is the natural Viagra of Mersin on
the southeast coast. It was once the ancient Greek city of Zephyrion,
and now it’s Turkey’s largest port.
I have no evidence to support the alleged aphrodisiac value of
carrots, but you could say that this is one of the healthier deserts you
can consume from the region of excessive sugar and butter. I confess
I have added turmeric mainly for visual impact, because carrots
outside of Turkey have a less vivid colour—and presumably less
potency.

MAKES ABOUT 20

75 g (22/3 oz/½ cup) hazelnuts 4 carrots

1 teaspoon honey
1 tablespoon cornflour (cornstarch) 110 g (3¾ oz/½ cup) sugar
4 cloves

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

½ teaspoon allspice
½ teaspoon ground ginger
½ teaspoon turmeric
½ teaspoon turmeric
30 g (1 oz/½ cup) flaked coconut

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Place the hazelnuts on a baking tray and bake for 5 minutes. Remove the
tray and set aside to cool, then rub off the skins using your fingertips. Put
the nuts in a food processor and coarsely grind.

Put the carrots and 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of water in a saucepan over
high heat and boil for 10 minutes. Put 2 tablespoons of the boiling water
in a bowl with the honey and cornflour and stir to combine.

Strain the carrots and then transfer to a blender. Add the sugar and blend
into a purée. Put the carrot purée back in the pan over low heat and stir
in the spices. Add the honey and cornflour mixture and then simmer for
10 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove the pan from the heat and
discard the cloves. Add the hazelnuts and then leave to cool to room
temperature.

Using a teaspoon, shape the mixture into small walnut-sized balls. It

should make about twenty balls. Spread the coconut flakes on a tray and
then roll the balls in the coconut to evenly coat. Put the tray in the fridge
and leave until you are ready to serve.

Put the cezerye on a plate (with toothpicks, if you like, so that people
don’t have to use their fingers) and serve.
BİCİ BİCİ
STRAWBERRY AND ROSE SNOW
CONE

It’s traditional to sprinkle rosewater on the hands of mourners at the

wakes that take place forty days after burials in Turkey. For that
reason, many Turks associate the smell of rosewater with mourning.
In the Mediterranean town of Tarsus, near the Toros mountains, they
associate rosewater with an iced treat that is sold from carts in the
streets. There, for five months of the year, the bici bici hawkers would
head up the hill and fill their carts with snow. Then they’d race back
down, and for a lira coin you’d get a generous scoop of pudding and
snow spread on a plate and soaked with a sweet syrup made from
the petals of roses or pink tulips. Nowadays, bici bici is sold from
refrigerated trucks all year round.

SERVES 4

ROSE SYRUP
1 organic pink rose, about 20 petals (or non-organic rose petals
thoroughly washed)

2 teaspoons citric acid

100 ml (3½ fl oz) grenadine (or raspberry cordial) CANDIED ROSE
PETALS
1 organic pink rose, about 20 petals (or non-organic rose petals
thoroughly washed)
2 egg whites
60 g (2¼ oz/½ cup) icing (confectioners’) sugar PUDDING
60 g (2¼ oz/½ cup) cornflour (cornstarch) TOPPING
150 g (5½ oz/1 cup) strawberries
100 g (3½ oz) icing (confectioners’) sugar DECORATION
2 tablespoons icing (confectioners’) sugar

You could use a commercial rose syrup with this dish, but if you want to
make your own, remove the petals from the pink rose and wash
thoroughly. Sprinkle on the citric acid and place in a jar. Cover the petals
with 200 ml (7 fl oz) of water, seal the jar tightly, and then rest in a sunny
spot for 3 days.

Mix the grenadine with 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) of the homemade

rosewater. Now you have the rose syrup—you need 50 ml (12/3 fl oz) for
the granita, 50 ml (12/3 fl oz) for the pudding, and 100 ml (3½ fl oz) for the
topping. Discard the petals. The remaining rosewater will keep in the
fridge for 3 months, and you can sprinkle it on other puddings—or use it
at wakes.

Now make the granita. Mix 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of water with 50 ml
(12/3 fl oz) of the rose syrup in a small bowl, and then place in the freezer
for 15 minutes. Remove the bowl and use a fork to break up any ice that
has formed. Put the bowl back in the freezer and repeat the process
three more times over the course of about 1 hour, to stop the granita
from setting into a solid block. Once the granita has crystallised into pink
ice fragments, freeze again for 2 hours.

Next, candy the rose petals. Cut the white parts off the petals. Lightly
whisk the egg whites for 1 minute to make a smooth liquid. Brush each
petal on both sides with egg white. Sprinkle both sides with the icing
sugar.

Preheat the oven to 100°C (200°F/Gas ½).

Line a tray with baking paper. Place the petals on the tray and heat for 2
Line a tray with baking paper. Place the petals on the tray and heat for 2
hours, with the oven door ajar. Remove the dried petals from the oven
and leave to cool for 15 minutes.

Bring 625 ml (21½ fl oz/2½ cups) of water to the boil over medium heat.
As it is heating, add the cornflour and whisk vigorously to combine.
Continue to stir slowly for about 5 minutes, until the mixture thickens to a
pudding-like consistency.

Put the remaining 150 ml (5 fl oz) of rose syrup into a squeeze bottle and
squeeze about 50 ml (12/3 fl oz) into swirls over the pudding. Line a dinner
plate with baking paper and pour the pudding onto it, then refrigerate for
1 hour to set. Remove the pudding from the fridge, lift the pudding off the
paper and cut into 2 cm (¾ in) cubes.

Wash the strawberries, cut off the stems and slice into quarters. Pat dry
with paper towel and then sprinkle with the icing sugar.

Using four serving dishes, half-fill each dish with spoonfuls of the
pudding. Add the sugared strawberries to the top of each pudding and
then cover with granita. Shape the granita into a cone and decorate the
base with five or six candied rose petals.

Sprinkle the icing sugar on top of each mound, to resemble a snowy

peak, and then splash a little more rose syrup from the squeeze bottle
around the granita for added colour, if you like. Serve immediately.
ÇATAL
FORK BISCUITS

The word çatal (pronounced ‘chatal’) means ‘fork’, and I can only
imagine these savoury biscuits got their name because somebody
thought they looked like a two-pronged fork joined together at the
top (though if you ask me, they look more like spoons). You are
supposed to eat them with your fingers, not with a fork.
The secret ingredient here is a spice powder called mahlep, made
from the seeds of the St Lucie cherry. Its flavour is between bitter
almond and cherry. I’m suggesting you roll these biscuits in sesame
and nigella seeds. That’s mostly for visual impact, but also because
they add complexity to the flavour and texture.

MAKES 4

1 egg
100 g (3½ oz) butter
50 ml (12/3 fl oz) olive oil, plus extra for greasing 50 g (1¾ oz) plain
yoğurt 300 g (10½ oz/2 cups) plain (all-purpose) flour, plus extra for
dusting 1 teaspoon mahlep powder (ground white cherry pits) 1
teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons nigella seeds

2 teaspoons white sesame seeds

Separate the egg white and yolk. Set aside the yolk. Gently melt the
butter in a frying pan (or microwave for 30 seconds). Put the egg white in
a bowl, add the olive oil, yoğurt and melted butter and whisk to combine.

Sift the flour into a mixing bowl, make a well in the middle and add the
mahlep, baking powder, egg white mixture and salt. Knead the dough for
10 minutes, until smooth. Cover the bowl with a damp cloth and rest for
15 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 170°C (325°F/Gas 3).

Divide the dough into eight balls. Place a ball of dough on a floured work
surface and, with floured hands, roll into 20 x 1 cm (8 x ½ in) lengths.
Repeat with the remaining dough.

Set two pieces of the dough side by side and curve them towards each
other like brackets. Join them together at each end to form an oval
shape, and twist the tips to make sure they stay together. Repeat with
the remaining dough to make four çatals. Brush the top of the dough
with egg yolk and sprinkle with nigella and sesame seeds.

Line a baking tray with baking paper and brush with oil. Put the ovals on
the baking paper and cook for 25 minutes or until golden brown. Remove
çatals from the oven and rest for 10 minutes. Serve warm.
KAVALA KURABİYESİ
KAVALA COOKIES

Kavala is a town in Greece, not far from the border of Turkey. I

wanted to include what Turks call Kavala cookies in honour of one of
my food idols—the Sydney chef Janni Kyritsis, whose grandparents
were expelled from Turkey in the 1920s as part of a government
policy of monoculturalism. They ended up living in Kavala (just as
my grandparents were expelled from Greece and ended up living in
the Turkish town of Mürefte, where Janni’s parents had started). But
when I asked Janni if he was familiar with Kavala cookies, he looked
blank. The people of Kavala, it seems, just call them almond cookies,
and are unaware of their city’s fame throughout my country.

MAKES ABOUT 16

300 g (10½ oz/2 cups) plain (all-purpose) flour, plus extra for dusting
150 g (5½ oz/1½ cups) almond meal 150 g (5½ oz) butter
150 g (5½ oz) icing (confectioners’) sugar 1 vanilla bean
1 tablespoon baking powder

2 eggs
50 g (1¾ oz/½ cup) coarsely ground almonds 1 tablespoon vegetable
oil, for greasing

Mix the flour and almond meal together in a non-stick frying pan over
low heat for 3 minutes until it begins to bake, then remove from the heat
and set aside.

Gently melt the butter in a frying pan (or microwave for 30 seconds).
Gently melt the butter in a frying pan (or microwave for 30 seconds).
Pour the melted butter in a bowl and add 50 g (1¾ oz) of the icing sugar.
Slice the vanilla bean and scrape the seeds into the butter mixture. Add
the baking powder and eggs, and whisk to combine. Put the flour and
almond mixture in a separate bowl. Make a well in the middle and pour in
the butter and egg mixture. Knead for 5 minutes to make a soft dough. (If
it seems too moist, add a little more flour.) Add the ground almonds and
knead for 5 minutes more until it forms a coarse paste. Cover the bowl
with a damp cloth and rest for 15 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 170°C (325°F/Gas 3).

Place the dough on a floured work surface and roll out the dough, using
a rolling pin, into a sheet about 30 cm (12 in) wide and 1 cm (½ in) thick.
Use the rim of a glass to cut the sheet into rounds, then slice each round
in half to make sixteen half moons. (For a traditional shape, push the
straight edge of the half moon inwards to create a crescent.) Line a
baking tray with baking paper and brush with vegetable oil. Add the half
moons and bake for 25 minutes or until golden. Remove the tray from
the oven and leave to cool for 10 minutes, then sprinkle generously with
the remaining icing sugar and serve.
 WHERE THE BEST BAKLAVA
BEGINS

Undoubtedly, Anatolian cooks were playing around with dough, butter

and beet-sugar long before the Ottoman Empire. The Romans in
Constantinople and the Greeks in Byzantion loved their sweet pastries.
But the ingredient that was added by the chefs in the Topkapı Palace in
the fifteenth century was showmanship. They wanted their audience (the
sultan, his family, his advisers and occasionally his bodyguards) to
exclaim, ‘My god, how can he roll out his filo so thin?’ and ‘My god, how
does he have the patience to create forty layers, and still get it so light?’
Nowadays, those questions are asked every day by the customers at
İmam Çağdaş, the best baklava maker in Gaziantep, which is the best
baklava town in Turkey.
Until I was twenty, I thought I was eating great baklava in Istanbul.
Then the grandfather of one of my student friends arrived at our shared
house with a beautifully wrapped box he’d bought in southeastern
Turkey. As I tasted the contents, Şakir Dede, the grandfather, explained
that the baklava at İmam Çağdaş was designed to satisfy the five senses:
1. The Look: High-domed with a golden top and glimpses of the
fluorescent green of pistachio nuts;
2. The Smell: The richness of the butter and a hint of caramel and wood
smoke from the baking;
3. The Touch: The syrup and butter should be so well absorbed that
instead of being soggy the filo is crisp enough to crumble under your
finger;
4. The Sound: You should hear ‘the tune of the crunch’ when you bite;
and of course
5. The Taste.
I had to make the pilgrimage to Gaziantep where I met Telat Çağdaş and
his son Burhan. Telat is the grandson of Hacı Hüseyin, who opened a
bakery in Gaziantep in 1887 and began the legend. Telat spends all day in
a fog of flour, supervising the thirty men who knead, roll out, sprinkle,
layer, soak, bake and slice the precious product from 6 am to 3 pm every
day.
While Telat runs the baklava factory upstairs, Burhan runs the 200-
seat restaurant downstairs (which also serves excellent kebaps). Burhan’s
son, Telat Jr, looks after the cash desk.
The youngest workers are the twelve-year-old apprentices who come
in before and after school to clean and carry, and bring cups of tea to the
more senior workers. They can expect to rise, every two years or so,
through these ranks: caretaker of ingredients; dough maker; dough roller
(with the thinnest rolling pins in the world); baklava builder (layering with
nuts and butter and sometimes clotted cream); wood-fire oven baker;
slicer and folder; and syrup master.
The current syrup master has been working with the Çağdaş family for
thirty years, and started at the age of twelve. Telat trusts him absolutely,
but he still checks the syrup every day.
That perfectionism explains why the European Union has given the
baklava of Gaziantep a ‘Protected Geographical Indication’ as a unique
artisanal creation.
In Gaziantep, Telat Çağdaş and his grandson Telat Çağdaş Jr package their baklava to send all
over the world.
The filo production room in Imam Çağdaş Baklava House, where the pastry is rolled so thin you
can read a newspaper through it.
BAKLAVA
TRADITIONAL PISTACHIO BAKLAVA

The next three recipes are forms of baklava, which Turks rarely make
at home. We hate to seem defeatist, but honestly, you’re not going to
be able to make your own filo pastry to anywhere near the standard
of a place like İmam Çağdaş —even if you possess a huge marble
table, a long thin rolling pin and the world’s strongest shoulders.
At İmam Çağdaş, they aim to roll out the pastry so thin you could
read a newspaper through it, but we don’t expect you to manage that
(although if you insist on trying). For this recipe, just buy a couple of
chilled packs of filo. You’ll need at least forty-two sheets to make true
baklava.
The recipe assumes your baking tray is what is known as a ‘quarter
pan’, which is 33 cm long, 22 cm wide and 2 cm deep (13 × 8½ × ¾ in),
so try to find filo of roughly those dimensions. If your tray is a
different size, however, just cut the filo to fit. The most important
ingredient of baklava is patience. Even with bought pastry, the recipe
takes a long time—there are forty-two layers to butter, place and
sprinkle. But the process is satisfying, and it’s fun to get the kids to
help.

SERVES 8

400 g (14 oz) ground pistachio kernels (preferably Turkish or Iranian,

and definitely not salted)
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) ghee or clarified butter
375 g (13 oz) chilled filo pastry (at least 42 sheets)
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) caster (superfine) sugar
juice of ¼ lemon

Put the pistachios in a blender and blend into a coarse powder. Gently
melt the ghee in a frying pan (or microwave for 30 seconds).

Remove the top 12 layers of filo and place between two damp cloths,
then set aside for the top of the baklava. Divide the remaining filo into
two equal stacks and place each stack between damp cloths. Using a
pastry brush, lightly brush the bottom and sides of a baking tray
(traditionally 33 x 22 x 2 cm/13 x 8½ x ¾ in) with the warm ghee.
Place one filo sheet in the tray and lightly brush with ghee. Add two more
layers, brushing with ghee each time, and then lightly sprinkle 1
tablespoon of pistachios over the third filo layer. Reserve 2 tablespoons
of pistachios to decorate the top. Repeat the process six more times, to
make a 21-sheet stack.

Top this layer with a thick, 5 mm (¼ in) layer of pistachios. Continue the
layering process—three sheets, then a light sprinkling of pistachios—four
more times to make a 33-sheet stack. (Any broken or offcut pieces of filo
can be used to make the middle layer of any trio.) Take the remaining
nine filo layers and continue to stack, brushing between each sheet with
ghee, but not adding pistachios.

Using a sharp knife, cut the baklava seven times lengthways and six
times across to make forty-two portions. (The Turkish style is square, but
you can also make rectangular blocks.) Reheat the remaining ghee and
pour it between the cracks, and then set aside the pastry tray for 20
minutes to rest and absorb the ghee.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4). Put the pastry in the oven and
bake for about 30 minutes, rotating the tray after 15 minutes to ensure
even baking.

Meanwhile, make the sugar syrup. Heat 600 ml (21 fl oz) of cold water
and the sugar in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the lemon juice and
bring to the boil, then reduce to a low simmer and cook for about 20
minutes until the mixture becomes thick and syrupy, being careful not to
let it caramelise. Check the pastry regularly and remove it once the top is
golden brown.

Carefully place the baklava tray over medium heat for 1 minute, moving
the tray around to ensure the base is evenly heated. Remove from the
heat and pour the hot sugar syrup over the hot baklava. Leave to rest for
1 hour to absorb the sugar. Decorate the top with the remaining
pistachios and serve.

NOTE
NOTE
Leftover baklava can be kept for 4 days. Don’t put it in the fridge, though,
as this will ruin the texture.
SARIĞI BURMA
BLACK SEA ROLLED BAKLAVA

The name of this Ottoman recipe literally means ‘rolled turban’. In

the sultan’s kitchen the cooks would twist the pastry into a shape that
resembled what they saw on the heads of the aristocrats around
them. We’re giving you a simpler version, but keeping the name.
We’ve already said Gaziantep has the greatest makers of baklava in
Turkey and therefore the world, but other parts of Turkey approach
baklava in different ways. On the Black Sea they use hazelnuts and
their own butter, and they make the baklava into a roll shape. I’ve
decided to use walnuts instead of hazelnuts, because I’m not from the
Black Sea.

MAKES 50 PIECES

500 g (1 lb 2 oz) plain (all-purpose) flour

3 eggs
100 ml (3½ fl oz) milk 100 ml (3½ fl oz) vegetable oil 3 tablespoons plain
yoğurt pinch of salt
1 tablespoon baking powder

1 tablespoon white vinegar

150 g (5½ oz) butter
100 g (3½ oz) potato flour 600 g (1 lb 5 oz) walnut kernels, roughly
ground 500 g (1 lb 2 oz) sugar juice of ¼ lemon
Sift the flour into a mixing bowl and make a well in the middle. In a
separate bowl, whisk the eggs, milk, vegetable oil, yoğurt, salt, baking
powder, vinegar and 50 ml (12/3 fl oz) of water to combine. Pour the egg
mixture into the flour. Knead for 10 minutes to make a smooth dough,
then cover the bowl with a damp cloth and leave to rest for 15 minutes.

Melt the butter in a frying pan over high heat (or microwave for 30
seconds). Brush a baking tray with a little of the melted butter.

Divide the dough into ten billiard-sized balls. Dust your work surface with
the potato flour to prevent sticking. Place a ball of dough on the work
surface and flatten the dough using a thick rolling pin, being careful not
to let the dough stick. Roll the dough out as thin as possible, stretching it
into a square about 40 cm (16 in) wide, using your hands and the rolling
pin. Brush the stretched dough with butter and sprinkle with 50 g (1¾ oz)
of walnuts.

Place a straightened wire coat hanger (or a very thin rolling pin at least
50 cm/20 in long) across the dough sheet, on the edge nearest you, and
roll the sheet into a tight cylinder around the wire. Push the cylinder ends
towards each other and squeeze into a crinkly concertina shape about 30
cm (12 in) long. Lift it onto the prepared baking tray. Gently pull the wire
out. Repeat with the nine remaining balls of dough, tightly packing the
concertinas into the tray. Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Cut across the row of concertinas four times to divide each cylinder into
five rolls, each about 6 cm (2½ in) long. Reheat the remaining butter and
then pour it over the pastry and between the cracks. Set aside the pastry
tray for 10 minutes to rest and absorb the butter.

Bake for about 30 minutes, rotating the tray after 15 minutes to ensure
even baking. Meanwhile, make the sugar syrup. Heat 600 ml (21 fl oz) of
cold water and the sugar in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the
lemon juice and bring to the boil, then reduce to a low simmer and cook
for about 20 minutes until the mixture becomes thick and syrupy, being
careful not to let it caramelise. Check the pastry regularly and remove it
once the top is golden brown.
Carefully place the baking tray over medium heat for 1 minute, moving
the tray around to ensure the base is evenly heated. Remove from the
heat and immediately pour the hot sugar syrup over the hot pastry.
Leave the sarığı burma to rest for 1 hour to absorb the sugar. Decorate
the top with the remaining walnuts and serve.
SÜTLÜ NURİYE
‘THE GENERAL’S COMMAND’
(HAZELNUT AND MILK BAKLAVA)

When the last military coup happened in Turkey (in 1980) I was nine
years old. One of the generals who took control of the government
decided to involve himself in the details of daily life. He thought some
baklava houses were overcharging, so he ordered all baklava houses
to standardise their price.
One of the artisan baklava houses in Istanbul, Güllüoğlu, was not
prepared to sacrifice quality for the sake of meeting cost regulations,
so they decided to create a new type of baklava, with cheaper
ingredients. They used hazelnuts instead of pistachios (which are
three times the price). To make it a little creamier and lighter, they
used milk syrup instead of sugar syrup.
The price controls were lifted many years ago but the revolutionary
pastry can still be found as an option in the Güllüoğlu branch at
Karaköy, the port across the water from Istanbul’s spice market.

SERVES 8

250 g (9 oz) ghee or clarified butter

300 g (10½ oz) sliced hazelnuts (or coarsely ground hazelnuts)*
375 g (13 oz) chilled filo pastry (at least 42 layers)
750 ml (26 fl oz/3 cups) milk
440 g (15½ oz/2 cups) sugar

Gently melt the ghee in a frying pan (or microwave for 30 seconds).
Divide the sheets of filo into two equal stacks and place each stack
between two damp cloths.
Using a pastry brush, lightly brush the bottom and sides of a 40 x 30 x 4
cm (16 x 12 x 1½ in) baking tray with a little of the warm ghee. Place the
first filo sheet in the tray and lightly brush with ghee. Add another layer of
filo, brush with ghee and continue to layer with the rest of one stack.
Repeat the process until you have layered and buttered the first stack.
(Any broken or offcut pieces of filo can be used towards the bottom of
the stack), and then cover with the hazelnuts, reserving 2 tablespoons of
nuts to decorate the top. Continue to layer and brush the pastry in the
baking tray using the second stack of filo.

Once all the pastry has been layered, cut the baklava using a sharp knife,
five times lengthways and seven times across to make thirty-five blocks.
Reheat the remaining ghee and pour it between the cracks, and then set
aside the pastry tray for 20 minutes to rest and absorb the ghee.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4). Bake the pastry for about 30
minutes, rotating the tray after 15 minutes to ensure even baking.

Meanwhile, make the milk syrup. Heat the milk and sugar in a saucepan
over very low heat for 8 minutes, stirring constantly, being careful not to
boil the milk (keep the temperature around 75°C/165°F if you have a
thermometer). Check the pastry regularly and remove it once the top is
golden brown.

Carefully place the baklava tray over medium heat for 1 minute, moving
the tray around to ensure the base is evenly heated. Turn off the heat
and pour over the warm milk syrup. Leave to rest for 1 hour to absorb the
sugar. Decorate the top with the remaining hazelnuts and serve.

NOTE
Sliced hazelnuts are preferred for presentation, but if these are not
available, use coarsely ground hazelnuts instead. To make these, preheat
the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4) and then roast 300 g (10½ oz) whole
hazelnuts for 5 minutes, remove from the oven, leave to cool and then
rub the skins off with your fingers. Finally, coarsely chop the nuts using a
rub the skins off with your fingers. Finally, coarsely chop the nuts using a
blender or food processor.
TULUMBA OTTOMAN DONUTS

This snack, from the late Ottoman period, is soft inside and crunchy
outside. Fried batter soaked in syrup is a favourite in Greece and the
Balkan countries. Or you might consider it similar to Spanish churros
or Egyptian balah el sham (Damascus dates). Tulumbas are
particularly popular during the fasting month of Ramadan, where
they give a sugar and carbohydrate hit for people who haven’t eaten
all day.

MAKES ABOUT 20 DONUTS

LEMON SYRUP
440 g (15½ oz/2 cups) sugar juice of ¼ lemon DONUTS
50 g (1¾ oz) butter pinch of salt

1 tablespoon sugar
300 g (10½ oz/2 cups) plain (all-purpose) flour 3 eggs

1 tablespoon semolina
1 tablespoon cornflour (cornstarch) 1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) vegetable oil

Make the lemon syrup first. Put 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) of water and the
sugar in a saucepan over medium heat and bring to the boil. Add the
lemon juice, lower the heat and continue to simmer for 10 minutes.
Remove from the heat and pour the syrup into a deep bowl. Set aside.

In a separate saucepan, mix 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) of water with the
In a separate saucepan, mix 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) of water with the
butter, salt and sugar, and bring to the boil over medium heat. Add the
flour and continue to boil for 3 minutes, stirring constantly, to make a
dough. Remove from the heat and stir to help it cool. Set aside.

Put the dough in a mixing bowl and stir in the eggs, one at a time, until
combined. Knead for 3 minutes. Add the semolina and cornflour, and
knead for a further 5 minutes to make a soft moist dough, adding 1
tablespoon of water if it seems dry. Cover the bowl with a damp cloth
and set aside to rest for 15 minutes.

Push the dough into a piping bag with a star nozzle. Squeeze out a long
line of dough and cut into 6 cm (2½ in) chunks. Pour the vegetable oil into
a deep heavy-based saucepan. Add the tulumbas and place the pan over
low heat. Once the oil starts bubbling, simmer for 5 minutes or until the
donuts turn golden brown. Remove the tulumbas with a slotted spoon
and transfer into the bowl with the lemon syrup. Leave to soak for 5
minutes, then remove from the syrup and serve.
KADAYIF DOLMA APRICOT AND WALNUT
DOLMAS

This traditional dish is from Erzurum, in eastern Anatolia, where

they stuff it with walnuts. I’ve reduced the amount of syrup and
boosted the stuffing with apricots. It uses the crunchy ‘string’ pastry
called Kadayıf, which means there are interesting texture contrasts
between the inside and the outside.

MAKES 20

SUGAR SYRUP
500 g (17 fl oz) sugar ¼ lemon

FILLING
250 g (9 oz) chopped walnuts 50 g (1¾ oz) dried apricot, finely chopped
PASTRY
50 g (1¾ oz) butter 300 ml (10½ fl oz) milk

2 egg yolks
500 g (17 fl oz) chilled fresh kadayıf pastry 1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups)
vegetable oil DECORATION

2 tablespoons chopped walnuts

To make the syrup, put the sugar and 750 ml (26 fl oz/3 cups) of water in
a saucepan over medium heat and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat,
squeeze the quarter lemon into the water, and throw in the lemon skin.
Simmer for 15 minutes and then remove the lemon skin and discard.
Remove from the heat and set aside to cool. (Do not refrigerate.) Put the
chopped walnuts and apricots in a bowl and mix together.

Gently melt the butter in a frying pan over low heat (or microwave for 30
seconds). Transfer to a deep mixing bowl, add the milk and egg yolks and
whisk to combine.

Loosen the pastry using your fingers and then roughly chop the strands.
Using clean hands, take a handful of pastry and press together between
your palms to make a round. Still holding the round in your palm, place 2
teaspoons of the walnut and apricot mixture in the middle and use your
other hand to fold over the sides of the pastry and roll up the ends, and
then squeeze into a tight tube. Dip your fist into the milk mixture, letting
the pastry absorb some of the liquid through your fingers, pushing the
pastry back inside your fist as it slightly expands. Shake off the excess
liquid and then set aside on paper towel. Repeat with the remaining
pastry to make about twenty rounds.

Heat the vegetable oil in a deep frying pan over high heat. Add a drop of
water to the oil. If it sizzles the oil is ready. Carefully add the dolmas, ten
at a time, and then fry for 3 minutes until golden and crunchy. Remove
with a slotted spoon and transfer into the bowl with the syrup. Leave to
soak for 2 minutes, then remove and serve, decorated with the chopped
walnuts.
Murat Muhallebicisi (pudding shop) in Kadıköy, Istanbul, famous for pastries and milk puddings.
BOZA
BOZA ‘BEER’ WITH TOASTED
CHICKPEAS

Boza is a sweet slightly fermented drink that originated in the

Balkans in the ninth century and is now associated with the suburbs
of Istanbul. When I was a kid, I would look forward to hearing the
cries of the food sellers who would pass by our house in the
afternoon. The one I enjoyed the most came past at the end of a
winter’s day as the sky was darkening. He would stretch out the cry
as long as he could: ‘Bohhhhh-zaaaaa’. You would bring him a bottle,
and the boza man would fill it by turning a tap in a big tank he
carried on his back.
The street sellers are gone now. If you want to drink boza in
Istanbul, you must go to the shop known as Vefa, which opened in
1876 in a suburb called Vefa. Between October and April they sell
boza (and pickles). The rest of the year they sell grape sherbet,
lemonade and ice cream. If it’s a quiet day, they’ll show you the glass
from which Kemal Atatürk drank Vefa boza the year before he died
(1937). Presumably he couldn’t hear the cry of the street seller from
inside his palace.

SERVES 8

120 g (4¼ oz) fine dark bulgur 25 g (1 oz) rice

175 g (6 oz) sugar
20 g (¾ oz) dry yeast 95 g (3¼ oz/½ cup) dried chickpeas 1 tablespoon
olive oil, for greasing

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
Wash the bulgur and rice in cold running water to remove the excess
starch. Put the grains in a saucepan with 1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) of water
over medium heat. Bring to the boil, reduce the heat, and simmer for 30
minutes, stirring regularly. Strain the liquid into another pan, pressing on
the grains to extract as much juice as possible. Discard the boiled bulgur
and rice. Put the pan over medium heat, add the sugar and bring to the
boil, then remove from the heat.

Dilute the yeast in 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) of warm water. Set aside for 5
minutes. It should start to form bubbles.

Slowly pour the yeast into the grain mixture, stirring constantly, then
leave to cool to room temperature, stirring occasionally. Cover with a lid
between stirs. Once completely cool, transfer the pan to a cool spot and
leave to ferment for at least 24 hours. Every 6 hours or so, stir with a
wooden spoon. Meanwhile, prepare the chickpeas.

Strain and rinse the soaked chickpeas, place in a saucepan, cover with
water and bring to the boil over medium heat. Lower the heat and
simmer for 30 minutes. Wash the cooked chickpeas and then strain and
pat dry with paper towel.

Preheat the oven to 200°C (400°F/Gas 6). Grease a baking tray with the
olive oil, then add the chickpeas and bake for 15 minutes. Remove the
tray from the oven and gently shake it to roll the chickpeas around.
Return the tray to the oven and bake for a further 15 minutes. Remove
the tray and set aside to cool. Store the chickpeas in a covered container
at room temperature until you are ready to add them to the boza.

After 24 hours, check the boza. Depending on the season, the

temperature and the humidity, it may take up to 3 days for the drink to
ferment. Once bubbles form on the top, it is ready.

Stir the boza with a metal spoon just before serving. Pour into four
glasses, spoon the chickpeas over the top (or on the side for people to
add themselves), sprinkle each glass with cinnamon and serve.

NOTE
Stored in the fridge, boza will keep for about 3 days.
LİMONATA BASIL LEMONADE

Lemonade has been a staple for decades in pudding shops all over
Turkey, and when my mother was young, the usual way to ask
someone out on a date was to say: ‘Would you like to have a
lemonade together?’ Limonata is currently making a comeback in
Istanbul’s coolest cafés. But do not confuse limonata with some
commercial fizzy drink. It must be made in-house with fresh lemon
juice.
The secret to a good lemonade is to rub the lemon skin with sugar
before grating it—this sharpens the flavour. Normally we add fresh
mint leaves, but I thought I’d twist the formula with a herb that is
more unusual in Turkey—basil.

SERVES 4

8 lemons
220 g (7¾ oz/1 cup) sugar about 30 basil leaves

Grate the zest from the lemons into a bowl. Sprinkle in the sugar and
knead for 5 minutes to make a paste. Add 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of warm
water and stir to dilute the paste.

Cut the lemons in half and squeeze out as much juice as you can.
Transfer to a jug (pitcher) and set aside. Put the squeezed halves in a
bowl, cover with warm water and leave to soften for 1 hour.

Discard the soaking water. Wrap the lemon pulp in muslin (cheesecloth)
and squeeze out any remaining juice, then add to the jug. Add the
sugared zest paste. Add 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of water and 270 g (9½
sugared zest paste. Add 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of water and 270 g (9½
oz/2 cups) of crushed ice. Finely chop half the basil leaves and stir
through the lemonade. Pour into glasses, top with a few whole basil
leaves, and serve.
ŞEKERPARE
SEMOLINA DOMES

This is one I learned from my grandma, who would make vast

quantities of şekerpare (which means ‘piece of sugar’ in old Turkish)
and invite twelve or more people at a time to share it for afternoon
tea or dinner. I like it because semolina makes a lighter texture than
you find in flour-based desserts.
It is vital to pour the syrup over the domes while they are hot, so
there is maximum absorption, and to leave plenty of space around
each dome so they can expand—along with your waistline.

MAKES 20

½ lemon
550 g (1 lb 4 oz/2½ cups) sugar 125 g (4½ oz) butter
300 g (10½ oz/2 cups) plain (all-purpose) flour 95 g (3¼ oz/½ cup) fine
semolina 1 egg
1 tablespoon baking powder 2 tablespoons vegetable oil

20 blanched almonds
First, make the syrup. Using a fine grater or a microplane, grate the
lemon zest into a bowl and set aside. Squeeze the lemon into a cup. Mix
440 g (15½ oz/2 cups) of the sugar and 625 ml (21½ fl oz/2½ cups) of
water in a saucepan over medium heat and bring to the boil. Add the
lemon juice, reduce the heat and simmer for a further 15 minutes.
Remove from the heat and set aside to cool.

Gently melt the butter in a frying pan over low heat (or microwave for 30
seconds). Sift the flour into a mixing bowl and add the semolina. Make a
seconds). Sift the flour into a mixing bowl and add the semolina. Make a
well in the middle and pour in the butter. Break in the egg. Add the
remaining sugar, then add the lemon zest and the baking powder. Knead
for 5 minutes. Cover the bowl with a damp cloth and set aside to rest for
15 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Knead the dough again for 5 minutes, then divide into about twenty ping
pong-sized balls. Brush the oil onto a baking tray. Place the balls on the
tray and push into a dome shape. Push an almond into the top of each
dome and then bake for 25 minutes.

Remove the şekerpare from the oven and pour the syrup over the top.
Leave to cool for 15 minutes before serving.
The lokum factory in Bodrum (on the Aegean coast) specialises in Turkish delight made with the
juice of the local satsuma mandarins.
LOKUM
TURKISH DELIGHT

With most classic dishes, the precise origin story is lost in the mists of
history. With Turkish delight we can actually put a date on it. In the
year 1777, a bunch of British businessmen visiting Istanbul gave the
name to a sticky sweet they discovered in the shop of a cook named
Bekir. He was calling it lokum, which was his abbreviation of an Arab
phrase meaning ‘throat relaxant’.
He told them he had created it when the sultan put out the word to
confectioners that he was looking for a sweet that wouldn’t break his
teeth. Bekir won the contest with lokum flavoured with rosewater,
and was appointed chef pâtissier in the kitchen of the Topkapı Palace.
He then went on to open his own shop in the Bahçekapı district, near
the railway station where the Orient Express ended its journey.
The British businessmen started selling Bekir’s product in their
homeland, and his shop became a place of pilgrimage for tourists
from Europe. Confectioners all over Turkey (and Greece) started
copying his lokum, flavouring it with seasonal ingredients from their
neighbourhood. A painting of a turbaned Bekir feeding lokum to
children (The Confectioner by Preziosi) now hangs in the Louvre, and
the original shop, beautifully restored, is classified as a protected site.
The people behind the counter will tell you lokum was the favourite
sweet of Picasso, who said it helped his concentration.
I’ve attempted to reproduce the original recipe here, but to be
honest, I’m not partial to rosewater (like most Turks). You can add
any flavouring you like. I sometimes replace the rosewater with mint
and cinnamon. A popular version replaces the almonds with twice-
roasted pistachios. A friend of mine in Bodrum does a great version
with the juice from local satsuma mandarins. Guess what they use in
the Black Sea town of Safranbolu (the name means ‘plenty of
saffron’).
MAKES ABOUT 75 PIECES

60 g (2¼ oz/½ cup) cornflour (cornstarch)

2 tablespoons rose water

600 g (1 lb 5 oz) caster (superfine) sugar
35 g (1¼ oz/¼ cup) slivered almonds
30 g (1 oz/¼ cup) icing (confectioners’) sugar

Put 30 g (1 oz/¼ cup) of the cornflour in a bowl with the rose water and 2
tablespoons of water, and stir to combine. Put the caster sugar in a
saucepan, add 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) of water and bring to the boil over
medium heat, then reduce the heat and simmer for 5 minutes until it
starts to thicken. Add 2 tablespoons of the hot sugar syrup to the
cornflour mixture and mix thoroughly. Add the thickened cornflour
mixture to the pan. Add the slivered almonds and continue to cook,
stirring constantly until the mixture is runny enough to pour but thick
enough to set. To check the consistency, spoon a drop of the mixture into
a glass of cold water. If it retracts into a ball, it is ready. (Or check using a
thermometer. It is ready when the temperature reaches 115°C/240°F.)

Line a quarter gastronorm tray (22 x 33 cm/8½ x 13 in) with muslin

(cheesecloth). Sprinkle the remaining cornflour evenly in the tray. Pour
the mixture into the tray and then refrigerate for 1 hour to set.

Remove the tray from the fridge and remove the gel block by lifting the
edge of the muslin. Place the block on a board, peel off the cloth and
then slice into 3 cm (1¼ in) cubes using a sharp knife (or a steel ruler).
Separate the blocks slightly and then sprinkle half the icing sugar over the
top. Put the Turkish delight in an airtight container, and coat with the
remaining icing sugar. Serve with Turkish coffee.
TÜKENMEZ
THE NEVERENDING SHERBET

Tükenmez is a sustainable home version of the kind of sherbet you

used to buy in the street from hawkers with tanks on their backs—still
seen occasionally in some parts of eastern Turkey. The street sherbets
were often made with tamarind or liquorice root, while the home
version uses medlars. As you’ll see in the ingredients list, I’ve
suggested a variety of fruits that will contribute interesting notes to
the taste, but you can keep adding cores and skins of any hard fruits
that take your fancy. To get fermentation started, you need to keep
the chickpeas in the water for at least five days. The liquid will
continue to ferment gently once the chickpeas are removed, and you
can keep refreshing the drink with water for three months. If it starts
to taste like vinegar, use it as vinegar and make another batch.

SERVES MANY

1 red apple
1 granny smith (or sour green) apple 1 quince (or nashi pear)

1 pear
100 g (3½ oz) green grapes 200 g (7 oz) medlars (or loquats or firm red
plums) 50 g (1¾ oz) dried or frozen sour cherries (or red grapes) 220 g
(7¾ oz/1 cup) sugar

5 chickpeas
5 chickpeas
Quarter the apples, quince and pear without removing the seeds.
Remove the stalks from the grapes. Mix all the fruits, including the
medlars and sour cherries together in a bowl.

Put the mixed fruit into a 2 litre (70 fl oz/8 cup) jug (pitcher) with a sealing
lid and then add the sugar. Wrap the chickpeas in muslin (cheesecloth)
and add to the jug. Fill the jug with 1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) of water, up to
the brim. Seal tightly and then store in a cool spot for 10 days before
serving.

NOTE
Each time you want a drink of sherbet, pour it out and replace it with 250
ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of water and 2 tablespoons of sugar. Stored in the
pantry, the sherbet can be kept and replenished for up to 6 months.
 KAHVE—TURKISH COFFEE WITH ADDED
PATIENCE

When I was growing up, Istanbul was changing, adapting to a faster way
of life, but my grandma was determined to keep making perfect coffee.
She used a cezve (the traditional copper pot), which she placed over
burnt charcoal for 15 minutes but regularly removed from the heat to
ensure it did not overcook.
In my grandmother’s day, a prospective wife was judged by her
coffee-making skills—not just her technique, but more importantly her
patience. If she’s patient with her coffee, she will be patient with her
husband—or so the men thought at the time. Now it’s possible to judge a
Turkish café on the same principle. A second-rate place will boil the
coffee too quickly, degrading the taste and producing little of the froth
that needs to form gradually and cover the top of the liquid.
These days, you don’t need charcoal to make a perfect Turkish coffee.
An electric or gas stove top works perfectly well—as long as you have the
technique and the patience.
To make your own Turkish coffee, you will need a cezve (pronounced
‘jezweh’)—a heavy-based pot with a long handle, and you will need to
buy finely ground medium-roast Arabica coffee (or, if you’re a purist,
you’d grind medium-roast beans in a cylindrical brass coffee mill called a
kahve değirmeni). Here’s the process:

1. Pour cold water into the pot—one cup for each person you are serving
and an extra half cup ‘for the pot’.
2. Add a heaped teaspoonful of the ground Turkish coffee for each cup
and stir. The amount of coffee may be varied to taste, but don’t
forget, there should be a thick layer of grounds left at the bottom of
each cup. Don’t fill the pot too much.
3. If you need to add sugar, this is the time to do it. Check with your
guests and if they say ‘medium sweet’, stir a teaspoon of sugar per
 cup into the cold water.
4. Heat the pot as slowly as you can—the lower the heat the better it will
be. Make sure you watch to prevent the cezve overflowing when the
coffee boils.
5. When it boils, pour some (not all) of the coffee equally between the
cups, filling each cup about a quarter to a third of the way. This will
ensure everybody gets a fair share of the foam forming on top of the
brew, without which coffee loses much of its taste.
6. Put the pot back on low heat until the coffee boils again (which will be
very soon). Distribute the rest of the coffee between the cups.

Since there is no filtering at any time during this process, you should wait
for a few minutes before drinking your coffee while the grounds settle at
the bottom of the cup.

HERE’S HOW TO ORDER TÜRK KAHVESI WHEN

YOU’RE IN TURKEY:
Sade (‘sah-DEH’): plain, no sugar (fairly bitter)
Az şekerli (‘AHZ sheh-kehr-lee’): a little sugar (takes off the bitter
edge; half a teaspoon per cup)
Orta şekerli (‘ohr-TAH sheh-kehr-lee’): medium (about a teaspoon
of sugar per cup)
Şekerli (‘sheh-kehr-lee’): sweet (two teaspoons of sugar per cup)

You never order coffee with milk. If you enjoy a milky coffee and
you’re lucky enough to be in the east of Turkey, you could ask for
menengiç (‘men-en-GITCH’), which is made with crushed wild
pistachio nuts, milk and sugar. There’s no caffeine, so you can drink
it all day.
In traditional cafés, coffee is cooked over charcoals that have been burning for more than an
hour.
A kahve is a meeting place where men go to play cards, drink tea or coffee, and watch soccer
games on TV. Kahves rarely serve food.
MEZE
Every great food culture has a tradition of small tasting plates
served with a national drink. The Italians have antipasto, the
French have hors d’oeuvres, the Spanish have tapas—all
washed down with local wines. The Chinese have yum cha,
served with tea. The Russians have zakuski, served with vodka.

And the Turks have meze, served with raki (or occasionally wine or beer).
Mezes are most likely to be served in a meyhane, which is a kind of bar/
bistro/pub where people meet for a chat and a drink and a bite from
sunset until well after midnight. During the Ottoman period, the
meyhanes were often run by families of Greek or Armenian background,
because those cultures do not have the Muslim aversion to alcohol.
There’s an origin story for meze that sounds too good to be true.
Supposedly the Ottoman sultans in the fifteenth century were a paranoid
lot, fearful of being poisoned by foreign spies who sneaked into their
kitchens, or by members of their own family. So they hired official food
tasters, who would be given small helpings of every dish offered by the
chef. They would have to be seen to swallow all of them and keep
smiling before the sultan could begin his meal.
Other rich Turks thought they would look important if they followed
the same ritual even when they weren’t in fear of death threats and
couldn’t afford official tasters. So they started serving small quantities on
small plates and called them meze, from the Persian word for ‘a taste’.
The reason I’m dubious about this tale is that there were meyhanes in
the Middle East long before the Ottoman emperors built their kitchens.
The eleventh-century Persian poet Omar Khayyam wrote this line: ‘You
say rivers of wine flow in heaven—is heaven a meyhane to you?’ The
rivers of wine would have flowed through Istanbul, a thriving trade hub,
before the Muslims started cracking down on alcohol sales. Smart
meyhane-owners would have served salty high protein snacks to make
their customers thirsty and to line their stomachs so they wouldn’t fall
unconscious before ordering another drink.
The need for stomach lining became more pressing in the seventeenth
century, when the favoured drink in meyhanes changed to raki. Raki, like
wine, is made from grapes but, as it is distilled, it is much more alcoholic.
Most people dilute raki with water, which turns it white and explains its
nickname—’lion’s milk’. Meyhanes started boasting about the variety of
meze they had available to keep the customer (relatively) sober.
 The twentieth-century poet Nazim Hikmet wrote that a good meze
table should feast the eye, the conversation should feast the brain, and
the raki should whet the palate: ‘You can drink raki with spicy or sweet,
with cucumber, melon or cheese, with water or without water, in winter
or in summer, in joy or in sorrow—the only thing you cannot drink raki
with is idiots.’
So here’s a typical night out for me during my student years. You
decide to meet your friends at a meyhane (a decision that might take a
while, because the second most divisive question in Istanbul, after ‘What’s
your soccer team?’ is ‘Which is the best meyhane in town?’).
You find a table and order your raki (aniseed-flavoured), which arrives
with a jug of water and a bucket of ice. A waiter comes around with a
tray displaying cold meze—maybe melon and white cheese, yoğurt and
mint, spicy tomato salsa, eggplant salad, marinated fish, braised
vegetables, stuffed mussels—and you point at the ones you fancy.
Musicians pass by and you might have to pay them to go away. Street
sellers wander in and try to interest you in their wares.
After an hour or so, the waiter comes back and asks if you’d like any
hot meze. He describes them, emphasising what’s unique to the
establishment, and maybe points to a tank from which a fish can be
scooped out and grilled. You pick a few tastes and you order another
bottle of raki. Suddenly it’s midnight. You stagger out and buy some
kokoreç (stuffed intestines that look like sausage) from a street stall to
help you sober up.
This chapter gives you the tools to create your own meyhane,
complete with cocktails. Turks think of meze as sharing food, to be
placed in the middle of the table as part of a spread, but any of the
dishes in this chapter could be served on its own as a starter or first
course for lunch or dinner. We have suggested ingredient quantities that
will make enough for four, when you want to serve the dish as a course
by itself. If the dish is part of a meze platter or party table, then each
guest is likely to take a smaller quantity. So if one of our ‘serves 4’ dishes
is served as part of a platter of three mezes, for example, then you could
say it will serve twelve (or six greedy people).
This is party food and party drink, served with conversation. The only
thing you cannot serve it with is idiots.
A typical laneway meyhene in Istanbul, where friends gather to chat, sing, get tipsy on rakı and
eat an array of mezes.
SUCUKLU HUMUS
POMEGRANATE HUMUS WITH
SPICY SAUSAGE

A well-made humus is a wonderful form of comfort food. But it’s not

Turkish. If you’re offered it in Turkey you’re probably in a place run
by someone with an Arabic background. (This is not to say that I’m
taking a side in the humus war. You won’t catch me making a
declaration on whether its origin is Syrian or Israeli or Palestinian or
Lebanese. All I know is it’s not Turkish.) At my restaurant in Sydney,
we try to change our menu every three months. The discussion with
my cooks and waiters begins with me saying: ‘Lets lose the humus—
it’s not Turkish.’ My manager, Fatih, always replies: ‘Leave it alone.
It’s been seven years, and the customers love it.’ So I’ve compromised.
I’ve turned an Arabic speciality into a Turkish dish by adding
ingredients familiar to me— pomegranates to sweeten it, capsicum to
colour it and sucuk (spicy beef sausage) to give it heat. My customers
are right.

SERVES 6

HUMUS
200 g (7 oz/1 cup) dried chickpeas 1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
(baking soda)

2 garlic cloves
60 ml (2 fl oz/¼ cup) lemon juice 1 tablespoon pomegranate molasses
1 tablespoon capsicum (pepper) paste

4 tablespoons tahini
½teaspoon salt
125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) olive oil ½ teaspoon paprika

TOPPING

1 small cucumber
½ small red onion
½ red capsicum (pepper)
100 g (3½ oz) sucuk (or chorizo)

2 slices day-old sandwich bread

pide bread, grilled, or pita crisps, to serve

Put the chickpeas in a saucepan, cover with water and bring to the boil
over high heat. Boil for 1 minute, and then strain. Put the chickpeas in a
bowl with the bicarbonate of soda, cover with water and soak overnight.

Strain the chickpeas and rinse under cold running water for 5 minutes.
Transfer to a saucepan, cover with plenty of water, and bring to the boil
over medium heat. Cook for 1½ hours until the chickpeas are soft enough
to mash with your fingers. Put the cooked chickpeas in a food processor
and blend into a smooth paste. Finely crush the garlic and stir into the
chickpea paste. Add the lemon juice, pomegranate molasses, capsicum
paste, tahini, salt, olive oil and paprika and blend into a smooth purée.
Spoon the humus into a bowl.

Peel the cucumber and finely chop. Finely chop the onion. Slice the red
capsicum, remove the seeds and stalk, and finely chop. Chop the sucuk
very finely. Chop the day-old bread into small cubes.

Put the sucuk in a small frying pan over low heat and bring to a simmer,
then cook until the fat begins to sizzle and emerge. Add the bread cubes
and capsicum, and cook for 2 minutes until crisp. Remove the sucuk,
bread and capsicum from the pan and mix with the cucumber and red
onion.

Using a spoon, swirl the humus so it looks like a whirlpool, and then
scatter the sucuk mixture into the swirls. Serve the bowl of humus with
grilled pide or pita crisps.
BORANİ
POOR MAN’S SAFFRON AND
CARROT DIP
A meal in a meyhane usually starts with an assortment of cold
plates, designed to sit on the table for hours. Most customers are there
primarily to drink alcohol, and they may just pick at their food,
expecting it to taste as good at midnight as it did when they sat down
at 7 pm. Borani is a model of this kind of meze. The centrepiece is
braised carrot, which lines the stomach nicely. I’ve called this a dip,
but it’s denser than the usual dips made with yoğurt and coloured
with beetroot, chillies or parsley. This one is coloured with turmeric—
known in Turkey as the poor man’s saffron because it provides visual
impact without the exotic fragrance.

SERVES 6

1 tablespoon caraway seeds

4 carrots
50 ml (12/3 fl oz) olive oil 1 teaspoon turmeric

2 garlic cloves
200 g (7 oz) plain yoğurt 2 dill stalks, finely chopped pide bread, to serve

Toast the caraway seeds in a frying pan over medium heat, shaking
frequently, for about 2 minutes until fragrant.

Peel and grate the carrots. Heat the olive oil in a frying pan over medium
heat. Add the grated carrots and sauté for 5 minutes. Add the caraway
heat. Add the grated carrots and sauté for 5 minutes. Add the caraway
seeds and turmeric, sauté for 5 minutes more and then remove from
heat.

Crush the garlic and mix it in a bowl with the yoğurt. Add the chopped dill
and spiced carrots and mix together. Serve the bowl of borani, warm or
chilled, with pide bread.
ANTEP EZME
CHILLI AND CAPSICUM SALSA

I’ve translated the word ezme, which literally means ‘crushed’, as

‘salsa’ because it’s chunkier than a sauce but runnier than a dip, and
because it contains the New World ingredients chillies and tomatoes.
The secret to making a great ezme is never to use a food processor.
Instead, you should chop it finely just before you take it to the table.
Ezmes are served in kebap houses to lubricate the palate before the
meat arrives. The waiter just plonks a few small plates on the table
when you sit down, and you spoon them up while you discuss what
kind of kebap you might order. The spiciest ezmes are made in
Gaziantep.

SERVES 6

6 ripe tomatoes
4 green bullhorn peppers (or 2 green capsicums/peppers) 1 bunch flat-
leaf (Italian) parsley
3 red onions

3 garlic cloves
1 tablespoon isot (or chilli flakes) 1 tablespoon capsicum (pepper) paste
50 ml (12/3 fl oz) pomegranate molasses
100 ml (3½ fl oz) extra virgin olive oil juice of ½ lemon

1 tablespoon sea salt

pomegranate seeds, to decorate (optional) pide bread, grilled, to serve

Score a shallow cross in the base of the tomato. Put in a heatproof bowl
and cover with boiling water. Leave for 30 seconds, then plunge in cold
water and peel the skin away from the cross.

Cut the peeled tomatoes into quarters and scoop out the seeds. Slice the
peppers and discard the stalks and seeds. Pick the parsley leaves and
discard the stalks. Preferably using a mezzaluna, finely chop the
tomatoes, parsley, peppers, red onions, garlic and parsley together into a
chunky purée.

Drain off any excess water from the chopping board and then transfer
the purée into a bowl. Add the isot, capsicum paste, pomegranate
molasses, olive oil, lemon juice and sea salt, and stir well to combine.

Decorate with pomegranate seeds, if using, then serve the bowl of antep
ezme with grilled pide.
ZEYTİN PİYAZI GREEN OLIVE AND WALNUT
SALAD

This dish appears on every meze table near the Aegean Sea. It’s best
made with what we call ‘scratched green olives’ (early harvested and
lightly crushed before being soaked in salty water). They come from
the Edremit area in the northwest.
The world’s first known edible olives were cultivated in Anatolia
6000 years ago, long before anybody talked about nations called
Greece or Turkey. These days Turkey is one of the largest olive oil
producers in the world and arguably the most enthusiastic eater of
olives in the Mediterranean.
The word piyaz in the Turkish name comes from Ottoman times,
and suggests a salad that contains onions. In fact, the onions are the
least interesting part of this dish.

SERVES 6

125 g (4½ oz) green olives

2 garlic cloves
125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) extra virgin olive oil ½ bunch flat-leaf (Italian)
parsley 4 spring onions (scallions), chopped 50 g (1¾ oz) walnuts
½ green apple
1 red bullhorn pepper (or ½ red capsicum/pepper) juice of 1 lemon
2 tablespoons pomegranate molasses

1 teaspoon chilli flakes

½ tablespoon dried thyme

Slice the olives into quarters, and remove the seeds. Squash the garlic
cloves and remove the skin. Put the olive slices and garlic in a small
container with half the olive oil, and leave to marinate overnight.

Finely chop the parsley leaves. Wash the spring onions, remove the roots
and tough outer leaves, and finely chop. Roughly chop the walnuts. Slice
the apple. Slice the bullhorn pepper, remove the seeds and the stalk, and
finely chop. Transfer the olives from the garlic marinade into a large
bowl. Add all the other ingredients and mix thoroughly. Serve the bowl of
zeytin piyazi at the table for people to help themselves.
ÇIĞ KÖFTE
NIMROD’S VENISON TARTARE

Çiğ köfte (raw meatball) is usually made with veal because of its low
fat content. But I’m suggesting you try venison because it is hallowed
by history (and has an even lower fat content).
Let me take you back 4000 years to the city of Şanlıurfa in
southeastern Anatolia. As the story goes, the ruler at the time was a
man named Nemrut (translated as Nimrod in English) who was a
great grandson of Noah. Nimrod became paranoid after a dream in
which he was told he was about to be replaced by a leader named
Abraham, who would try to persuade Nimrod to worship one god. So
he ordered his solders to collect all the wood they could find so they
could burn Abraham at the stake. When a hunter returned home to
his village after killing a deer, his wife was unable to cook it because
she, of course, had no wood. Instead, she chopped the raw meat and
kneaded it with spices and bulgur— thereby presenting a new dish to
the world. (And God saved Abraham by turning the fire to water—the
site of which is recognised today by the famous pond in the middle of
Şanlıurfa, full of sacred carp.) SERVES 4

250 g (9 oz) venison loin fillet (or veal loin), trimmed 2 onions

5 garlic cloves
2 tablespoons capsicum (pepper) paste
½ tablespoon tomato paste
4 heaped tablespoons isot (or chilli flakes) 1 tablespoon pimento

1 tablespoon cumin
½ tablespoon cinnamon
½ tablespoon salt
½ tablespoon freshly ground black pepper 450 g (1 lb/2½ cups) very
fine bulgur

15 ice cubes
5 flat-leaf (Italian) parsley stalks

5 mint stalks
3 spring onions (scallions) lettuce leaves (or pita bread), to serve

Finely cut the venison. Put the meat in a food processor and blend into a
coarse paste, then transfer to a round baking tray with indentations on
the bottom (or a mixing bowl). Finely grate the onions. Crush the garlic
cloves. Add the capsicum and tomato pastes, onion and garlic to the
meat and combine. Stir in the six dry spices. Knead the meat mixture for
10 minutes to make a smooth paste. Add 90 g (3¼ oz/½ cup) of the
bulgur and three of the ice cubes, and continue to Knead until the ice has
melted. Repeat with the remaining bulgur and ice cubes until all the
bulgur is well combined with the meat.

Pick the parsley and mint leaves and discard the stalks. Finely chop the
leaves. Wash the spring onions, then remove the roots and tough outer
leaves. Finely chop. Add the mint, parsley and spring onions to the veal
mixture and knead for 10 minutes until it holds together as a large ball.

To make the çig köftes, take a handful of the mixture and squeeze tightly
in your fist to make a log about 3 cm (1¼ in) across and 6 cm (1¼ x 2½ in)
long. Repeat to make about thirty patties.

Place about three köfte in each lettuce leaf and serve on a platter for
guests to help themselves.
MERCİMEK KÖFTESİ
RED LENTIL MEATBALLS

Here’s another dish with history. The Bible tells how Esau, a hunter
who normally ate venison, saw his brother Jacob eating a bowl of red
lentils and was so hungry he offered to give up his inheritance for it.
This is a rare vegetarian version of köfte, which is normally
associated with raw veal or lamb, and is a staple winter dish in the
eastern half of Turkey. Even if you love it as much as Esau, be careful
not to overload, as bulgur will continue to expand in your stomach.

SERVES 6

410 g (14½ oz/2 cups) split red lentils 175 g (6 oz/1 cup) fine bulgur

2 onions
2 tablespoons vegetable oil, for frying 1 tablespoon capsicum (pepper)
paste
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 bunch flat-leaf (Italian) parsley 6 spring onions (scallions) 1 tablespoon
cumin
1 tablespoon chilli flakes 1 tablespoon olive oil
2 teaspoons salt
1 cos lettuce

1 lemon
Wash the red lentils in cold running water, then place in a saucepan with 1
litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) of water and bring to the boil over high heat.
litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) of water and bring to the boil over high heat.
Reduce the heat and simmer for 15 minutes, with the lid partly closed.
Put the bulgur in a large mixing bowl and pour over the hot lentils and
the cooking water. Rest for 15 minutes, covered, to soften the bulgur.

Finely chop the onions. Heat the vegetable oil in a frying pan over
medium heat and then add the onion. Cook for 5 minutes until the onion
is translucent. Meanwhile, mix the capsicum and tomato pastes in a
small bowl with 1 tablespoon of water. Stir the mixture into the pan and
cook for 3 more minutes until the whole mixture is mushy. Remove the
pan from the heat and set aside.

Pick the leaves from the parsley, discard the stalks, and finely chop the
leaves. Wash the spring onions, then remove the roots and green outer
layer. Finely chop.

Once the bulgur has softened, stir in the parsley, spring onion, cumin,
chilli flakes, olive oil, salt and onion mixture. Knead for 3 minutes and then
divide the mixture into about twenty-four balls, using your hands. Slightly
flatten each ball.

Wash the cos lettuce, and break it up into leaves. Place three köftes in
each lettuce leaf.

Cut the lemon into 6 slices. Place on a platter with the köftes for guests to
help themselves.
TOPİK
ARMENIAN CHICKPEA DOMES

Topik is a vegetarian dish originally consumed during Lent by the

Armenian community who are Orthodox Christians. Now it’s one of
the most treasured delicacies to go with a bottle of raki in Armenian
meyhanes. As a child I fell in love with topik when our Armenian
neighbours invited me to stay for supper while I was playing with
their kids. I rediscovered it as a teenager in a meyhane called Madam
Despina, which was opened in 1946 in the multicultural suburb of
Kurtuluş by a Greek lady whose signature dish happened to be
Armenian. She’s been immortalised in a nostalgic folk song, which
goes: ‘Set the table, Madam Despina. Are we tipsy again? Did you just
run out of topik? We love you anyway.’ Madam Despina died in 2006,
but she’s still a hot topik in Istanbul.

SERVES 6

SHELL
400 g (14 oz/2 cups) dried chickpeas

3 potatoes
½ tablespoon cinnamon

1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon sugar
100 g (3½ oz) tahini FILLING

10 onions
100 ml (3½ fl oz) olive oil 30 g (1 oz) currants 30 g (1 oz) pine nuts

1 teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ½ teaspoon allspice
½ teaspoon sugar
250 g (9 oz) tahini

½ tablespoon cinnamon, to serve juice of 1 lemon, to serve

Bring a large saucepan of water to a rapid boil. Add the chickpeas and
blanch for 1 minute. Transfer the chickpeas into a bowl, cover with fresh
water and leave to soak overnight.

The next day, start making the filling. Finely slice the onions. Heat the
olive oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Add the onion and cook for 10
minutes until translucent and slightly caramelised. Reduce the heat and
simmer for 2 hours with the lid partly closed, stirring occasionally.

Strain and rinse the chickpeas, and then rub in a rough cloth to remove
as much skin as possible. Place the skinned chickpeas in a large
saucepan, cover with plenty of water (at least three times the volume of
chickpeas) and boil for 1 hour, without the lid. Remove the pan from the
heat and leave to cool. Once the chickpeas are cool enough to handle,
remove any more skin, using your fingers, and then set aside.

Cut the potatoes in half, place in a large saucepan, cover with salted
water and bring to the boil. Cook for 15 minutes or until the potatoes are
water and bring to the boil. Cook for 15 minutes or until the potatoes are
tender, then drain well. Leave to cool and then remove the skin.

Place the potatoes, chickpeas, cinnamon, salt, pepper and sugar in a food
processor and blend to make a thick paste. Transfer to a mixing bowl,
add the tahini and combine. Knead the mixture together for 2 minutes to
make a smooth paste. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and leave to rest
for 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, place the currants in a bowl, cover with warm water, and
leave to soak for 15 minutes. Toast the pine nuts in a frying pan over
medium heat for 3 minutes, shaking often. Remove the onions from the
heat. Strain the currants and then add to the onions. Add the pine nuts,
cinnamon, salt, pepper, allspice and sugar. Stir in the tahini.

Cut twelve 30 cm (12 in) squares of plastic wrap.

To make the topik, put 4 tablespoons of the chickpea mash in the middle
of a square of plastic wrap. Flatten the mash into a round about 15 cm (6
in) across, pushing outwards so the centre is thicker than the edge. Put 2
tablespoons of the onion mixture in the middle of the mash. Lift one
corner of the plastic wrap and fold the mash over the filling. Bring the
other three corners up to meet the first corner and fold the other edges
over. Pull the four corners of plastic wrap together and form the mixture
into a ball. Twist the corners of plastic into a strand. Tie a knot in the
strand just above the ball. Repeat to make twelve balls. Place the parcels
on a tray and refrigerate overnight to set.

When you are ready to serve, snip off the top of the plastic wrapping
(below the knot) and take the balls out of the plastic wrap. Sprinkle a little
cinnamon on top, and a few drops of lemon juice, then serve.
The Aegean village of Türkbükü, where geese, normally confined to fresh water, have been
breeding in the salt water since they were left at the beach by Somer’s stepfather in 1995.
MİDYE DOLMA STREET HAWKER’S
STUFFED MUSSELS

If you wander through the Istanbul suburb called Beyoğlu, you’ll

soon encounter men carrying circular aluminium trays full of
mussels stuffed with spiced rice. Give the first man you see a lira and
you’ll get three or four mussels and a slice of lemon on a paper plate.
You’ll then become addicted, and feel compelled to go to the street
called Nevizade where, with any luck, you’ll find a meyhane that will
serve you mussel dolmas sitting down.
When I came to Sydney, I met an Armenian lady named Bercük
Anne, who made mussel dolma far superior to any I’d found in the
streets of Istanbul. Her recipe had a lot of onions, spices and herbs,
and very little rice. So here’s how you can make the true Armenian
mussel dolma better than any you’ll find in the streets of Istanbul.

SERVES ABOUT 4
(5 MUSSELS PER PERSON)

5 onions
100 ml (3½ fl oz) vegetable oil, for frying 30 g (1 oz) currants
30 g (1 oz)pine nuts
110 g (3¾ oz/½ cup) short-grain rice
2 tomatoes
2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
2 teaspoons pimento

1 teaspoon cinnamon
5 flat-leaf (Italian) parsley stalks
3 dill stalks

20 black mussels
2 tablespoons tomato paste
2 teaspoons capsicum (pepper) paste

2 tablespoons olive oil

4 lemons, cut into wedges, to serve

First make the stuffing. Finely chop the onions. Heat the vegetable oil in a
frying pan over medium heat. Add the onions and cook for 5 minutes.
Reduce the heat and simmer, covered, for 20 minutes, stirring
occasionally.

Place the currants in a bowl, cover with warm water, and leave to soak
for 15 minutes. Toast the pine nuts in a frying pan over medium heat for
3 minutes, shaking often.

Wash the rice under cold running water and then add to the simmering
onions. Increase the heat to medium. Grate the tomatoes over the rice.
Strain the currants and add to the pan. Add the pine nuts, pepper,
pimento and cinnamon, and stir. Simmer the mixture for 5 minutes, then
remove from the heat and leave to cool.

Pick the parsley leaves, discard the stalks and finely chop the leaves.
Finely chop the dill. Mix the parsley and dill into the stuffing, then set
aside.

Now, open the mussels. If you’ve bought the mussels in a vacuum bag,
open the bag over a bowl to catch any liquid inside. Scrub the shells
clean. Using a blunt knife, carefully force the point of the knife into the
gap at the pointy end of each mussel, and slice through the meat so the
gap at the pointy end of each mussel, and slice through the meat so the
shell opens with half the meat attached to each half shell—once you cut
through the thick, round connecting muscle at the bottom of the mussel,
it will be easy to open. Pour the juice into a bowl. Snip off the beards and,
using your finger, remove any grit at the base. Spread the half shells to
tear the muscle of the mussel, but leave the two halves connected. Put 2
teaspoons of the stuffing into the middle of each mussel and push the
half shells together again.

Place a bread and butter plate, face down, in the bottom of a saucepan
about 25 cm (10 in) wide.

Place the mussels in the pan, with the tips pointing outwards towards the
edge of the pan with the shells slightly overlapping (to prevent them
opening). Build a tight spiral of shells in the centre of the pan. There
should be one layer of mussels. Strain the mussel juice through a sieve
lined with a double layer of muslin (cheesecloth) three times, to remove
any grit.

Mix 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of mussel juice in a small bowl with the tomato
paste and capsicum paste. Pour the mixture over the mussels. Splash on
the olive oil. Place another bread and butter plate over the mussels, then
put the lid on the pan. Place the pan over medium heat and bring to the
boil, then reduce the heat and simmer for 15 minutes.

Remove the mussels from the heat and leave to cool to room
temperature. (You can also keep them in the fridge overnight.) Serve the
midye dolma on a big platter with lemon wedges for guests to help
themselves. The best way to eat them is with your hands, using the top
shell to scoop the mixture out of the bottom shell.
VOTKALI LEVREK
VODKA AND MUSTARD-CURED
BREAM

This is another of my mum’s specialities, perfected in her restaurant

in Bodrum, where the visitors love their vodka cocktails and the
favourite fish is levrek (normally translated as ‘sea bass’). At my
restaurant, we use sea bream. I like using vodka as a curing alcohol
because it has a neutral taste, which does not interfere with the hints
of ginger, bay leaves and dill in the votkali levrek.

SERVES 4

20 whole black peppercorns 1 tablespoon sea salt

3 fresh or dried bay leaves

2 thin slices ginger

50 ml (12/3 fl oz) vodka 100 ml (3½ fl oz) lemon juice

1 tablespoon mild French mustard

4 fillets deep sea bream (or another firm white-fleshed fish, such as
snapper or cod) 50 ml (12/3 fl oz) olive oil 3 dill stalks, finely chopped,
for decoration

Mix all the ingredients, except the fish and olive oil, together in a bowl.

Place the bream on a board and remove any small bones and blood
Place the bream on a board and remove any small bones and blood
lines. Thinly slice each bream fillet into five ‘leaves’. Place the fillet pieces
in the bowl and cover with the marinade. Cover the bowl with plastic
wrap, put in the fridge and leave for at least 6 hours (ideally, overnight).

Remove the fish from the bowl and place one fillet on each plate. Drizzle
with olive oil, sprinkle on a little dill and serve.
AYVALI KEREVİZ
BRAISED CELERIAC WITH QUINCE
AND ORANGE

It is thought that the Greek island of Samos, very close to the Turkish
mainland, is where the ugly celeriac first grew. On that island, fossil
remains of celeriac were found in a grove sacred to the goddess Hera
created in seventh century BC. We’re entitled to speculate that the
warriors on both sides of the Trojan War were eating it. Homer writes
in The Iliad that the horses of Achilles’ soldiers were eating what we
assume were wild celeriac leaves.
In Turkey, celeriac is better known than celery (which tends to
appear mostly as sticks in bloody marys). It’s often cooked with sour
apples, but I agree with the Ottoman cooks in preferring to use quince
if it’s in season.

SERVES 4

½ lemon
1 celeriac (up to 500 g/1 lb 2 oz) 1 quince 1 onion

1 carrot
125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) olive oil 2 oranges 1 teaspoon sugar

2 teaspoons salt
Put 500 ml (9 fl oz/2 cups) of water in a bowl. Squeeze in the juice from
the lemon and then add the lemon. Peel the celeriac and chop into
the lemon and then add the lemon. Peel the celeriac and chop into
pieces, roughly 2 cm (¾ in) square. Add the celeriac to the bowl. Cut the
quince in half, remove the pit and thinly slice. Add the slices to the bowl
and set aside.

Finely chop the onion. Finely chop the carrot. Heat the olive oil in a frying
pan over medium heat. Add the onion and cook for 4 minutes, until soft.
Add the carrot and cook for 2 minutes. Drain the quince slices and
celeriac cubes, pat dry with paper towel and then add to the pan. Fry for
4 minutes until the mixture starts to change colour and softens a little.

Cut the oranges in halves. Finely grate the zest of one half into the
mixture. Squeeze the juice from both oranges into a cup and add enough
warm water to fill the cup. Pour the orange mixture into the pan and add
the sugar and salt. Bring to the boil, then simmer, covered, for 15
minutes. Check the softness of the celeriac, and if it’s still hard, simmer
for another 10 minutes. Turn off the heat, and rest, covered, for 15
minutes.

Divide the ayvali kereviz between four serving plates. Serve at room
temperature.
ÇERKEZ TAVUĞU
CIRCASSIAN CHICKEN

Circassia is a mountainous region in southern Russia where walnut

trees grow in abundance. In the nineteenth century, many
Circassians were driven out of Russia and took refuge in parts of the
Ottoman Empire where they proceeded to introduce new cooking
techniques. Turks, who thought chicken came on skewers, now
learned they could eat it cold, smothered in a walnutty paste.
Coriander is one of my pet hates, and I don’t use it in my
restaurant, but I’ve included it here to honour the Circassians, who
brought it to Turkey.

SERVES 6

2 flat-leaf (Italian) parsley stalks 2 coriander (cilantro) stalks 1 onion,

quartered
1 carrot quartered
1 tablespoon salt

1 tablespoon black peppercorns

1 whole chicken (about 1.2 kg/2 lb 10 oz)

3 slices day-old sandwich bread

200 g (7 oz) walnuts
1 garlic clove

2 tablespoons sweet paprika

2 tablespoons sweet paprika
60 ml (2 fl oz/¼ cup) walnut oil pide bread, to serve

Pick the leaves off the parsley and coriander, and set aside. Put the
parsley and coriander stalks in a saucepan. Add the onion, carrot, salt,
peppercorns, chicken and about 3 litres (105 fl oz/12 cups) of water. Place
the pan over high heat and bring to the boil, then reduce the heat and
simmer, partly covered, for 1½ hours. Remove any scum that forms on
the surface.

Take the chicken out of the pan, place on a rack and leave to cool to
room temperature. Leave the cooking liquid in the pan and set aside.

Remove the skin from the chicken and pick the meat off the bones. Place
the skin and bones back in the cooking liquid and bring to the boil over
high heat. Continue to boil vigorously for 1½ hours, uncovered, so the
liquid reduces to half its original volume.

Strain the bones, skin and vegetables out of the chicken stock, and
discard. Shred the chicken meat and spread the pieces on a deep serving
platter. Pour on 2 tablespoons of stock, cover with plastic wrap and place
the platter in the fridge. Discard the crusts from the bread. Dunk the
bread into the stock for a few seconds then squeeze out any excess
liquid. Blend the bread, walnuts, garlic and 1 tablespoon of the paprika in
a food processor. Gradually add some stock, tablespoons at a time, to
make a smooth paste.

Remove the serving platter from the fridge. Put the chicken in a bowl, stir
one-third of the paste through the chicken pieces, then spread them
across the platter again. Chop the parsley and coriander leaves and mix
them with the remaining paste, then pour this paste over the chicken.
Mix the walnut oil and the remaining paprika together, and drizzle over
the chicken.

Serve the çerkez tavuğu platter cold, with pide bread, for people to help
themselves.
YAPRAK SARMA SOUR CHERRY-STUFFED
VINE LEAVES

The traditional cold vegetarian dolma stuffing involves spiced rice

with currants and pine nuts. In recent years, Turkish chefs have
started replacing the currants with sour cherries, which contribute
great colour as well as flavour. They may think they are doing
something new, but actually a sour cherry-stuffing recipe appears in
the first published Turkish cookbook, Melceu’t-Tabbahin (The Cook’s
Shelter) from 1844—of course, those adventurous Ottomans thought
of it first. This recipe was inspired by my friend Batur, whose yaprak
sarma is a signature dish at his scholarly Ottoman restaurant
Asitane.

SERVES 4

100 g (3½ oz/½ cup) sour cherries (dried, frozen or tinned), pitted ½
lemon

30 vine leaves
150 ml (5 fl oz) olive oil 2 tablespoons pine nuts

4 onions
185 g (6½ oz/1 cup) short-grain rice

1 tomato
½ teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon allspice
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon sugar
5 mint stalks

2 dill stalks
If you are using dried sour cherries, soak their in warm water for 1 hour. If
frozen, thaw for 30 minutes. If tinned, rinse to remove the syrup. Halve
the sour cherries. Set aside. Zest the lemon half, and squeeze the juice.
Set both aside.

If you are using fresh vine leaves, place them in a bowl, cover with boiling
water, add 1 tablespoon of salt, and leave to soak for 10 minutes. If they
are in brine, wash to remove the salt. Set aside.

Heat the olive oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Add the pine nuts
and fry for 2 minutes. Finely slice the onions, add to the pan and cook for
5 minutes until soft. Wash the rice under cold running water and then
add to the onion mixture. Grate the tomato into the rice, sauté for 2
minutes and then reduce the heat to a simmer. Stir in the cherries,
cinnamon, allspice, pepper, salt, lemon zest and sugar. Add 50 ml (12/3 fl
oz) of water and simmer for 5 minutes. Remove from the heat—the rice
should be softened but still slightly crunchy. Finely chop the mint and dill,
add the lemon juice and combine with the rice mixture.

Pat the vine leaves dry with paper towel. Snip off any stems and, if the
spine in the centre of the leaf is woody, soften it by crushing with the
back of a knife. Put aside the five least attractive-looking leaves.

Next, stuff the vine leaves. Put a leaf on a board, shiny side down. Put a
strip of rice mixture in the middle of the vine leaf, fold over the base of
strip of rice mixture in the middle of the vine leaf, fold over the base of
the leaf, then fold over each long side and roll into a çigar shape, about 6
cm (2½ in) long. Repeat to make about 25 stuffed vine leaves.

Place a bread and butter plate face side down in the bottom of a
saucepan. Spread the five reserved vine leaves over the back of the plate.
Arrange the stuffed leaves in a tightly packed spiral shape on top of the
plate. Thinly slice the half lemon and scatter over the vine leaves. Put
another bread and butter plate on top. Add 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of
warm water and bring to the boil over medium heat. Reduce the heat
and simmer, partly covered, for 30 minutes.

Remove from the heat, leave to cool and then serve, or keep in the fridge
for up to 3 days.
BAKLALI ENGİNAR
BRAISED ARTICHOKES WITH
BROAD BEANS

Artichokes are common in the Greek-influenced western part of

Turkey—the easterners have barely heard of them. But the artichoke
fields that once fed the Ottoman palace have in recent years been
turned into shopping centres. Now artichokes are grown way out of
town.
If you’re in Istanbul in early spring make sure you try a type of
artichoke called bayrampaşa, which is the name of the suburb where
they used to grow. They are sold already cleaned by street sellers,
soaking in lemon water to retain their colour. They have a wider
heart than most artichokes, and lend themselves to stuffing with
broad beans. Once summer comes around, their texture becomes too
woody for eating.
Artichokes became a staple on meze tables because Turkish
drinkers believe these vegetables have liver-cleansing properties.

SERVES 6

6 globe artichokes
½ lemon

1 teaspoon salt
10 spring onions (scallions)
10 spring onions (scallions)
175 g (6 oz/1 cup) fresh broad beans 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) olive oil 1
teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons sugar
2 dill stalks, leaves only

Clean the artichokes, discard the stalk and remove the leaves until you
reach the heart. Put the hearts in a large bowl and cover with water. Cut
the lemon and squeeze the juice into the water. Add the two squeezed
lemon quarters and the salt, and set aside.

Wash the spring onions, remove the roots and tough outer leaves, and
then slice into 3 cm (1¼ in) pieces. Make a slit in each broad bean skin,
place them in a saucepan, cover with water, and bring to the boil. Boil for
5 minutes. Strain the beans and leave to cool, then double peel.

Place the spring onions in a saucepan. Add the broad beans and the
drained artichoke hearts. Add the olive oil, salt, sugar and 375 ml (13 fl
oz/1½ cups) of water, and then bring to the boil over high heat. Reduce
the heat and simmer for 15 minutes, covered, until the broad beans are
soft.

Lift the lid and scoop 2 tablespoons of the spring onion and broad bean
mixture over the top of each artichoke heart. Simmer, covered, for
another 15 minutes. Remove the lid and place 2 dill leaves on each
artichoke. Cover again, turn off the heat, and leave to rest for 15 minutes.

Carefully lift each artichoke with its bean and onion topping out of the
pan and place on a serving platter for people to help themselves.
MÜCVER
NETTLE AND FETA FRITTER

Usually the classic dish called mücver is made with zucchini, dill and
feta. In some parts of the country they add carrots or spinach. I
decided to sharpen the flavour with the wild weeds that grow near
Bodrum, the west-coast resort town where my mother had her
restaurant.
Turks who use wild weeds in their cooking were probably
originally taught by the descendants of the Cretans, who used to live
along the Aegean coast (until they were expelled in the 1920s). If you
can’t find nettles, you could substitute spinach.
This is the first of three zucchini dishes, which can complement
each other when served together. You can use the zucchini skins you
peel off in this recipe for the next one.

SERVES 4

ZUCCHINI PATTIES
15 flat-leaf (Italian) parsley stalks

10 dill stalks
3 spring onions (scallions)
50 g (1¾ oz) hard feta
20 g (¾ oz) parmesan

1 egg
35 g (1¼ oz/¼ cup) plain (all-purpose) flour

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 zucchini (courgettes) ½ teaspoon salt
30 nettle leaves (or 3 spinach stalks) 60 ml (2 fl oz/¼ cup) olive oil MINT
YOĞURT

1 garlic clove
130 g (42/3 oz) plain yoğurt

1 teaspoon dried mint

Pick the parsley leaves, discard the stalks, and finely chop the leaves with
the dill. Wash the spring onions, remove the roots and tough outer
leaves, and finely chop. Grate the feta and parmesan.

Whisk the egg in a mixing bowl. Add the flour, feta, parmesan, dill, parsley
and pepper, and mix together to make a runny paste.

Peel the zucchini (and reserve the skins for the next dish, kaskarikas, if
you like). Finely grate the zucchini. Place the zucchini shreds in a colander
and sprinkle on the salt. Leave for 5 minutes—the salt will help extract the
moisture from the shreds. Wrap the zucchini in muslin (cheesecloth) and
tightly squeeze out the excess water.

If you are using nettles, use gloves to handle them. To remove the sting,
put in a heatproof bowl and cover with boiling water for 30 seconds.
Transfer to cold water for 5 minutes. Pick the green leaves and discard
the stems. Pat the leaves dry with paper towel and then roughly chop. (If
using spinach instead, wash thoroughly and remove the stalks, then
chop.) Mix the zucchini and nettle (or spinach) with the flour and egg
mixture. Divide this dough into eight small patties, flattening them in your
palm.
palm.

Heat the olive oil in a frying pan over high heat. Add a drop of water to
the oil. If it sizzles the oil is ready. Add the patties, four at a time, and fry
for 2 minutes on each side until golden. Transfer to paper towel to drain
the excess oil.

Crush the garlic and mix in a small bowl with the yoğurt and dried mint.
Place the patties on four plates and serve with the mint yoğurt.
KASKARİKAS
ZUCCHINI AND GOAT’S CHEESE
SALAD

This dish was brought to the Ottoman Empire by the Sephardic Jews
who migrated to Anatolia when they were expelled from Spain in the
sixteenth century. Some of their descendants lived in my apartment
block in Istanbul when I was growing up, and sometimes I was lucky
enough to be invited to dinner when they made kaskarikas. They
tossed zucchini skins with almonds and pine nuts, and served yoğurt
on the side. I decided to make it a more complete salad in this version,
adding goat’s cheese.

SERVES 6

2 zucchini (courgettes), skin only 1 sour plum, halved (or 3 crushed

unripened grapes or 1 teaspoon lemon juice)

2 tablespoons olive oil

½ teaspoon salt pinch of sugar

2 tablespoons slivered almonds

1 tablespoon soft goat’s cheese

Cut the zucchini skins into 5 cm (2 in) long strips. Put the strips in a small
saucepan and just cover with water. Add the sour plum (or grapes or
lemon juice). Add the olive oil, salt and sugar, then bring to boil over high
lemon juice). Add the olive oil, salt and sugar, then bring to boil over high
heat. Reduce the heat and simmer for 5 minutes until the skins are soft.
Remove from the heat and leave to cool to room temperature.

Serve in a salad bowl with slivered almonds, and a dollop of soft goat’s
cheese.
CİCEK SARMA AEGEAN STUFFED ZUCCHINI
FLOWERS

You don’t say no to my friend Musa Dağdeviren, the custodian of

Turkish traditional values in cooking. So when he told me to meet
him outside his Istanbul restaurant at 5 am, I stayed up all night to be
on time. We jumped in his pickup truck and drove for an hour to his
farm in the country. The sun was just coming up. He wanted to show
me the perfect moment to pick zucchini flowers for stuffing—the
moment when they open to the sun. He’d brought a pot of his own
rice stuffing and we filled the flowers, steamed them and ate them
that morning. Two years later I saw a documentary about Middle
Eastern cooking hosted by the London chef Yotam Ottolenghi, in
which he enjoyed the same experience.
You might not be able to pick your flowers at sunrise, but you can
come close to the experience if you choose male zucchini flowers (the
ones with no zucchini attached), which taste better because they have
not had to expend any energy producing fruit. This recipe is not
Musa’s stuffing—it’s a simpler version they use on the Aegean coast.

SERVES 4

5 spring onions (scallions) 5 flat-leaf (Italian) parsley stalks 5 dill stalks

5 mint stalks
220 g (7 oz/1 cup) short-grain rice 100 ml (3½ fl oz) olive oil

1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon white pepper ½ teaspoon sugar

1 tomato
½ onion
16 zucchini flowers (preferably male) ½ lemon

Wash the spring onions, then remove the roots and tough outer leaves.
Finely chop. Pick the leaves from the parsley, dill and mint and finely
chop. Set aside the stalks. Wash the rice under cold running water, drain
and place in a bowl. Add half the olive oil, spring onion, salt, pepper, sugar
and herb leaves, and mix together with the rice. Grate the tomato into
the mixture.

Remove any stalk from each zucchini flower, gently fold back the petals
and stuff with a tablespoon of the stuffing. Fold the largest petal over to
cover the mixture, then fold over the remaining petals.

Put a 20 cm (8 in) plate face down in the bottom of a large saucepan

(about 25 cm/10 in wide). Scatter the parsley, dill and mint stalks over the
plate. Place the half onion in the middle of the plate. Surround it with the
zucchini flowers, stem side facing up, flowers down. Add the remaining
olive oil and 50 ml (12/3 fl oz) of warm water. Bring to the boil, then cover
and simmer for 20 minutes. Check after 15 minutes and add another 50
ml (12/3 fl oz) of water if the pan seems to be drying out. Turn off the heat
and squeeze the lemon half over the flowers. Rest, covered, for 15
minutes.

Serve warm.
TURŞU KAVURMA FRIED GREEN BEAN
PICKLES

If you find this dish in a meyhane, you’ll know the chef is from the
Black Sea. Pickling is an ancient tradition all over Anatolia, a way of
preparing vegetables at the end of summer to feed the family over
the harsh winter months, but the Black Sea is the only area where
they pickle vegetables and then pan-fry them. In addition to green
beans (usually the flat kind) they fry pickled cabbage and silverbeet
roots. But green beans are the best.

SERVES 4

1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) green beans 2 red chillies

4 garlic cloves
160 g (52/3 oz/½ cup) rock salt 50 ml (12/3 fl oz) white vinegar 4
chickpeas

1 onion
60 ml (2 fl oz/¼ cup) vegetable oil 1 tablespoon capsicum (pepper)
paste

Wash the beans and cut off the ends. Bring 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) of
water to the boil in a saucepan, add the beans and simmer for 4 minutes.
Strain the beans and then plunge into iced water for 2 minutes. Strain the
refreshed beans and then arrange them, upright, in a 2 litre (70 fl oz/8
cup) preserving jar.
cup) preserving jar.

Cut a slice along each chilli (but leave the seeds and the stalks) and push
between the beans. Peel two of the garlic cloves and place them, whole,
in the jar. Dissolve the rock salt in 500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) of water. Add
the vinegar to the brine, then pour the mixture into the jar. Put the
chickpeas on top of the beans. Seal tightly and store for 1 week at room
temperature.

Remove the chickpeas from the jar, scoop off any froth on top of the
water and then store for 1 more week (or a few days longer if the
weather is cold).

A day before you want to serve the fried pickles, take out about 250 g (9
oz/2 cups) of the beans, and rest them in water overnight.

Pat the soaked beans dry and cut into 5 cm (2 in) lengths. Finely slice the
onion and crush the remaining garlic. Heat the vegetable oil in a frying
pan over medium heat. Add the onion and fry for 3 minutes until soft.
Add the garlic and capsicum paste, and fry for 2 more minutes, stirring
regularly. Add the beans, stir through the onions, and simmer, covered,
for 5 minutes. Serve the turşu kavurma warm on a platter for people to
help themselves.

NOTE
You can keep the remaining turşu kavurma in a jar for up to 3 months at
room temperature, and enjoy them as a side dish whenever you feel like
pickles.
 THE BROTHERS OF ORFOZ

An evening walk along the waterfront in the west-coast town of Bodrum

is likely to be at first a charming experience and then a depressing one.
Beneath the fifteenth-century Castle of Saint Peter, you stroll along a
pebbly beach lined with candle-lit tables put out by the local eateries. The
gentle waves are lapping just short of the table legs.
It’s idyllic until the waiters start beckoning and shouting: ‘Check out our
menu. We got schnitzel, we got pizza, we got Greek salad, we got waffles,
we got kebabs.’
Well, an optimist would say at least 20 per cent of their repertoire is
Turkish. Bodrum, once the site of one of the seven wonders of the
ancient world (the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus), is now a tourist haven
that could be anywhere in the Mediterranean. But to get back to
Anatolia, you need only round the corner just past the beach, behind the
museum of Turkey’s favourite singer, Pasha of Bodrum, Zeki Muren, and
look for a sign that says ‘Orfoz’. There you’ll find what might be the best
seafood meze bar in the country.
Orfoz is run by the Bozçağa brothers—Çağri is the cook and Çağlar is
the host (and also a cook). Their parents were bakers, but they’d both
gone off and studied chemical engineering at university before they
realised their real passion was experimenting with food. So they opened
Orfoz in 2003.
When I remark that the bistros along the waterfront do not seem very
Turkish, Çağlar says: ‘Well, you could say that in Orfoz we are not doing
Turkish cuisine either—we are just doing our cuisine. We cook local
seafood in the best way we can think of.’
There’s no written menu. In the great tradition of meyhanes, Çağlar
just keeps bringing dishes and asking what we’d like. But afterwards he’s
happy to write down, in a mixture of Turkish and English, what he gave
us. Here’s what he wrote down after our meal: Kecirpeynir—Goat cheese
with own local cold pressed olive oil Sardalya sasimi—fish, sashimi,
sardine Smoked eel
Sea snails with wine sauce patlangoz Fish soup from grouper fish fresh
leaves of celery Mixed salad
Fresh clams and local oysters Oysters with parmesan cheese Mussels in
casserole wine parsley garlic olive oil Rice with seafoods cinnamon
Eggplant in oven (garlic, pepper, olive oil) Grilled octopus
Baby calamary with onion and garlic Shrimps in olive oil
Mother’s cookie and cream caramel Seasonal fruits

Çağlar insists that Orfoz is just a meze bar with a large wine list.
Anywhere else in the world, it would be called a great restaurant.
Çağlar (left) and Çağrı Bozçağa preparing kidonya, one of their unique shellfish mezes.
Local scampi served in Orfoz in Bodrum on the Aegean coast.
MİDYE TAVA
BOSPHORUS-STYLE MUSSELS
WITH TARAMA

If you wanted a glass of beer and a plate of fried food to soak up the
alcohol you’d go to a birane rather than a meyhane. The dish you’re
most likely to find there is deep-fried mussels, where beer appears in
the batter as well as in a glass.
The tradition is to serve the mussels with a tarator (dipping sauce)
made with stale bread, walnuts and garlic. Our refined version
includes the roe of grey mullet, which makes it a tarama (what the
Greeks call a tarama salata).
In Turkey, tarama is always light beige, because that’s the colour of
the roe. I was surprised to find in Australia that tarama salata is pink
—and then I learned that it is often artificially coloured. I do not
recommend that you buy commercial tarama salata to serve with
this dish. If you can’t find the grey mullet roe, make a simple tarator
by replacing the roe with 100 g (3½ oz) of walnuts.

SERVES 4

TARAMA SAUCE

2 thick slices white bread

100 g (3½ oz) mullet roe
1 garlic clove, roughly chopped juice of 2 lemons
250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) olive oil 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) vegetable oil
MUSSELS
16 blue mussels, scrubbed 60 g (2¼ oz/½ cup) chickpea flour (besan)
 100 ml (3½ fl oz) lager beer 1 egg, separated
75 g (22/3 oz/½ cup) plain (all-purpose) flour 1 teaspoon salt flakes

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

vegetable oil, for shallow-frying

First make the tarama sauce. Remove the crusts from the bread and
discard. Roughly chop the bread. Put the bread pieces in a mixing bowl
and add about 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) of water to just cover. Leave to
soak for 1 minute, then remove the bread and squeeze out the water.
Transfer to a food processor, add the roe, garlic and half the lemon juice,
and pulse to make a paste. Mix the two oils together and gradually
drizzle them into the mixture as it’s processing. After you’ve added about
100 ml (3½ fl oz) of the oils, loosen the mixture with 2 tablespoons of ice-
cold water. Keep adding oil and iced water in similar amounts to
completely emulsify, and finish by adding the remaining lemon juice. Set
aside.

Sniff each mussel and if it has a strong smell, discard it. Place the mussels
in a bowl and cover with boiling water. When they start to open (after
about 5 minutes), scoop them out of the water. Using a knife with a point
but a blunt edge, force open any shells that are not open enough and
then pull all the mussels out of their shells. Snip off the beards and place
the mussels on paper towel to drain.

Using eight 20 cm (8 in) long bamboo skewers, put two mussels,

lengthways, on each skewer. Sift the chickpea flour into a wide bowl,
pour in the beer and egg yolk and mix well. Whisk the egg white until soft
peaks form and fold it into the flour mixture.

Sift the plain flour in a separate bowl and mix in the salt and pepper.

Pour the vegetable into a frying pan, about 2 cm (¾ in) deep and heat
over medium heat. Add a drop of water to the oil. If it sizzles the oil is
ready. Toss the mussel skewers through the flour, shake off any excess
flour, then dip in the batter. Fry four skewers at a time in the hot oil, using
flour, then dip in the batter. Fry four skewers at a time in the hot oil, using
tongs to turn after 1 minute, then cook for 1 minute more until golden
brown. Place the cooked skewers on paper towel to absorb the excess oil.

Spread 2 tablespoons of tarama sauce onto one side of four plates. Place
two skewers (four mussels) next to the sauce and serve.
SÜBYE KOKOREÇ
SAUTÉED SQUID WITH GREEN
CHILLIES

Kokoreç is my favourite street food, made with lamb intestines, but

you may be relieved to hear there are no lambs or intestines in this
dish. I’ve used the word in the Turkish name because the squid has a
similar texture to the intestines, and the spicing is the same. We use
green chillies as a colour contrast to the red bullhorn peppers. I prefer
squid to calamari in a dish like this because of its softer texture.
Calamari is better stuffed, as you’ll.

SERVES 4

3 garlic cloves

2 green chillies
2 red bullhorn peppers (or 1 red capsicum/ pepper) 3 spring onions
(scallions) 4 oregano stalks

1 tomato
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) squid, cleaned

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon capsicum (pepper) paste
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1 teaspoon ground cumin

1 tablespoon dried thyme

pita bread or baby cos lettuce, to serve

Finely slice the garlic. Slice the chillies and the peppers, and remove the
seeds and stalks. Wash the spring onions, then remove the roots and
tough outer leaves. Finely chop. Pick the leaves from the oregano and
finely chop. Finely chop the tomato.

Finely chop the squid, including the head and tentacles.

Heat the olive oil in a wok over high heat. Add the garlic, spring onion,
chilli and pepper. Fry for 3 minutes. Add the squid, capsicum paste, salt,
pepper, cumin and thyme. Fry for 5 minutes, stirring constantly. Add the
oregano and tomato, stir and then remove from the heat.

Serve hot in open pita bread or in baby cos lettuce, on a large platter for
people to help themselves.
KÖMÜRDE AHTAPOT
MEDITERRANEAN GRILLED
OCTOPUS

Octopus is one of the most common ingredients on any Aegean

seaside meze table. At 3 pm in the coastal towns you’ll see kitchen
workers emerge from the restaurants and throw handfuls of octopus
against the rocks beside the sea, to tenderise them ahead of the 6 pm
rush.
My mum used to automate the process by putting them in an old
top-loading washing machine with some rocks and churning them
for an hour (without washing powder!). Luckily in fish markets now
you can buy them already tenderised.
I love cooking octopus whole with its tentacles on. My good friend
İvgen, from Evgenia meyhane in Bodrum, gave me a version of this
recipe which has the octopus boiling with mulberry-tree branches
before it’s char-grilled. She says it makes the octopus melt in your
mouth. For convenience, ecology and flavour, I’ve substituted
oregano. No mulberry trees were harmed in the making of this dish. I
can’t say the same for the octopus.

SERVES 4

1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) octopus, cleaned 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) red wine

1 teaspoon dried oregano

1 garlic clove
185 ml (6 fl oz/¾ cup) olive oil
1 tablespoon dark soy sauce
4 spring onions (scallions)
juice of 1 lemon
3 flat-leaf (Italian) parsley stalks, leaves only, finely chopped 1 small
bunch of fresh cranberries (optional)

Put the octopus in a bowl with the red wine and oregano, and leave to
marinate for 2 hours.

If you’re using a charcoal grill, light it 1 hour before you’re ready to cook.
Burn the charcoal for at least 45 minutes and when the flames have died
down, and the coals are glowing with a covering of white ash, the
barbecue is ready. (If you’re using a gas barbecue, turn it on to medium–
high about 5 minutes before you’re ready to cook.) If you are using the
oven, preheat to 200°C (400°F/Gas 6).

Remove the octopus from the marinade, place it on a board and stretch
it out into a tube shape. Tightly wrap the octopus tube in three layers of
foil. Discard the marinade.

Place the foil-wrapped octopus on the grill and cook for 2 hours, turning
every 30 minutes (or cook in the oven for 1½ hours).

Crush the garlic and mix together in a bowl with 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) of
the olive oil and the soy.

Remove the octopus from the heat, unwrap from the foil and brush with
the oil and soy mixture. Brush the spring onions with the same mixture. If
you’re using a charcoal barbecue, put the octopus and spring onions over
the coals for 2 minutes on each side. Or sear the octopus and spring
onions in a frying pan over high heat for 2 minutes each side until the
octopus skin darkens.

Cut the octopus and divide it among four plates. Or place the octopus,
whole, on a serving plate for people to help themselves as part of a meze
platter. Decorate with the spring onions and drizzle with the lemon juice
and the remaining oil. Top with parsley and serve. If it’s the season for
fresh cranberries, you can decorate the plate with a few of them.

The signs in the Istanbul fish market say ‘Calamari fish’ (top left) and ‘Real grey mackerel kilo
[Link]’. Mullet is often used for pickling, drying, or stuffing as dolma.
ÖRDEK GÖZLEME
DUCK AND SOUR CHERRY
GÖZLEME

The stuffed pancakes known as gözleme are hard to find in Istanbul—

even though they are well known outside Turkey. They are
associated with the Yörük people who live in mountainous regions.
Yörük means ‘walker’ or ‘nomad’, but the Yörüks are not gypsies.
They walked into Anatolia around 800 years ago and set up
agricultural communities. Nowadays, Yörük women with scarves
round their heads arrive in small towns with their tents made of
horsehair and fry gözleme stuffed with spinach and cheese, potatoes
or minced lamb.
I decided to make the concept upmarket by including duck, which
nobody would do in Turkey. Strictly speaking, this dish is not a meze
(they don’t serve gözleme in meyhanes), but in my restaurant I serve
it as part of my meze selection.

SERVES 6

4 onions
2 carrots

9 garlic cloves
1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) duck legs 4 dried bay leaves
1 tablespoon salt

1 tablespoon black peppercorns

1 tablespoon black peppercorns
½ bunch flat-leaf (Italian) parsley ½ bunch mint
200 g (7 oz) haloumi 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) olive oil 80 g (2¾ oz)
blanched almonds 2 tablespoons capsicum (pepper) paste
200 g (7 oz/1 cup) sour cherries, pitted juice of ½ lemon
1 sheet yufka, 60 cm (24 in) wide (or 12 sheets of filo about 30 x 40
cm/12 x 16 in) 1 egg

4 tablespoons butter
Cut two of the onions into quarters, quarter the carrots, squash five of the
garlic cloves, and place in a large saucepan. Add the duck legs, bay
leaves, salt and peppercorns, cover with water and bring to the boil over
medium heat. Reduce the heat and simmer for 1½ hours until the legs
are fully cooked.

Meanwhile, chop the remaining onions and crush the remaining garlic.
Pick the leaves from the parsley and mint, and finely chop. Coarsely grate
the haloumi.

Remove the duck legs from the cooking liquid. Leave to cool slightly and
then pull the meat off the bones. Shred the duck meat, and discard the
bones and cooking liquid.

Heat the olive oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Add the almonds and
toast for 2 minutes, shaking the pan constantly to evenly brown. Add the
chopped onions and cook for 5 minutes until translucent. Add the garlic,
capsicum paste and the duck meat. Cook for a further 3 minutes.
Remove the pan from the heat and leave to cool.

Halve the sour cherries. Stir them into the duck mixture and then add the
parsley, lemon juice, mint and haloumi. Stir to combine.

Cut the yufka into six wedges. (Or if you’re using filo, overlap two sheets
to make a square, painting a little melted butter where they overlap to
help them stick together.) Divide the duck mixture into six portions and
put one portion in the middle of each wedge of yufka (or each square of
filo). Whisk the egg.

Fold the three points of the yufka wedges over the filling to make a
triangular parcel, or fold the four corners of the filo over the filling to
make a square parcel. Paint some egg onto the last layer to stick the
parcels together.

Heat 1 tablespoon of the butter in a frying pan over high heat. Add one
gözleme and fry for 3 minutes on the multi-layered side of the parcel,
then flip over and cook the other side for 1 minute. Place on paper towel
and repeat with the remaining gözleme and butter. Serve hot on a platter
for people to help themselves.
PAÇANGA PASTIRMA BÖREKS

I used to joke that the word paçanga (pronounced ‘pachanga’) sounds

like a Spanish dance, and when we were researching this book, I got
two shocks. First, it is the name of a type of music popular in Cuba
since the late 1950s; and second, there are scholars who claim the
dish was brought to Anatolia by Jews escaping the Spanish
Inquisition in the sixteenth century. I hope that’s true, because then
this dish would represent a blend of three communities that
contributed greatly to Turkish cuisine—the Armenians, with their
pastirma-making skills; the Bulgarians, with their dairy farming;
and the Spanish Jews, with their sophisticated technique (and the
name).

MAKES 8

1 sheet yufka (or 4 sheets of filo) 65 g (21/3 oz/½ cup) shredded aged
kaşar (or aged mozzarella)

1 tomato
2 green chillies, about 10 cm (4 in) long 8 pieces beef pastirma (or
another cold cut of meat, including corned beef) 3 eggs

1 teaspoon salt
250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) vegetable oil 60 g (2¼ oz/1 cup) breadcrumbs

Cut the yufka into eight wedges. Grate the cheese. Halve the tomato and
thinly slice. Remove the stalks from the chillies but leave the seeds. Finely
slice.

Divide the pastirma or cold meat into strips about 3 cm (1¼ in) wide and
10 cm (4 in) long. Place a strip across each segment of yufka, about 5 cm
(2 in) from the bottom. On top of the strip, out 4 slices of tomato, 2
tablespoons of cheese, and 1 teaspoon of chilli pieces. Whisk the eggs and
the salt together in a bowl. Fold the yufka base over the strip of filling,
then fold in the sides (about 3 cm/1¼ in flap). Tightly fold up the parcel,
but before you finish the rolling, brush the top triangle of pastry with a
little of the egg mixture to make the roll stick. Set aside the eight parcels.

Heat the vegetable oil in a deep frying pan over medium heat. Add a drop
of water to the oil. If it sizzles the oil is ready. Dunk the böreks into the
egg mixture, two at a time, then roll in the breadcrumbs. Pan-fry the rolls
for 2 minutes on each side until golden. Place on paper towel to absorb
the excess oil and then repeat with the remaining börek. Serve on a
platter for people to help themselves.
KOÇ YUMURTASI RAM’S EGGS

When I put testicles on the menu many people thought I was trying
to create a sensation, but I was actually making a point about
sustainability. When I was growing up, Turkey was going through
economically tough times, and it was important not to waste
anything. The butchers would reserve offal for the families that had
young children, as a source of protein. I grew up eating liver, kidneys,
brains and testicles, and anyone looking at my height today would
say that they must have been a great source of nutrition. Nowadays,
when the food elite talks about sustainable eating, I like to ask: ‘How
did we go from fillet steak to fried crickets without using the rest of
the animal first?’

SERVES 4

4 ram testicles

1 slice day-old white sandwich bread

50 ml (12/3 fl oz) milk 80 g (2¾ oz/½ cup) blanched almonds 1 garlic
clove, peeled
juice of ½ lemon
1 tablespoon white vinegar 2 teaspoons sea salt
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil 2 tablespoons butter

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1 teaspoon isot (or chilli flakes) 2 teaspoons sumac, to decorate

It’s likely you will have bought the testicles frozen. Let them thaw for 15
It’s likely you will have bought the testicles frozen. Let them thaw for 15
minutes. Chop off the top and bottom. Remove the translucent skin and
the white membrane, then cut the soft meat in half lengthways. Set
aside.

Put the bread in bowl, cover with the milk and leave to soak for 5
minutes. Discard the crusts and squeeze the bread to remove excess
liquid.

Put the almonds, garlic, lemon juice, vinegar, salt and the bread in a food
processor and purée, slowly adding the oil. If it’s too thick, add 2
teaspoons of water.

Melt the butter in a frying pan over low heat. Add the half testicles, cut
side down, and sauté for 2 minutes. Turn, sprinkle on the cumin, isot and
remaining salt, and fry for 1 minute more. Remove from the pan and rest
on paper towel.

Spread 1 tablespoon of the almond and garlic sauce on one side of each
plate, with pieces of testicle on the other side. Sprinkle with the sumac
and serve.
A busker on Istiklal Street in Beyoğlu, centre of Istanbul’s bohemian culture and nightlife.
KOKTEYLLER
THREE COCKTAILS

Let me tell you a secret: I’ve mixed more drinks in Turkey than I’ve
cooked hot dinners. I was trained as a bartender before I became a
chef and, like most of my generation of Turkish hospitality students, I
was inspired by the movie Cocktail (starring Tom Cruise and Bryan
Brown). I found mixing drinks with ‘flair’ was a great way to get tips
and to pick up chicks. Then I got serious and added cooking to my
repertoire. When I opened my restaurant in the Sydney suburb of
Balmain, one of my first customers was Bryan Brown, who lives
round the corner.
These three flashy mixtures give a nod to traditional Turkish
ingredients—raki, pomegranate and figs—and two of them have
Turkish puns in their names (the Nar in Narito means pomegranate,
and the Inci in Incini means fig). But they were all created within a
mile of Bryan Brown.

MAKES 3
INDIVIDUAL COCKTAILS

MIDNIGHT EXPRESS

1 heaped teaspoon Turkish coffee

15 ml (½ fl oz) Kahlua
30 ml (1 fl oz) brandy
10 ml (¼ fl oz) barrel-aged raki 1 piece of pashmak (Persian fairy floss)

Boil the Turkish coffee with 70 ml (2¼ fl oz) of water in a pot over
Boil the Turkish coffee with 70 ml (2¼ fl oz) of water in a pot over
medium heat. Strain three times through a tea strainer lined with muslin
cloth to yield 15 ml (½ fl oz) of triple-strained Turkish coffee.

Half fill a cocktail shaker with ice. Add the kahlua, brandy, raki and coffee.
Shake vigorously for 1 minute. Strain into a long glass. Decorate with
pashmak and serve.

NARITO
1 lime or small green satsuma mandarin 5 ml (1/8 fl oz) pomegranate
molasses
6 mint leaves

2 tablespoons pomegranate seeds

30 ml (1 fl oz) light rum
15 ml (½ fl oz) pomegranate liqueur 60 ml (2 fl oz/¼ cup) pomegranate
juice soda water, to top up

Quarter the lime or satsuma. Place in a cocktail shaker with the

pomegranate molasses, mint and pomegranate seeds. Mash the mixture
with what bartenders call a muddler. Add the rum, pomegranate liqueur
and pomegranate juice. Shake vigorously for 1 minute. Serve in a tall
cocktail glass, topped up with soda water.

INCINI
½ fresh fig in season or 1 teaspoon fig jam 30 ml (1 fl oz) Hendricks gin
15 ml (½ fl oz) Cointreau
10 ml (¼ fl oz) fresh lemon juice GARNISH
1 candied fig (from fig jam)

5 pieces lemon zest

Muddle the fresh half fig in a shaker or put in the fig jam. Add the gin,
Cointreau and lemon juice. Half fill the shaker with ice. Shake vigorously
for a minute. Double-strain into a martini glass with the candied fig and
for a minute. Double-strain into a martini glass with the candied fig and
lemon zest, and serve.
DINNER
For most Turks, dinner is the most important meal of the day,
particularly during the thirty nights of Ramadan (spelt
‘Ramazan’ in Turkish). That’s the month when adult muslims
are expected to refrain from eating, drinking, smoking or having
sex from dawn to sunset.
sex from dawn to sunset.

When the drums and cannons signal that the sun has set, the faithful sit
down to a feast called iftar, which begins with easily digested foods such
as dates and olives, then moves on to lavish lamb and eggplant stews,
and concludes with cinnamon-flavoured rice puddings and baklava.
Paradoxically, although Ramadan is the month for fasting, Turks tend
to put on weight then, because they have a gourmet party every night—
either at home or in lokantas and restorans that set up trestle tables in
the street to provide instant gratification to the desperate fasters.
The other 335 nights of the year, Turks have the leisure to contemplate
the way their dining scene is changing, and the rise of what is being
labelled ‘the new Anatolian cuisine’.
The classic European image of a ‘restaurant’, serving starter, main
course and dessert from a written menu, with matching wines, is not part
of the Turkish tradition. Until the twenty-first century, our approach to
meals outside the home mostly involved going to eateries that
specialised in one type of cooking (just kebaps, say, or just köfte, or just
grilled fish, or just pide), and sharing dishes delivered to the middle of the
table in no particular order, apart from the broad principle of ‘cold first,
then hot’.
There was no tradition of hero-worshipping chefs. Eateries were
chosen for the friendliness of there. Chefs saw their job as perfecting the
standard recipes of their predecessors, not creating their own works of
art.
If people wanted to show off, they would look for restaurants
purporting to offer Italian, French, Japanese or whatever was that year’s
international fad. They saw no reason to spend big money on anything
described as Turkish.
Then a bunch of radicals came along and applied to Anatolian food a
concept known in English-speaking societies as ‘fine dining’ or in French-
speaking societies as nouvelle cuisine.
Mehmet Gürs was the first of the fine dining pioneers, and became
internationally known. With a Turkish father and a Finnish mother, and
eight years’ kitchen training in the United States, he was bound to come
up with something unusual when he opened his first restaurant,
up with something unusual when he opened his first restaurant,
Downtown, in 1995(which had evolved by 2006 into the very posh Mikla
on top of the Marmara Pera Hotel). Here’s how Mehmet summarises his
philosophy:

The Anatolian kitchen is not restricted to the Turkish or the Ottoman

kitchen. All products of different ethnic origins and religions of Anatolia,
the birthplace of cultures during a very long span of time before and
after the Ottoman Empire, constitute the kitchen of this region. Wine
born in this region is an indispensable part of the New Anatolian kitchen.
Diversity of ingredients and revitalisation of endangered and almost
extinct rich resources is as important as the methods used … Respect the
elders and listen to them, yet do not be crushed by them and do not be
afraid to turn age-old ideas upside down.

Other pioneers include Şemsa Denizsel, who moved from advertising to

cooking and opened her Kantin in 2000; US-trained Didem Şenol, whose
restaurant Lokanta Maya sets the bar a lot higher than all preceding
lokantas; Maksut Aşkar, who started his career as a bartender in one of
Mehmet’s restaurants and now runs a bistro called neolokal where he
reinvents traditional recipes with his unique touch; and Civan Er, who
studied international relations in London before opening Yeni, which
means ‘new’. I’ve detailed how to find these places at the end of this
book.
Thanks to chefs like them, it’s possible for visitors to Istanbul to enjoy
sophisticated Turkish dinners that use contemporary methods but
respect the produce and have regional authenticity. That’s an approach I
share. But in addition, I’ve had to develop my style in a land thousands of
miles from Turkey. I’ve found those adaptations exciting, and I hope the
fun I’ve had comes across in this chapter.
Mehmet Gürs prepares for dinner at Mikla, one of Istanbul’s most innovative restaurants.
KIRLANGIÇ ÇORBASI SCORPIONFISH SOUP

When I was growing up, this delicacy made with the ugliest fish I’d
ever seen was a speciality of my father. He is a devoted sailor and
amateur fisherman, and we spent our summers in the seaside village
of Bayramoğlu, an hour from Istanbul. He’d go out on the water all
day in his small boat, and come back with a catch that always
included scorpionfish. They are bony and hard to clean, so there’s no
point trying to turn them into fillets. Best to cook them before you
remove the flesh.
Like many Turkish soups, this is enriched at the end with a terbiye
—a word that translates as ‘teaching good manners’. The basic
ingredients of a terbiye are egg and lemon, sometimes with yoğurt or
flour added. Old-school chefs would call this ‘binding’ the soup, but
we prefer to say we’re polishing it to perfection.

SERVES 4

1 scorpionfish, about 1.5 kg (3 lb 5 oz) (or any rockfish)

1 garlic clove
1 onion, quartered 1 potato

1 carrot
¼ celeriac

1 celery stalk
½ bunch dill
½ bunch flat-leaf (Italian) parsley 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) dry white wine

1 egg yolk
100 ml (3½ fl oz) olive oil juice of 1 lemon
1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Clean the fish, removing the guts and gills. Place on a board and chop
into three pieces.

Put 1.5 litres (52 fl oz/6 cups) of salted water in a saucepan. Add the fish,
whole peeled garlic clove and onion, and bring to the boil over high heat.
Continue to boil for 20 minutes, uncovered. Turn off the heat, remove the
fish from the pan and rest for 20 minutes. Remove the flesh from the
bones and set the flesh aside. Return the bones and head to the pan,
bring back to the boil and then boil over high heat for 15 minutes.

Peel the potato, carrot and celeriac and roughly chop. Remove the leaves
from the celery and set aside. Chop the celery stalk.

Strain the hot fish liquid into another pot and discard the bones, garlic
and onion. Add the vegetables and bring back to the boil, then reduce the
heat and simmer for 20 minutes.

Pick and chop the celery, dill and parsley, add to the original pan with the
fish and mix together. Add the wine and boil vigorously for 2 minutes to
let the alcohol evaporate. Add 250 ml (9 fl oz/ 1 cup) of the soup and
bring to the boil over high heat. Boil for 5 minutes.

Put 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of the soup in a bowl with the egg yolk and
whisk to combine. Return the soup to the pan and simmer for 5 minutes,
stirring frequently.
Mix the olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper in a bowl. Divide the fish
into four bowls. Pour a ladle of the soup over each lump of fish. Drizzle a
little lemony oil over each bowl and serve.
KARPUZ SALATASI WATERMELON AND
FETA SALAD

European writers in the seventeenth century associated stuffed

watermelons (under the name ‘Turkish pumpkins’) with the
luxurious life of the Ottoman emperors, although the watermelon
had originated in southern Africa and seems to have arrived in
Turkey with Arab traders. Nowadays, the biggest watermelons in the
world are grown on the banks of the Tigris River, in a region called
Diyarbakir. The ‘First International Traditional Watermelon Festival’
was held there in 2012. In 2013, they changed the name of the event
to the ‘Diyarbakir Culture and Watermelon Festival’. I met a grower
named Adil Aydan, who proudly displayed a watermelon weighing
49.5 kilos (110 lb). Asked who would need a watermelon that size, he
replied: ‘In my area, we have big families.’

SERVES 4

¼ watermelon, about 1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) 400 g (14 oz) feta (mild and

creamy) 1 piece mastic crystal (less than 1 g/1/25 oz) (or 1 teaspoon
mastic liqueur or Sambuca) 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

juice of ½ lemon
20 purslane (or baby rocket/arugula) leaves

20 mint leaves
Skin and seed the half watermelon and cut it into 2 cm (¾ in) cubes. Keep
the seeping juices in a bowl to add to the dressing. Cut the feta into 2 cm
(¾ in) cubes. Put the mastic in a bowl and crush with the watermelon
juice. Add the vinegar, olive oil and lemon juice and mix well.

Toss the watermelon, feta, purslane and mint together in a salad bowl
and drizzle over the dressing. Serve with grilled fish or sardine ‘birds’.
EFENDY SALATA FIG AND HAZELNUT SALAD

This has been the house salad ever since I opened my Sydney
restaurant in 2007. It was one of my team’s first creations, and I must
confess it has one non-Turkish ingredient—mustard, with the seeds
left in. If it’s winter and figs are out of season but you’re desperate to
serve this, you could soak dried figs in warm water for 15 minutes. It
won’t be quite as luscious as the fresh version, but it will still be
delicious.

SERVES 4

135 g (4¾ oz/1 cup) hazelnuts

6 fresh figs
150 g (5½ oz) wild (or baby) rocket (arugula) 65 g (21/3 oz/½ cup)
crumbly goat’s feta MUSTARD DRESSING
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon seed mustard
1 tablespoon grape molasses
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

2 teaspoons lemon juice

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Put the hazelnuts in a baking tray and roast for 5 minutes. Remove from
the oven and leave to cool. Rub the skins off. Crush the hazelnuts or
roughly grind in a food processor.
Mix all the dressing ingredients in a bowl.

Remove the stalks from the figs and slice each fig into six pieces,
lengthways. Toss the rocket and nuts in a salad bowl with the dressing.
Crumble the feta and sprinkle over the salad. Top the salad with the fig
slices and serve.
KALAMAR DOLMA STUFFED BABY
CALAMARI

As you’ve gathered by now, we Turks will stuff anything. We love

baby calamari because, when cleaned, they form little pouches—just
waiting to be filled. To make life more challenging, I decided to fill the
pouches with an elaborate stuffing, using other seafood that would
either eat or be eaten by calamari.
You may be surprised to see soy sauce among the ingredients here,
and yes, it’s not typically Turkish. I first encountered this mixture of
cream and soy in the meyhane of my friend Ivgen, in Bodrum, and
mistook it for a form of tahini. It turned out Ivgen had successfully
brought together the two ends of the spice route.

SERVES 4

1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) small calamari (about 6-8 cm/2½-3¼ in each), cleaned

1 tablespoon white vinegar

100 g (3½ oz) prawns, peeled 100 g (3½ oz) firm white flesh fish (such
as ling, blue eye trevalla, mahi mahi)

1 garlic clove
60 ml (2 fl oz/¼ cup) olive oil 100 g (3½ oz) rice
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon sugar

1 tablespoon turmeric
50 g (1¾ oz) butter
50 g (1¾ oz) grated kaşar (or mozzarella) 10 tarragon leaves, chopped
10 mint leaves, chopped

CREAM SAUCE
50 g (1¾ oz) butter
3 garlic cloves

1 tablespoon soy sauce

150 ml (5 fl oz) pouring (whipping) cream

We recommend you buy the calamari cleaned, but if you prefer to use
whole calamari, remove the tentacles, the cartilage in the middle and the
skin, and thoroughly wash the bodies (you can use the tentacles,
chopped, as part of the stuffing).

Put 1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) of water and the vinegar in a saucepan over
high heat and bring to the boil. Add the calamari tubes, reduce the heat
to medium and cook for 25 minutes. Scoop the tubes out of the water
and place on a board to cool. Reserve the cooking liquid.

Peel and clean the prawns, then finely chop. Check there are no bones in
the fish fillets, then finely chop.

Finely slice the garlic. Heat the olive oil in a frying pan over medium heat.
Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute. Wash the rice under cold running
water, then add to the pan. Stir for 1 minute to coat the rice with the oil.
Add the chopped fish, prawns and the salt and sugar. Stir for 1 minute to
combine.

Put 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of the reserved cooking liquid in a small bowl
and stir in the turmeric. Add the turmeric liquid to the rice mixture and
cook, covered, for 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and leave to rest,
with the lid on, until it cools to room temperature.

Finely chop one of the calamari tubes (and the legs, if you’ve kept them)
Finely chop one of the calamari tubes (and the legs, if you’ve kept them)
and add to the rice. Stir in the butter, cheese, and the chopped tarragon
and mint leaves.

Use a teaspoon to stuff the rice into the remaining calamari tubes (about
2–3 teaspoons per tube). Tightly pack the calamari tubes into a
saucepan, with the wide open ends facing upwards. If the calamari seem
too loosely packed and are at risk of falling over, put a large (washed)
potato in the middle and pack the calamari around it. Pour 250 ml (9 fl
oz/1 cup) of the cooking liquid into the pan, so that the liquid comes
about two-thirds of the way up the tubes. The tops should be at least 2
cm (¾ in) clear of the liquid. Cover with the lid and simmer for 20 minutes
over low heat.

Meanwhile, make the sauce. Melt the butter in a saucepan over low heat.
Halve 2 garlic cloves. Add to the pan, increase the heat to medium and
cook for 3 minutes. Add the soy sauce and reduce the heat to a simmer.
Add the cream and simmer, uncovered, for 5 minutes, stirring regularly
until the mixture starts to bubble. Remove from the heat.

Put 2 tablespoons of the sauce onto each plate. Lift the calamari tubes
out of the pan, divide between the plates, sitting them on top of the
sauce, and serve.
KARİDES GÜVEÇ
PRAWN AND HALOUMI
CASSEROLE

The word güveç (pronounced ‘goo-wetch’) means a clay pot in which

traditional casseroles are made. The usual version of karides güveç,
served in restaurants and meyhanes in Turkish coastal cities, uses
small prawns or shrimps, but because I live in Australia, I have the
luxury of easy access to prawns of significant size. Using bigger
prawns also saves shelling time.
The mushrooms keep the casserole moist when it’s cooking, and
help prevent the prawns from drying out. You need only bake the
güveç in the oven for long enough to let the haloumi melt, without
overcooking the prawns.

SERVES 4

12 cherry tomatoes (multi-coloured, if possible)

1 long green chilli

2 green bullhorn peppers (or 1 green capsicum/pepper) 3 onions
3 garlic cloves

12 prawns
80 ml (2½ fl oz/1/3 cup) vegetable oil, for frying 400 g (14 oz) small
mushrooms (such as Swiss brown or button) 200 g (7 oz) haloumi
50 g (1¾ oz) butter
50 g (1¾ oz) butter
1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Hlave the cherry tomatoes. Slit along the chilli and the bullhorn peppers
and remove the stalks and seeds. Finely chop. Finely slice the onions.
Finely chop the garlic.

Remove the heads from the prawns. The best way to do this is to
straighten the body with one hand and with the other hand twist the
head 90 degrees, gently pulling the head off so that the black thread
along the spine comes away. Peel off the skin but leave the tail on.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Heat half of the vegetable oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Add a
drop of water to the oil. If it sizzles the oil is ready. Add the prawns and
sear for 30 seconds on each side. Remove from the pan and set aside on
paper towel. Add the remaining oil to the pan, immediately add the onion
and cook for 3 minutes. Add the garlic and sauté for 1 minute. Add the
chilli and pepper and fry for 3 minutes. Halve the mushrooms. Toss them
into the pan, add the salt and pepper and simmer for 3 minutes. Remove
from the heat and stir in the halved cherry tomatoes.

Put three prawns in each of four ovenproof bowls. Divide the mushroom
mixture between each bowl. Cut the haloumi into four slices. Place one
slice in each bowl. Put a dollop of butter on each slice of haloumi. Bake
for 7 minutes until the haloumi is melted and slightly burnt around the
corners. Serve hot.
Outside and inside one of the massive mosques built in Istanbul with the wealth of the Ottoman
Empire.
ASMADA ZARGANA CHAR-GRILLED
GARFISH IN VINE LEAVES

The traditional recipe involves stuffing and wrapping hamsi (similar

to a European anchovy), the most prized fish of the Black Sea region,
but they are impossible to find outside of the Black Sea. You could
make this dish with sardines, or small red mullet, but I prefer garfish
because it’s milder in taste and can absorb some of the saltiness of the
vine leaves. Because they’re cooked on the barbecue or grill, the vine
leaves will char a little. That just adds flavour.

SERVES 4

15 fresh or preserved vine leaves

10 flat-leaf (Italian) parsley leaves 10 mint leaves
2 garlic cloves

2 tablespoons pine nuts

juice of ½ lemon 12 garfish (about 1 kg/2 lb 4 oz), butterflied, heads and
tails on

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 lemons, cut into 8 wedges each, to serve

If you’re using a charcoal grill, light it 1 hour before you’re ready to cook.
If you’re using a charcoal grill, light it 1 hour before you’re ready to cook.
Burn the charcoal for at least 45 minutes, and when the flames have
died down and the coals are glowing with a covering of white ash, the
barbecue is ready. If you’re using a gas barbecue, turn it on to medium
heat about 5 minutes before you’re ready to cook. Or use a frying pan.

If the vine leaves are fresh, place in a bowl, cover with boiling salted
water and soak for 10 minutes. If they are in brine, wash thoroughly to
remove most of the salt.

Crush the parsley leaves, mint leaves, garlic, pine nuts and lemon juice
with a mortar and pestle. Open out each fish and place a tablespoon of
the stuffing inside, then close the two halves of the fish.

Spread the vine leaves out flat on a board, shiny side down. Roll each
garfish in a vine leaf. If the vine leavs are small, add half of another vine
leaf. Drizzle the vine leaves with the olive oil and cook on the grill, close to
the heat, for 2 minutes on each side until the vine leaves are charred. If
you don’t have a barbecue, heat the olive oil in a heavy-based trypan
over high heat. Add a drop of water to the oil. If it sizzles the oil is ready.
Place the wrapped fish in the pan and cook for 4 minutes on each side.

Serve the asmada zargana with the lemon wedges. You should eat the
vine leaves.
USKUMRU DOLMASI ‘FORGET-ME-NOT’
MACKEREL WITH BARBERRIES

In this dish you are required to reach down the throat of a fish and
pull out its insides, including the bones, in order to make it empty
enough to satisfy the Turkish compulsion to stuff everything they
see.
Uskumru dolmasi is one of the oldest surviving Ottoman seafood
recipes, mentioned in seventeenth century palace documents, and
nicknamed unutma beni (don’t forget me) because meyhanes in past
centuries would send plates of stuffed mackerel to the homes of their
regular customers on the last night of the fasting month of
Ramadan, to remind them of what they’d been missing. It was the
earliest form of advertising by letter box drop, but we doubt if
anybody rejected it as junk mail.

SERVES 4

4 blue mackerel, whole

BARBERRY STUFFING
50 g (1¾ oz) dried barberries (or currants) 1 large onion (about 250 g/9
oz), chopped 200 ml (7 fl oz) olive oil
100 g (3½ oz) pine nuts
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon allspice

3 teaspoons salt
20 flat-leaf (Italian) parsley leaves, finely chopped, plus extra to garnish
MACKEREL COATING
 MACKEREL COATING
150 g (5½ oz/1 cup) plain (all-purpose) flour

3 eggs
190 g (6¾ oz/1 cup) fine polenta 300 ml (10½ fl oz) olive oil

POMEGRANATE DRESSING (OPTIONAL) 1 tablespoon

pomegranate molasses
1 tablespoon olive oil

20 pomegranate seeds
10 parsley leaves, finely chopped

Clean the blue mackerel by removing the gills and the organs without a
knife. You need to push your fingers into the throat of the fish and hook
them under the gills. Pull gently so the gills and the attached organs
come out. Use scissors to cut off the fins, being careful not to tear the
skin. Wash thoroughly.

Gently massage the fish on each side for 5 minutes to soften the flesh
until you can feel the spine. Gently break the tail, turning it 90 degrees, up
then down, without puncturing the skin. Push the points of a pair of
scissors through the gill hole and use them to sever the head from the
spine. You can now remove the spine from inside the fish. Cover the fish
with a dry cloth so you can hold it with one hand. With the other hand,
reach through the gill hole and, with your thumb and forefinger, gently
pull out the spinal bones. Scrape off any meat that’s attached to the
spine and put in a bowl. Using a cocktail spoon, remove all the flesh from
inside the fish and add to the bowl.

Put the barberries in a bowl, cover with water and leave to soak for 15
minutes. Finely chop the onion. Meanwhile, heat the oil in a large frying
pan over medium heat. Add a drop of water to the oil. If it sizzles the oil is
ready. Sauté the pine nuts for 2 minutes, then add the onions and fry for
3 minutes. Add the fish meat, spices, salt, parsley and barberries and fry
3 minutes. Add the fish meat, spices, salt, parsley and barberries and fry
for another 2 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from the heat and
leave to cool for 5 minutes.

Stuff a quarter of the mixture into each fish, using a long-handled

cocktail spoon. Pack the stuffing in tightly, and use your fingers to mould
it into a fish shape.

Now make the coating. Sift the flour into a bowl. Lightly whisk the eggs in
a separate bowl. Put the polenta in a third bowl. Heat the oil in a frying
pan over medium heat. Add a drop of water to the oil. If it sizzles the oil is
ready. Coat each fish with flour. Dip in the egg. Thoroughly coat with
polenta. Carefully place the stuffed fish in the pan, two at a time, and
cook for 8 minutes each, giving them a quarter turn every 2 minutes until
the skin is golden brown and crisp. Drain on paper towel.

If using, mix the pomegranate molasses, olive oil, pomegranate seeds

and parsley together in a small jug (pitcher).

Serve the uskumru dolmasi hot, splashed with a little olive oil and parsley
and, if you like, the pomegranate dressing.
BAMYALI BARBUNYA PAN-FRIED RED
MULLET WITH OKRA

This late-summer dish is a combination of two much-loved

ingredients in Turkey. There’s the pretty pink sweet-tasting fish,
which is called barbunya by the Turks and Greeks, triglia by the
Italians, and red mullet or goatfish by the unpoetic English. And
there’s the green bullet called bamya by the Turks and Arabs, ladies
fingers’ by Malaysians, okra by the English and gumbo by the people
of Louisiana.
Okra are edible seed pods that originated in Africa. They had
become a fad food by the fifteenth century in the Ottoman Empire,
when the sultan in Istanbul organised palace war games between
teams named ‘the cabbages’ and ‘the okras’. Okra is very good for
you, but it’s not popular because when cooked it puts out a slime that
some people don’t like. Here’s the solution to the slime: use very small
pods. If you can’t find small okra, choose medium-sized ones (no
longer than 10 cm/4 in or they’ll have a woody texture) and soak
them for 30 minutes in 1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) of water with 100 ml
(3½ fl oz) of vinegar and 2 tablespoons of salt. Rinse them well, peel
off the skin, and remove the woody stalk.

SERVES 4

2 French shallots (eschalots)

2 garlic cloves
1 red capsicum (pepper)

1 carrot
1 green tomato or 2 tablespoons unripened grapes 300 g (10½ oz) okra
80 ml (2½ fl oz/1/3 cup) olive oil 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) verjus
juice of ½ lemon
½ teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon white pepper
2 teaspoons salt

16 small red mullets

75 g (22/3 oz/½ cup) plain (all-purpose) flour

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) vegetable oil

1 lemon
Finely slice the French shallots and garlic. Remove the stalk and seeds
from the red capsicum and roughly chop. Roughly chop the carrot.
Quater the green tomato. Cut the stalks off the okra.

Heat the olive oil in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the shallots and
carrot and fry for 3 minutes. Add the garlic and fry for 2 more minutes.
Add the okra, tomato and capsicum, and fry for 1 minute. Add the verjus,
lemon juice, sugar, white pepper and half the salt, and bring to the boil.
Add 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of warm water, reduce the heat and simmer,
covered, for 10 minutes.

Clean and scale the red mullet. Sift the flour into a bowl and mix in the
remaining salt and the black pepper. Coat the red mullets in the flour.
Shake the fish to remove the excess flour.

Heat the vegetable oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Add a drop of
water to the oil. If it sizzles the oil is ready. Carefully add the mullet, four
at a time, and fry for 2 minutes on each side until the skin is golden
at a time, and fry for 2 minutes on each side until the skin is golden
brown and crisp. Transfer to paper towel to remove the excess oil.

Cut the top and bottom off the lemon and slice into 8 rounds. Place the
lemon in the frying pan and cook for 1 minute on each side each side until
it starts to caramelise.

Spread the okra mixture on one half of each plate, and place four red
mullet on the other half. Decorate with the lemon rounds and serve.
The moped rider must have gone swimming at Bodrum beach.
Fishing from Istanbul’s Galata Bridge, with beer houses serving local seafood on the lower deck.
MERCAN BUĞULAMA WHOLE SNAPPER IN
CELERIAC MILK

One day when I was a kid, my father came home very late saying my
stepmother was in hospital with food poisoning, because ‘she ate
yoğurt and fish together’. That started my fascination with
combining seafood and dairy.
It’s a common myth in Turkey that milk and fish don’t mix, but if it
were true, there’d be nobody left alive in the west coast town of İzmir
(formerly known as Smyrna and very close to Troy). All along the
promenade there, restaurants compete to offer the best version of
sütlü balık (literally ‘fish in milk’). Normally it’s done with fillets, but I
always prefer to use whole fish if I can. I’ve included celeriac here,
because it adds a great flavour to the milk.

SERVES 4

1 celeriac
500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) milk 1 white onion
4 celery stalks
2 tarragon stalks

4 caperberries
1 snapper (about 1 kg/2 lb 4 oz), cleaned 2 tablespoons thickened
(whipping) cream 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) dry white wine juice of 1
lemon ½ bunch chives
3 silverbeet (Swiss chard) leaves
3 silverbeet (Swiss chard) leaves

Peel the celeriac and cut it into rounds about 1 cm (½ in) thick. Place the
rounds in a bowl, add the milk and leave to rest overnight in the fridge.
Remove the celeriac from the bowl and pat fry with paper towel. Reserve
the milk.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Slice the onion. Pick the celery leaves and tarragon leaves. Chop the
stalks off the caperberries and slice in half.

Clean and scale the fish, if necessary. Place the fish on a board and slice
through the belly to open a pocket for the stuffing. Stuff with celery and
tarragon leaves, onion and caperberries.

Place the celeriac rounds on the bottom of a baking tray. Place the
snapper on top. Mix the soaking milk with the cream and white wine, and
pour over the fish. Add the lemon juice and chives on top of the fish.
Cover with silverbeet leaves, then cover the baking tray tightly with foil.
Bake for 40 minutes.

Serve the mercan buğulama on a serving platter, pouring any remaining

juice over the fish, for people to help themselves.
 THE OTTOMAN EXPERIMENT

Batur Durmay happily admits that his restaurant, Asitane, is an

indulgence. ‘We didn’t open this place to make a lot of money’, he says. ‘I
just have to be sure I get it right.’ Getting it right means ensuring the
dishes on his menu are what you could have eaten had you been invited
to a banquet with the sultan at the Topkapi Palace around 1700.
Asitane was set up by Batur’s family in 1991 so they’d have an
interesting place to take clients in their primary business, which was
making steel moulds for heavy industry. Batur, the most obsessive foodie
in a family of gourmets, was tasked with unearthing recipes that
displayed the opulence and diversity of one of the greatest empires in
history.
He soon encountered a problem. Before the year 1844 (when the first
cookbook in the Turkish language was published), the Ottoman kitchen
workers did not write down recipes. But they were meticulous record
keepers, giving names to every dish served at banquets and noting the
ingredients purchased for the pantry. Batur found a particularly helpful
document from 1539 listing the 100 dishes served at a circumcision
ceremony for the sons of Süleyman the Magnificent.
He hired scholars to dig further into the palace records and chefs to
theorise on how the ingredients must have been combined and served,
and ultimately came up with more than 300 dishes that he is confident
would be recognisable to a time traveller from the seventeenth century.
Modern Turks have an ambiguous relationship with the Ottoman
Empire. They are proud that for 500 years, their ancestors were the fairly
humane rulers of a collection of countries now called Albania, Bulgaria,
Egypt, Greece, Hungary, Iran, Iraq, Israel, Jordan, Lebanon, Macedonia,
Romania, Saudi Arabia, Syria and Tunisia. They are annoyed that after
200 years of decline, the Ottoman caliphs had become so decadent by
the early twentieth century that they dragged Turkey into The First World
War on the wrong side, and ended up losing what was left of this great
War on the wrong side, and ended up losing what was left of this great
empire.
Whether they admire or disapprove, they are fascinated by the lavish
lifestyle the Ottomans created for themselves, especially since the
success in 2011 of a TV melodrama called Muhteşem Yüzyil (Magnificent
Century), about the life of Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent. Batur was a
food consultant for the series.
The Istanbul eating scene is now enjoying an Ottoman revival. Batur
estimates there are 200 restaurants that claim to serve the food of the
emperors. Many of them think that all they have to do is cook meats
with dried fruits, or serve spiced rice in several colours, or give fancy
names to standard kebaps.
Some places have sent spies to Asitane, to steal Batur’s recipes. But
Batur is fighting back. Occasionally he includes a dish on his menu that
contains typically Ottoman ingredients but has no background in any
scholarship. He invents a name that sounds as if it might have been used
in the sixteenth century, and then waits to see how long it takes for that
name to appear on the menus of his competitors. Then he has a little
word to them about laziness and plagiarism.
Fortunately, he now has plenty of customers who recognise the work
his researchers and cooks have put into ensuring authenticity. Asitane
has become so popular that he finds himself seriously at risk of financial
success.
Batur Durmay recreates dishes served to the seventeenth-century sultans at Asitane
restaurant, in Istanbul’s historic Fatih district.
KAVUN DOLMASI STUFFED MELON WITH
CHICKEN AND CASHEWS

Melon has been one of the staples of Anatolian cuisine since Roman
times, and was probably first cultivated near what is now eastern
Turkey. The Ottoman palace chefs apparently liked the theatre of
being able to lift the lid and expose the filling. They adopted the
Persian fascination for mixing meat and fruit, and mostly used lamb
mince in the stuffing, but I think that’s too heavy for the delicate fruit,
so I changed it to chicken.
I like to use Galia melon (developed in Israel in the 1970s) because
it’s almost perfectly round, but if you can’t find it, go for rockmelon,
and choose the smallest one you can find.

SERVES 4

50 g (1¾ oz) craisins (dried cranberries) 2 onions

10 parsley stalks

10 mint stalks
50 ml (12/3 fl oz) vegetable oil 75 g (22/3 oz) almonds 75 g (22/3 oz)
cashews 300 g (10½ oz) chicken mince 1½ teaspoons salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

½ teaspoon allspice
½ teaspoon cinnamon
1 Galia melon, rockmelon or honeydew (about 1 kg/2 lb 4 oz)
2 tablespoons butter
50 ml (12/3 fl oz) olive oil

Put the cranberries in a bowl, cover with warm water and leave to soak
for 15 minutes. Finely chop the onions. Pick and chop the mint and
parsley leaves.

Heat the vegetable oil in a frying pan over medium heat, add the onions
and cook for 4 minutes. Add the almonds and cashews, and fry for 1
minute. Add the chicken mince and fry for 5 minutes, stirring regularly
until the chicken is evenly golden brown. Add 1 teaspoon of the salt and
the spices. Drain the cranberries, add to the pan and stir. Remove the pan
from the heat.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Slice the cap off the melon, about 2 cm (¾ in) below the top. Scoop out
and discard all the seeds. Mix the butter with a pinch of salt and rub
inside the cavity. Push in the stuffing mixture. Place the cap back on,
secured with two toothpicks. Rub the olive oil all over the outside of the
melon and bake for 35 minutes.

Remove the cap and serve the whole melon at the table. Scoop out four
servings, or slice into quarters.
ÖRDEK SARMA DUCK AND SILVERBEET
PARCELS

When I came to Sydney I found duck was a popular meat with

Australians, and I started serving this dish in winter. It is a modern
variation of a Black Sea dish, where silverbeet is usually wrapped
around lamb mince and rice. There they’d never use duck, which is a
meat cooked at home by the wives of hunters, or freekeh, which is
from the southeast. My justification for the change is that spit-
roasted duck was served in Istanbul at the circumcision ceremony for
the son of Sultan Mehmet II, in 1457. That’s the rule: when
challenged, quote the Ottomans.

SERVES 4

4 duck legs
1.5 litres (52 fl oz/6 cups) chicken stock 190 g (6¾ oz/1 cup) freekeh 2
tablespoons dried barberries (or cranberries) 1 red capsicum (pepper)
1 onion
1 garlic clove
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons olive oil

4 tablespoons flaked almonds

125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) dry sherry ½ teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon pimento
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 teaspoons capsicum (pepper) paste
2 teaspoons tomato paste
10 silverbeet (Swiss chard) leaves SAUCE
2 garlic cloves
1 tablespoon olive oil

1 tablespoon smoked paprika

250 g (9 oz/1 cup) plain yoğurt

Put the duck legs and chicken stock in a large saucepan. Bring to the boil
over medium heat, then reduce the heat and simmer, covered, for 1 hour.

Remove the legs from the pan and place on a board to cool slightly.
When the legs are cool enough to handle, remove the meat. Put the skin,
sinews and bones back in the pan and simmer, with the lid off, for
another 5 minutes. Remove from the heat.

Put the freekeh in a bowl and cover with 375 ml (13 fl oz/1½ cups) of
warm strained stock. Leave to rest for 30 minutes. Put the barberries in a
bowl. Cover with warm water and leave to soak for 15 minutes. Halve the
capsicum, remove the stalk and seeds, and finely chop. Finely chop the
onion and the garlic.

Melt the butter in a frying pan over medium heat. Add the olive oil. Add
the flaked almonds and onion and cook for 2 minutes. Add the garlic and
fry for 1 minute. Add the duck pieces and fry for 2 minutes. Add the
sherry, cinnamon, pimento, salt and pepper. Increase the heat to high for
3 minutes to cook out the alcohol.

Put the capsicum and tomato pastes in a bowl, add 125 ml (A fl oz/½
cup) of the warm chicken stock and stir to combine. Add the mixture to
the duck and stir. Add the strained freekeh and capsicum to the duck
the duck and stir. Add the strained freekeh and capsicum to the duck
mixture, and stir. Bring to the boil, then turn off the heat. Strain the
barberries and stir into the duck and freekeh stuffing. Leave to cool,
covered, for 10 minutes.

Wash the silverbeet leaves under cold running water. Put the silverbeet in
a bowl and cover with boiling water. Leave for 2 minutes, then plunge in
iced water for 1 minute to refresh. Remove the stalks. If the leaves are
large, cut them in half (so you can make two parcels). You should have at
least ten leaf pieces. Put the two largest leaves aside (to line the bottom
of the cooking pot). Place 3 tablespoons of the freekeh and duck mixture
across each leaf, about 4 cm (1½ in) from the bottom. Fold in the edges
around the stuffing and tightly roll the leaf up. Repeat to make eight
parcels.

Cover the bottom of a saucepan with the two reserved leaves. Place the
eight parcels on the leaves. Pour in the chicken stock to almost cover the
parcels. Weigh the parcels down with a plate. Bring to the boil, then
reduce the heat and simmer, covered for 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, make the sauce. Crush the garlic. Heat the olive oil in a frying
pan over medium heat. Add the crushed garlic and paprika. Fry for 3
minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from the heat and leave to cool.
Transfer to a bowl and mix in the yoğurt.

Place a quarter of the yoğurt sauce on each plate. Scoop out the parcels
with a slotted spoon then add two to each plate and serve.
ELBASAN TAVA
GOAT AND DATES IN BAKED
YOĞURT

Along with cubed and deep-fried spiced liver, this goat stew is one of
two famous Albanian dishes that influenced the cuisine of Anatolia.
It is named after the city of Elbasan, which means ‘crushing fist’,
presumably because Mehmet II built a huge fortress there to keep the
Albanians under control in the fifteenth century.
Strangely, you’d have a hard time finding either this dish or the
fried liver in modern Albania, where waiters are inclined to say ‘They
do that in Turkey—we don’t do it any more’. It’s their loss. If you can’t
find goat, use lamb.

SERVES 4

835 g (1 lb 13 oz) plain yoğurt 3 French shallots (eschalots)

3 garlic cloves
500 g (1 lb 2 oz) goat (shoulder meat) 1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon black peppercorns 1 teaspoon salt
10 basil leaves

1 bay leaf
12 dates, pitted
500 ml (17 fl oz/2 cups) beef stock
3 egg yolks
450 g (1 lb/3 cups) plain (all-purpose) flour

1 tablespoon sweet paprika

mixed cress salad, to serve (optional)

Place the yoğurt on a sheet of muslin (cheesecloth) and tie up the

corners. Hang the muslin over a pot overnight to allow the yoğurt to
thicken.

Quarter the French shallots. Finely chop the garlic. Remove any fat from
the goat shoulder and cut the meat into 3 cm (1¼ in) cubes. Melt the
butter in a frying pan over high heat. Add the meat and fry for 2 minutes,
turning to evenly brown. Add the shallots and fry for 2 minutes. Add the
garlic, peppercorns, salt, basil and bay leaf and fry for 2 minutes. Add 250
ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of water. Bring to the boil, then reduce the heat and
simmer, covered, for 45 minutes. It should reduce and thicken. Pour the
goat stew into a casserole dish. Sprinkle the dates over the stew.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Gently warm the stock in a saucepan to about 35°C (95°F). Put the egg
yolks in a bowl. Sift in the flour and whisk. Add the flour mixture to the
yoğurt. Stir in the beef stock. Warm the yoğurt mixture over low heat,
constantly whisking, but remove it from heat as soon as you see bubbles
forming (you do not want it to boil). Pour the mixture over the meat and
add the paprika. Place the casserole dish in the oven and bake for 40
minutes.

Serve in the casserole dish at the table with a mixed cress salad, for
people to help themselves.
Bodrum’s marina and the Castle of Saint Peter, a former Crusader fortress, at night.
DANA PİRZOLA ROAST VEAL CUTLETS AND
CAULIFLOWER PURÉE

Cauliflower, which was known as ‘rose cabbage’ in Ottoman times, is

much loved in Turkey—pickled, sautéed or boiled for salads. But in
the past, it was never puréed, and certainly never served with
parmesan. And you’d hardly ever encounter veal cutlets in Turkey—
cattle are mostly used for dairy farming, and the meat minced when
the milk runs out.
So we’d have to call this an example of ‘the new Istanbul cooking’.

SERVES 4

250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) olive oil

4 thick veal cutlets

1 celeriac (or 3 potatoes) 2 carrots
1 onion

1 garlic bulb
4 French shallots (eschalots) 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) dry red wine 2
tablespoons fennel seeds 4 thyme stalks
1 tablespoon salt

1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper

CAULIFLOWER PURÉE
CAULIFLOWER PURÉE
1 cauliflower

2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons plain (all-purpose) flour 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) pouring
(whipping) cream 1 teaspoon white pepper

1 teaspoon nutmeg
50 g (1¾ oz/½ cup) grated parmesan DATE MOLASSES GLAZE

4 tablespoons butter
4 tablespoons date molasses (or grape molasses) 1 teaspoon ground
cumin

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

½ teaspoon salt

Preheat the oven to 200°C (400°F/Gas 6).

Heat a splash of the olive oil in a frying pan over high heat. Add the
cutlets and sear for 1 minute on each side. Remove from the heat and set
aside.

Skin the celeriac and roughly chop. Roughly chop the carrots. Quarter the
onion. Quarter the garlic bulb, leaving the skins on. Roughly chop the
French shallots.

Pour the wine and remaining olive oil into a deep baking pan, then add
the cutlets, in a single layer. Spread the chopped vegetables, fennel seeds
and thyme stalks over the cutlets. Sprinkle on the salt and pepper and
pour in enough water to cover the vegetables. Tightly cover the pan with
pour in enough water to cover the vegetables. Tightly cover the pan with
foil and bake for 3½ hours.

Meanwhile, chop the cauliflower into florets, discarding the stalk. Put the
cauliflower in a saucepan, cover with water and boil for 30 minutes over
medium heat. Scoop out the cauliflower pieces with a slotted spoon and
transfer to a food processor. Pulse to a thick liquid.

Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat and stir in the flour.
Continue to stir for 3 minutes to remove any lumps. Pour in the cream.
Stir for 2 more minutes to make a smooth sauce. Add the cauliflower,
white pepper and nutmeg. Whisk for 5 minutes over low heat. Add the
grated parmesan and whisk for another 5 minutes to make a smooth
purée. Divide the purée among four plates.

Remove the baking tray from the oven. To make the glaze, melt the
butter in a frying pan over low heat. Scoop out 125 ml (A fl oz/½ cup) of
the liquid from the baking tray and add it to the butter. Stir in the
molasses, add the cumin, pepper and salt. Lift out the veal cutlets, one at
a time, and glaze them in the molasses mixture, about 1 minute on each
side.

Place one cutlet on top of the cauliflower purée and serve with the
vegetables.
EFENDY BEĞENDY
BRAISED BEEF CHEEKS AND
EGGPLANT PURÉE

There are as many folk stories about the origin of Turkish dishes as
there are combinations of lamb and eggplant. The story I like about
this dish is that it was served to the French empress Eugenie when
she passed through Istanbul on her way to the opening ceremony of
the Suez Canal in 1869. Eugenie’s personal chef got together with the
sultan’s chef and added béchamel sauce to the original palace recipe.
It then was named Hünkar Beğendi (‘the sultan liked it’)—probably
because all possible combinations of the words for lamb and
eggplant had been used up.
I solved the lamb-repetition problem by using beef cheeks (rare in
Turkish cuisine) and I’ve lightened the mash by not using flour. There
are no sultans in Turkey any more, so I’ve changed the Turkish title
to ‘the gentleman liked it’, making this dish more democratic—if not
gender-neutral.

SERVES 4

4 beef cheeks (about 180 g/61/3 oz each)

1 onion
1 green bullhorn pepper (or ½ green capsicum/ pepper) 1 garlic clove

3 tomatoes
100 ml (3½ fl oz) olive oil 50 g (1¾ oz) cumin seeds 200 g (7 oz) tomato
paste
1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) beef stock 1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) dry red wine 200 g (7 oz) green olives, pitted
EGGPLANT PURÉE
4 globe eggplants (aubergines) juice of 2 lemons
120 g (4¼ oz) butter
300 ml (10½ fl oz) pouring (whipping) cream

1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

200 g (7 oz) grated kaşar (or provolone) ½ teaspoon white pepper

1 teaspoon salt
Place the beef cheeks on a board and trim off any sinew or fat. Finely
slice the onion. Remove the stalk and seeds from the bullhorn pepper
and roughly chop. Roughly chop the garlic and tomatoes.

Heat the olive oil in a large flame-proof casserole dish over medium heat.
Add the onion and cumin seeds and brown for 4 minutes. Add the
chopped pepper and garlic, and fry for 2 minutes. Add the fresh tomato
and tomato paste and stir to combine. Add the beef stock, salt, pepper
and red wine. Add the beef cheeks, reduce the heat to low and simmer,
covered, for 5 hours.

While the beef cheeks are stewing, pierce the eggplants with a fork and
char the skins by placing the eggplants directly onto the flame of your
cook top. Using tongs, move the eggplant around to evenly blacken and
then remove from the flame.

Once the eggplants are cool enough to handle, scoop out the flesh into a
Once the eggplants are cool enough to handle, scoop out the flesh into a
large bowl. Discard the skin. Add 1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) of water and the
lemon juice. Leave to soak for 2 minutes, then remove the eggplant, pat
dry with paper towel and place in a colander to drain for about 10
minutes. Finely chop.

Melt 100 g (3½ oz) of the butter in a frying pan over low heat. Add the
eggplant pieces and whisk together to make a mash. Add the cream,
freshly grated nutmeg and grated kaşar. Add the white pepper and salt.
Simmer 5 minutes, stirring regularly. Divide the eggplant purée among
four plates.

Add the olives to the casserole dish and continue to stew for 5 minutes.
Remove from the heat. Put 250 ml (4 fl oz/1 cup) of the beef-cheek
cooking liquid in a saucepan with the remaining butter and boil over
medium heat for 5 minutes to reduce.

Place one beef cheek on each plate. Drizzle a little of the reduced sauce
over each cheek, and serve.
KEŞKÜL

PALACE PUDDING

This gluten-free summer favourite is one of the oldest Ottoman

recipes, derived from a dish called Keşkül-ü Fukara (‘begging bowl’),
which was generously served to the populace by the sultans to
celebrate war victories, religious holidays and other significant
occasions.
The word keşkül means a bowl made out of a coconut half shell,
which the dervish monks would wear around their necks in the hope
people might throw in donations (which would have been difficult if
they were whirling dervishes). Nowadays, the poor don’t need to go to
the palace—they can find versions of keşkül in pudding shops across
Istanbul.
There are several traditional variations—some using only almonds,
some using coconut flakes. I like crushed pistachios to give a bright
green colour and a crunchy texture.

SERVES 4

40 g (1½ oz) blanched almonds 40 g (1½ oz) pistachio kernels 250 ml (9

fl oz/1 cup) milk
250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) pouring (whipping) cream 100 g (3½ oz) sugar
25 g (1 oz) cornflour (cornstarch) pashmak (Persian fairy floss) and
pomegranate seeds, to decorate (optional)

Put the almonds in a food processor and pulse finely. Pulse the pistachios
separately.

Put the milk and cream in a saucepan and mix. Heat over medium heat,
then add the sugar. Cook for 2 minutes, then whisk in the almond meal.
Continue to whisk for 2 minutes, then scoop out 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) of
Continue to whisk for 2 minutes, then scoop out 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) of
the mixture into a bowl. Whisk the cornflour into the bowl, and then
slowly add to the cooking mixture, whisking constantly.

Continue to whisk, and bring to the boil. Add the pistachios, reduce the
heat and simmer for 3 minutes, whisking. When the mixture starts to
thicken, remove from the heat and leave to cool to room temperature.

Divide the keşkül mixture into four bowls or cups. Refrigerate for 3 hours
to set. Remove from the fridge, decorate with pashmak and
pomegranate seeds, if you like, and serve.
KITIR KABAK
CRUNCHY PUMPKIN WITH
TAHINI

Long before molecular gastronomy was all the rage, Turkish chefs
were using chemistry to create sweets and jams. By soaking hard-
shelled fruits and vegetables in quicklime, they’d soften the interior
and crystallise the exterior. The most common cases for treatment
were watermelon rinds and unripened figs, eggplants, walnuts and
olives.
You can’t use quicklime in food preparation these days, but you
can get a similar effect with pickling lime or burnt lime (calcium
hydroxide). You must still be careful to wash off all traces of the
chemical before you start the cooking.
This dish is a speciality of Antakya in the southeast, where they use
tahini as an accompaniment, under the influence of their Syrian
neighbours.

SERVES 6

150 g (5½ oz/1 cup) calcium hydroxide (burnt lime) ½ blue pumpkin
(winter squash)
1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) caster (superfine) sugar 2 cardamom pods
2 cloves

2 cinnamon sticks
135 g (4¾ oz/½ cup) tahini 115 g (4 oz/1 cup) chopped walnuts
125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) thick (double) cream

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
Put the calcium hydroxide in a bucket with 10 litres (2 gal) of water. Leave
to settle overnight.

Skim any skin off the surface of the bucket of water and discard. Scoop 3
litres 105 fl oz/ 12 cups) of water from the top, without disturbing the
sediment at the bottom, and transfer to a large bowl. Discard the rest of
the liquid. Peel the half pumpkin and cut into about thirty square pieces,
roughly 4 cm (1½ in) across and 1 cm (½ in) thick. Put the pumpkin in the
bowl and soak for 24 hours.

Thoroughly wash the pumpkin under cold running water for 5 minutes.
Put any pumpkin offcuts in the bottom of a wide saucepan, then spread
the pumpkin squares on top. Add the sugar. Close the lid and leave to rest
for another 24 hours.

Crack the cardamom pods. Add all the spices to the pumpkin and sugar
mixture. Put the pan over medium heat and cook for 5 minutes with the
lid off. Cover with the lid, reduce the heat and simmer for 20 minutes.
Remove the lid and boil for 5 more minutes on high heat. Remove from
the heat and leave to cool. Discard the cloves, cardamom pods and
cinnamon sticks.

To serve, stack five squares of pumpkin on each plate, in a pattern that

pleases your eye. Drizzle tahini over the top. Mix the cream and
cinnamon together in a bowl. Add 1 tablespoon of the cream mixture on
top of each pumpkin pattern, sprinkle with walnuts and serve.
İNCİR & KAYISI DOLMASI WALNUT-STUFFED
FIGS AND ALMOND-STUFFED APRICOTS

More than half the world’s dried figs and dried apricots come from
Turkey, so of course we have to stuff them. Turkey is the fourth-
biggest producer of walnuts in the world, and the number-eight
almond producer. So of course they’d be the best nuts for the stuffing.

SERVES 4

500 ml (9 fl oz/2 cups) milk 1 cinnamon stick

4 cloves

8 dried figs
60 g (2¼ oz/½ cup) walnuts 1 tablespoon vegetable oil 2 tablespoons
grape molasses 2 tablespoons sugar
8 dried apricots

1 tablespoon almond meal

1 teaspoon icing (confectioners’) sugar 2 tablespoons pouring
(whipping) cream

2 tablespoons pistachio kernels

Heat the milk, cinnamon stick and cloves in a saucepan over medium
heat and bring to the boil. Remove from the heat. Remove the stalks
from the figs. Rest the figs in the warm milk for 30 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F/Gas 4).

Roughly chop the walnuts. Remove the figs from the milk with a slotted
spoon and place on a board. Open the figs with a teaspoon and stuff 1
teaspoon of chopped walnuts inside. Mix the oil and molasses together in
a bowl and then brush over the figs. Place the figs on a baking tray and
cook for 10 minutes until soft. Remove from the oven and leave to cool.

Meanwhile, put the sugar and 250 ml (9 fl oz/ 1 cup) of water in a

saucepan and bring to the boil. Add the apricots, reduce the heat and
simmer, covered, for 15 minutes. Remove from the heat and leave to
cool. Remove the apricots from the syrup and leave to drain on paper
towel.

Mix the almond meal, icing sugar and cream together in a bowl. Make a
pocket in each apricot with a teaspoon and stuff 1 heaped teaspoon of
the cream and almond mixture inside. Use the teaspoon to smooth the
exposed stuffing. Finely chop the pistachios and roll the cream side of
each apricot in the pistachio pieces.

Serve two figs and two apricots per person.

DONDURMALI HELVA SEMOLINA HELVA
WITH RASPBERRY ICED YOĞURT

This is not a deconstruction of a traditional dish, but a sensible

reconstruction of a bastardised one. Some fashionable restaurants in
Istanbul are now serving ice cream (either vanilla or sahlep) covered
with a dome of warm semolina helva. Some of them even name it
‘Sultan’s helva’ to add vintage credibility. I don’t get it. For me, a good
semolina helva should be warm and crumbly, so you can’t make a
dome out of it. And a good ice cream should be firm and cold, not half
melted.
I’ve made the assumption that most home cooks don’t have an ice
cream machine, so I’ve explained here how to make what the Italians
call a semifreddo, using raspberries and yoğurt.

SERVES 4

ICED YOĞURT

6 eggs
220 g (7¾ oz/1 cup) sugar
500 ml (9 fl oz/2 cups) whipping cream 2 tablespoons plain yoğurt 1
punnet (200 g/7 oz) raspberries HELVA
200 g (7 oz) butter

2 tablespoons pine nuts

285 g (10 oz/1½ cups) fine semolina 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) milk 220 g
285 g (10 oz/1½ cups) fine semolina 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) milk 220 g
(7¾ oz/1 cup) sugar

First make the iced yoğurt. Separate the eggs. You are going to use all six
yolks and three of the whites. Blend the egg yolks and the sugar together
in a bowl. Put the cream in a kitchen mixer and blend until thick. Fold the
egg yolk mixture into the cream. Whisk three egg whites until peaks form.
Gently fold into the yolk mixture. Fold in the yoğurt. Finally, fold in the
raspberries, reserving a few to serve.

Line four cups (half-filled if you want dome shapes), a rectangular tray (if
you want to slice the iced yoğurt to serve), or any container you prefer,
with plastic wrap, making sure the wrap overhangs the sides. Using a
wooden spoon, push the mixture into the moulds and then place in the
freezer overnight.

About 30 minutes before you want to serve this dessert, make the helva.
Melt the butter in a frying pan over medium heat. Add the pine nuts and
cook for 3 minutes, tossing constantly to evenly brown. Add the semolina
and brown for 10 minutes, stirring constantly.

In a separate pan, mix the milk, sugar and 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) of water,
and bring to the boil over low heat. Immediately pour the boiling mixture
over the semolina and continue to stir for about 10 minutes, until all the
liquid is absorbed.

To serve, put one iced yoğurt dome (or a thick slice) on each plate and
surround it with warm helva. Decorate with fresh raspberries and serve
quickly, so the iced yoğurt does not melt.
GÜLLAÇ
RAMADAN RICE-PAPER BAKLAVA

Güllaç is thought to be the original form of baklava, which was

turned into a more elaborate dish by the chefs in the palaces of the
Ottoman sultans. For eleven months of the year in Turkey it is almost
impossible to find sheets of güllaç—a fine dried pastry made of
cornflour (cornstarch). That’s because it’s an ingredient associated
with the banquet served after sunset during the fasting month of
Ramadan.
I used to serve güllaç in my restaurant for one month of the year.
Then Owen, a Chinese chef who had worked with me since I opened
my restaurant, showed me a round of rice paper that was readily
available in all Asian supermarkets. It’s smaller than the traditional
güllaç sheets, but combined with milk, rosewater and nuts, it makes a
desert which, to me, tastes even better than the cornflour version and
is probably healthier. It’s also appropriate that a Chinese person was
responsible for my improved recipe. The first recorded mention of
güllaç in the world was in a fourteenth century Chinese text called
Yinshan Zhenyao, written by a doctor of Turkish origin in the court of
the Yuan dynasty.

SERVES 4

75 g (22/3 oz/½ cup) hazelnuts 75 g (22/3 oz/½ cup) pistachios 500 ml (9

fl oz/2 cups) milk
110 g (3¾ oz/½ cup) sugar
½ teaspoon rosewater
½ pack (12 sheets) rice papers, about 20 cm (8 in) wide

25 pomegranate seeds
Using a grinder or a food processor, coarsely crush the hazelnuts. Finely
crush the pistachios.

Put the milk and sugar in a saucepan over low heat and gently heat for 5
minutes to combine, being careful not to let the mixture boil. Remove
from the heat and stir in the rosewater.

Put 2 tablespoons of the milk mixture in a deep round serving dish, then
layer the rice papers, one at a time, shiny side up. Spread 2 tablespoons
of warm milk mixture over each sheet as you go.

After the first three layers, sprinkle on half the hazelnuts. After three
more layers, sprinkle on half the pistachios. After three more layers,
sprinkle on the other half of the hazelnuts and, three layers after that,
sprinkle on the remaining pistachios. Sprinkle the pomegranate seeds
over the pistachios. Put the lid on the dish, then refrigerate for 1 hour.

Slice the milky baklava into quarters and then serve chilled.
KAHVELİ SUPANGLE
ZUPPA TURCA WITH CHOCOLATE
CUSTARD

The Italians use the term zuppa inglese (English soup) for a dessert
made with custard and sponge finger biscuits (known to the English
as trifle). The French use the term crème anglaise for what the
English call custard. In Turkey, the dish called supangle (pronounced
‘soup anglais’) is made with slices of sponge and chocolate custard.
Therefore I feel entitled to torture the language further by calling my
mixture of chocolate custard and coffee-soaked biscuits zuppa turca.

SERVES 4

ZUPPA TURCA

2 teaspoons Turkish coffee

50 g (1¾ oz) sugar
30 ml (1 fl oz) mastic liqueur (or white Sambuca) 30 ml (1 fl oz) Kahlua
12 sponge finger biscuits (also called ladyfingers or, in Turkey, cat’s
tongues) CHOCOLATE CUSTARD
500 ml (9 fl oz/2 cups) milk 110 g (3¾ oz/½ cup) sugar

2 egg yolks
3 tablespoons cornflour (cornstarch) 1 tablespoon plain (all-purpose)
flour
 flour

3 tablespoons dark cocoa

150 g (5½ oz) dark chocolate (70 per cent cocoa) DECORATION

1 tablespoon ground pistachios

½ tablespoon shaved coconut

12 roasted coffee beans

First make a Turkish coffee in a cezve or small saucepan with 70 ml (2¼
fl oz) of water, the Turkish coffee and 1 teaspoon of the sugar. Place a
piece of muslin (cheesecloth) in a tea strainer. Strain the coffee through
the muslin four times, to remove all the grains.

Now make a sugar syrup. Stir the remaining sugar and 80 ml (2½ fl oz/1/3
cup) of water together in a saucepan over medium heat. Bring to the boil,
then reduce the heat and simmer, uncovered, for 5 minutes. Remove
from the heat and leave to cool to room temperature.

Combine the coffee with the mastic liqueur, Kahlua and sugar syrup.
Spread the sponge fingers in a single layer in a baking dish. Pour over the
coffee mixture and then rest in the fridge for 30 minutes.

To make the topping, warm the milk in a saucepan over low heat. Add
the sugar to 125 ml (4 fl oz/ ½ cup) of the warm milk mixture in a bowl
and whisk in the egg yolks and two flours, until smooth. Pour the egg
yolk mixture into the pan, stirring constantly. Add the cocoa. Simmer for
5 minutes, stirring constantly. Shave the chocolate into the mixture and
stir. As soon as the chocolate has melted in, turn off the heat.

Place a layer of soaked sponge fingers in the bottom of four pudding

bowls (glass, ideally). Pour the chocolate mixture over the top.
Chill the bowls in the fridge for 1 hour. Decorate with shaved coconut,
roasted coffee beans and pistachios, and serve.
The pebbly shoreline and a big high tide at the end of the day in Bodrum.
HİNDİ GÖĞSÜ
TURKEY PUDDING

This is a kind of answer to the question, ‘Do they cook with turkey in
Turkey?’ The normal answer is ‘not often’, and then only on New
Year’s Eve in westernised families. There is, however, a traditional
Ottoman desert called tavuk göğsü, apparently with ancient Roman
origins, that uses shredded chicken breast. I decided to see if turkey
breast would work as well.
But first let’s talk about the bird. It originated in South America, and
the first Europeans who saw it thought it was a form of guineafowl—
a game bird they imagined came from Turkey. So they brought it to
England under the name ‘turkey fowl’. The French thought it came
from India, so they called it dinde (which translates as from India’).
When the bird first arrived in Turkey, it was known as Egyptian fowl’,
but the Turks later followed the French and ‘corrected’ the name to
hindi, which means ‘Indian’. In India, the bird is called peru, which is
the closest to its real origin.
Anyway, the bird under any name works better than chicken in
this dish, because of its bland taste, and we can safely call this a
turkey pudding as well as a Turkey pudding.

SERVES 6

1 turkey breast (the fresher the better) 1 litre (35 fl oz/4 cups) milk

1 vanilla pod
220 g (7¾ oz/1 cup) sugar
2 tablespoons cornflour (cornstarch) 2 tablespoons rice flour
1 teaspoon butter
1 teaspoon butter
2 pieces mastic crystal

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Wash the breast under cold running water for 2 minutes. Pat dry with
paper towel, then wrap in plastic wrap and freeze overnight.

Put the frozen turkey breast in a saucepan, cover with water and boil for
50 minutes over medium heat until fully cooked. Transfer the turkey to a
bowl of iced water for 1½ hours. Change the iced water every half hour,
rinsing the breast each time. Put the turkey in the freezer for 1 hour to
chill. Remove and set aside for 1 hour.

Shred the rested turkey meat into hair-thin pieces, discarding any thicker,
tougher shreds. (It’s no problem if you have to discard half the breast.)
Put the milk in a large saucepan. Slit the vanilla pod and add to the milk.
Add the sugar. Warm for 5 minutes over medium heat. Scoop 250 ml (9
fl oz/1 cup) of the milk into a bowl, add the cornflour and rice flour and
whisk to combine. Pour the flour mixture into the pan, constantly
whisking. Add the butter and mastic, and whisk for 2 minutes, or until the
mixture thickens. Remove the pan from the heat. Remove the vanilla pod
and discard. Add the turkey shreds. Whisk for 5 minutes. Pour the mixture
into a 20 x 30 cm (8 x 12 in) baking tray and rest in the fridge for 3 hours
to set.

Remove the tray from the fridge. You should now have a soft
rectangular mat. Slice along the mat, once, and across the mat twice, to
make six slabs. Transfer the slabs onto six plates. Use a spatula to fold
each slab in half. Decorate with cinnamon powder and serve cold.
 SOMER SUGGESTS…

This is not a definitive list of the ‘best’ visiting experiences in Istanbul, but
a rough guide to the places I like to visit when I return to my home town.
Bear in mind that Istanbul is divided by the Bosphorus Strait, between
‘the European side’ and ‘the Asian side’. I grew up on the Asian side (in the
waterside suburb of Kadıköy). Most tourists stay on the European side,
which is their loss.

FOR BREAKFAST
Van Kahvaltı Evi is the restaurant that started the big breakfast
phenomenon in Istanbul. Arrive early and arrive hungry! I’m yet to see
anyone yet who can clear the entire meal, but it’s the best introduction to
the eastern Turkish way of starting the day.
Address: Defterdar Yokuşu No. 52/A, Cihangir, Beyoğlu
Phone: 0212 293 6437

Çakmak Kahvaltı Salonu is one of the oldest breakfast houses in the

Beşiktaş area, still pumping with locals and a few tourists who discovered
this gem. It specialises in clotted cream with honey, local cheeses, eggs
with spicy sausage and kavurma (a kind of meat stew) and it stays open
for brunch and lunch.
Address: Akmaz Çeşme Sokak No. 20, Beşiktaş
Phone: 0212 227 25 65

Kale Café opened in 1982 and started the trend of breakfast on the
Bosphorus—classics such as mememen or eggs with sucuk. Views are to
die for.
Address: Yahya Kemal Cad. No. 2 Rumelihisarı
Phone: 0212 265 6563
Website: [Link]

FOR LUNCH
Çiya means not one but three restaurants under the command of Musa
Dağdeviren, whose research and skill put regional Anatolian food on the
map long before any other chef in Turkey cared for it. The three Çiyas
alone are enough reason to visit the bustling markets of Kadıköy, but I
suggest you sample the many food wonders there, if you have any room
left after Musa’s menu.
Address: Caferağa Mh., Güneşli Bahçe Sk No. 43, Kadıköy
Phone: 0216 330 3190
Website: [Link]

Kantin has a beautiful room, style and service, but it’s the
uncompromising honesty of Şemsa Denizsel’s food, based on season
and freshness, that impress me most in this local bistro in the posh
suburb of Nişantaşi.
Address: Akkavak Sokaği No. 30, Nişantaşı
Phone: 0212 219 3114
Website: [Link]

Hacı Abdullah is a traditional Ottoman/home-style eatery, run for 120

years by the same family. Their olive oil-braised vegetable dishes
(zeytinyağlılar) are particularly good.
Address: Ağa Camii Atıf Yılmaz Cad. No. 9/A Beyoğlu
Phone: 0212 293 8561.
Website: [Link]
Sultanahmet köftecisi Selim Usta is a cheap and delicious lunch pit-stop
for köfte (meatballs), in the middle of the tourist hub called Sultanahmet,
the oldest part of the city.
Address: No. 12 Divanyolu, Sultanahmet. Phone: 0212 520 0566
Website: [Link]

FOR KEBAPS
Çiya Kebap is one of Musa Dağdeviren’s three restaurants in Kadıköy,
offering char-grilled treats that change with the season and are
authentic to their region of origin.
Address: Caferağa Mh., Güneşli Bahçe Sk No. 43, Kadıköy
Phone: 0216 330 3190
Website: [Link]

Antiocha is a small but very popular char-griller in the grungy and trendy
area of Asmalımescit, with no reservations, specialising in the kebaps of
southeastern Turkey.
Address: Asmalı Mescit Mah. Minare Sokak No. 21 Beyoğlu.
Phone: 0212 292 1100
Website: [Link]

Zübeyir caters for people who love to sit around the grill and receive
whatever the chef passes over the counter.
Address: Şht. Muhtar Mh, Beyoğlu
Phone: 0212 293 3951

FOR SEAFOOD
Poseidon offers top views of the Bosphorus, creatively grilling delicious
local fish such as lufer, kalkan and levrek. Like anything in the affluent
suburb of Bebek, it’s expensive. You can also dine at the Bebek Balıkçısı
next door, if Poseidon is booked out.
Address: Cevdet Paşa Cad. No. 58 D:1 Küçük Bebek
Phone: 212 287 9531
Website: [Link]

Karaköy Balıkçısı—Grifin has a beautiful vista of the old city and the
Bosphorus, and has served high-quality fish and mezes for ninety years.
Address: Tersane Cad. Kardeşim Sk No. 30
Phone: 212 243 4080
Website: [Link]

Bebek Balıkçısı is at Cevdet Paşa Cad. No. 26 Bebek

Phone: 212 263 3447
Website: [Link]

İsmet Baba, on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, has a less spectacular
view but great atmosphere: wooden walls, fish nets, pictures of
generations of owners and local customers who look older than the
restaurant (founded in 1951).
Address: Carsi Cad. iskelesi Yanı 1A, Üsküdar, Kuzguncuk
Phone: 0216 341 3375
Website: [Link]

PUDDINGS AND PASTRIES

Özkonak is one of the few pudding shops that still use real chicken breast
in their tavukgöğsü pudding. The chicken-free version, called kazandibi
(bottom of the pan), is ideal for the less adventurous.
Address: Akarsu Caddesi 46B, Cihangir
Phone: 0212 249 1307

Markiz, in the tradition of the Orient-Express era, is one of the longest

surviving Parisian style patisseries in Istanbul.
Address: İstiklal Cad. No. 360-362, Beyoğlu
Phone: 0212 245 8394

Güllüoğlu Baklava Shop in Karaköy is justly famous as one of the most

authentic baklava houses outside Gaziantep.
Address: Katlı Otopark Altı, Karaköy
Phone: 0212 293 0910
Website: [Link]

MEZE TIME
Imroz is the most interesting meyhane in a district where many
meyhanes have second-rate food and gypsy musicians blowing
trumpets in your ear.
Address: Nevizade Sk. No. 24 Balıkpazarı/ Beyoğlu
Phone: 0212 2499073
Website: [Link]

Sofyalı 9 is my local when I visit Istanbul, because the food is consistent

and it’s away from the bustle of the main Beyoğlu district.
Address: Asmalımescit Cad. Sofyalı Sk. No. 9 Beyoğlu
Phone: 0212 252 3810
Website: [Link]/en/

Koço is a typical Greek meyhane, with the surprise of a small church

inside the building. It was a drinking place for my grandad and my dad. I
had many rakı-filled nights there and probably my son will follow the
family tradition when he is of age.
Address: Moda Cad. No. 171 Kadıköy
Phone: 0216 336 0795
Website: [Link]

Despina was a rare breed of female meyhane owner, who opened her
place in 1946. Madame Despina is dead now, but her place kicks on with
live traditional Turkish music every night.
Address: Açıkyol Sk. No. 9, Kurtuluş
Phone: 0212 247 3357

Duble mezebar is on the terrace of the Palazzo Donizetti Hotel in the

historic Pera district, famous for modern mezes (well translated on the
English menu), cool crowd and wonderful views.
Address: Palazzo Donizetti Hotel, Asmalımescit Caddesi No. 55, Kat 7,
Beyoğlu
Phone: 0212 2440188

WINE TASTING
Sensus Şarap & Peynir is a wine, cheese and olive oil shop in a basement
under the Anemon Hotel near the Galata Tower. They claim to have 300
Turkish wines available for tasting, along with interesting snacks to line
the stomach.
Address: Bereketzade Mah. Büyükhendek Cad. No. 5, Galata
Phone: 0212 245 5657

FOR DINNER
Mikla is the best known 'New Anatolian’ fine diner in the city, created by
Mehmet Gürs on top of the Marmara Pera Hotel. Go just before sunset
and have panoramic pre-dinner drinks on the rooftop.
Address: The Marmara Pera Hotel, Meşrutiyet [Link]ş Beyoğlu
Phone: 0212 293 5656
Website: [Link]

Yeni Lokanta translates as ‘new bistro’, but its chef, Civan Er, ran the
famous Changa restaurant before switching to a more relaxed style.
Address: İstiklal Caddesi Kumbaracı Yokuşu No. 66, Beyoğlu
Phone: 0212 292 25 50
Website: [Link]

Asitane is the best and most authentic of the Ottoman revival

restaurants, located next door to Kariye museum.
Address: Derviş Ali Mh., Kariye Cami Sk No:6, 34240 Edirnekapı.
Phone: 0212 534 8414
Website: [Link]

neolokal is the creation of Maksut Aşkar, who is brave enough to display

his team in an open kitchen, creating light adventurous dishes with a
focus on regionality and sustainability.
Address: SALT Galata Bankalar Cad. No. 11, Karaköy
Phone: 0212 249 8930
Website: [Link]

STREET FOOD
The eating never stops in Istanbul. There are street sellers with queues
around the block at 4 o’clock in the morning. But the best of late dining is
in places called işkembeci—offal eateries that sell everything from tripe
soup to whole roasted sheep’s head.
There are iskembeci in every neighbourhood, generally open from dusk
till dawn. The best is Apik in the suburb called Dolapdere. This is not a
tourist destination, so you should go there in a cab, have your soup, and
get out of there in a cab.
My favourite street-hawker dish is kokoreç, a kind of sausage made
with sheep intestines spiced with chilli flakes, oregano and cumin..
Other stalls sell midye dolma—fresh mussels in their shells, stuffed with
aromatic rice.
And then of course there’s simit, sourdough pretzels dipped in
molasses and sesame, which cure the munchies at any time of the day.
And these are the top three foodie things to do that don’t involve
eating.
The Spice Market is overwhelmingly touristy with hagglers and pushy
storekeepers, but an oasis can be found at Area 51—Bilge Kadıoğlu’s
Ucuzcular shop. Bilge is the only female shop owner and speaks perfect
English. She does not have higher prices for tourists and the quality of her
spices is exceptional.
The Topkapı Palace kitchens keep closing for renovations, but they are
supposed to be opened in 2015.
Kadıköy Market is not your average shopping mall. It’s crammed with
specialist shops selling nuts, pickles, offal, oils and pastries.

WHERE TO STAY
Expensive: If you’re rich and have an interest in twentieth-century
history, try the Pera Palace in Beyoğlu, where the travellers on the Orient
Express, including Agatha Christie, stayed in the 1920s.
[Link]/en/hotels-resorts/istanbul/pera-palace-hotel-
jumeirah.

Also at a high price, you might prefer a former prison, the Four Seasons
in Sultanahmet ([Link]/istanbul), or a former Ottoman
palace, Ciragan Palas, on the Bosphorus
Website: [Link]/en/istanbul/ ciragan-palace/welcome

Medium price (and stylish design): There are four House Hotels, in
Bosphorus, Galatasaray, Nisantasi and Karakoy.
Website: [Link]

IN GAZIANTEP
Metanet, near the central market, is a lokanta where you can eat fiery
lamb soup (beyran) for breakfast, and where they also do an excellent
lahmacun (thin-crust pizza) closer to lunchtime.
Address: Kozluca Mahallesi, Kozluca Cad. No: 11
Phone: 0342 231 4666

Yörem, under a suburban apartment block a short cab ride from the old
town centre, is where Hatice Kalan serves a variety of home-style dishes,
including the legendary storyteller soup (yuvalama).
Address: İncilipınar Mah. 3. Cad. 15. Sk. Ali Bey Apt. No.2/C
Phone: 0 342 230 5000.

Zekeriya Usta is where Mehmet Ozsimitci makes crisp katmer pancakes

stuffed with pistachios and clotted cream. He closes at midday. It’s in an
arcade in the new part of Gaziantep, so you’ll need to get a cab and show
these details.
Address: Katmerci Zekeriya Usta. Çukur Mahallesi, Körükçü Sk, B. Hilmi
Geçidi 16/C-D, Gaziantep
Phone: 0342 230 0971
Ali Haydar makes liver kebaps for breakfast. He opens at 6 am, closing
before 8 am just on the outskirts of the castle.
Address: Yaprak Mh. Dere Kenarı Sk, Tabakane Mevkii

İmam Çağdaş does great kebaps and perfect baklava near Gaziantep’s
central market.
Address: Uzun Çarşı 49, Sahinbey
Phone: 0342 231 2678

IN BODRUM
Orfoz, just off the main beach, is where the Bozçağa brothers play
endless variations on local seafood in convenient meze portions.
Address: Kumbahçe Mah. Cumhuriyet Cad. No.177B
Phone: 0252 316 4285
Website: [Link]
No longer grinding flour for pide, these eighteenth century windmills are scattered over the hills
behind Bodrum, on the Aegean coast.
Istanbul’s Hagia Sophia and surrounding mosques at dusk.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I want to offer my thanks to ...

David Dale, for taking a chance on me and on Turkish cuisine. And to

Susan Williams and Millie Dale, for allowing me to borrow David for
weeks at a time.
Janni Kyritsis, the Greek chef who introduced the Turkish chef to the
Italophile author.
My wonderful wife Ash and children Deniz and Derin, for being the
reason I do this.
My mother Ülkü, who taught me to fly and my father Güngör who
taught me to land. My two sisters, Begüm and Çiğdem, living so far away
yet so close to my heart.
Ace photographer Bree Hutchins for endangering her life and her
digestive system countless times to get the best possible shots.
The team at Murdoch Books: editing whiz Emma Hutchinson;
designers Hugh Ford and Sarah Odgers; stylist Michelle Noerianto;
Publisher Diana Hill. And, of course, Sue Hines who had the vision to get
this show on the road.
The loyal team at Efendy: my brother-in-crime Fatih Külle and our
head chef Bektaş Özcan; go-to guy Utku Görmez; my kitchen assistants
during the shoot Burak Yildirim and Owen Wang and all past and current
staff contributing to the success of Efendy.
Musa and Zeynep Dağdeviren, who run three Çiya restaurants in
Istanbul and produce the magazine Yemek Ve Kültür (Food and Culture).
Their website is [Link]
Greg Malouf, mentor and friend, who paved the way for my
generation of chefs to professionalise Middle Eastern, Turkish and Greek
cuisines in Australia.
For sharing their scholarship with us: Filiz Hösükoğlu (in Gaziantep);
Aylin Öney Tan (Istanbul); Nilhan Aras (Istanbul); Tuba Şatana of
[Link].
For inspiring us with their specialties: Akife Malkoç (Istanbul); Melek Boz
 For inspiring us with their specialties: Akife Malkoç (Istanbul); Melek Boz
(Bodrum); İvgen Özön (Bodrum); Bercuk Anne (Sydney); Meral Ballı
(Istanbul); Fouad Kassab (Sydney); Ayşe Sencer (Istanbul); Arman Uz
(Kiama); Ömer Mutlugun (Malatya).
For opening their kitchens to us: Batur Durmay of Asitane; Ezgi Güven
of Ayna of Cunda Island, Ayvalik; Mehmet Gürs of Mikla, Istanbul; Şemsa
Denizsel of Kantin; Maksut Aşkar of neolokal; Civan Er of Yeni; Pando
Şestakof of Pando’s, Istanbul; Ali Haydar, the liver master of Gaziantep;
Mehmet Özsimitci, the katmer master of Gaziantep; Mustafa Hasırcı, the
beyran master of Metanet; Hatice Kalan of Yörem; Çağlar and Çağrı
Bozçağa of Orfoz; the ladies of Sacide, Bodrum; the Bingöl family of
Miam, Bodrum; Kanat Kıral of Bodrum Lokum.
For showing us their work: Mehmet Tembel (in Oğuzeli); Aydin Kilitoğlu
of Asri Bakery, Gaziantep; Telat, Burhan and Telat Jr Çağdaş of Imam
Çağdaş, Gaziantep; Enis Güner of Sevilen wines.
For their hospitality: Timur Schindel of Anatolian Houses, Gaziantep;
Lucio Galletto of Lucio's; Armando Percuoco of Buon Ricordo and Nour
Atalla of Darling Diner.
These books informed and entertained us:
500 Years of Ottoman Cuisine, by Marianna Yerasimos (Boyut)
The Sultan's Istanbul on Five Kurush A Day, by Charles Fitzroy (Thames
& Hudson)
World Food Turkey, Dani Valent (Lonely Planet)
Western Anatolia Wine Culture, by A. Nedim Atilla(Bilgi)
Osmanli Mutfağı, by Tuğrul Şavkay (Şekerbank)
Kaz dağları'ndan bir lezzet öyküsü, by Erhan Şeker (AMK)
Osmanlı Mutfak Sözlügü, by Priscilla Mary Işin (Kitap)
Tatlı-pasta Öğretimi, by Ekrem Muhittin Yeğen (Inkilap)

And above all, to the many peoples of many ethnicities, faiths and
philosophies who enriched the food culture of Anatolia.
INDEX
A
Afyan
almonds
almond-stuffed apricots
in Anatolia

cookies
and grape soup
truffles
Anatolia, history of
apple and cinnamon tea
apricots
almond-stuffed
kebap
and walnut dolmas
Armenian chickpea domes
artichokes with broad beans
Asitane
Asri Bakery
aşure (Noah’s Ark pudding)
Atatürk, Mustafa Kemal
Aubergines see eggplants

ayran
minted yoğurt shake

B
baharat (spicing)
baking (firin)
baklava
 Black Sea rolled
filo pastry for
hazelnut and milk
pistachio
rice-paper
barberries
basil lemonade
bazlama
beans (pulses)
in Anatolia
artichokes with broad beans
baked with spice-cured beef
broad bean pâté
fava purée
Noah’s Ark pudding (aşure)
soaking
white bean and tahini salad
beef and veal dishes
beef cheeks with eggplant purée
and bread stew
beef goulash
cured meat see pastirma
dumplings see mantı
eggplant stuffed with beef
lamb and beefball soup
meatballs see köfte
pastry with see böreks
veal cutlets with cauliflower purée
veal kebap
veal liver
bici bici
biscuits see cookies
Black Sea cornbread with leeks and whitebait
Black Sea fondue
Black Sea rolled baklava
Bodrum eating places
böreks
beef and chilli
cigars with feta and parsley
feta and kale
half moon with beef and chilli
Kurdish-style with hazelnuts
lamb and peas
pastırma
rolled with spinach and feta
yufka pastry for
boza ‘beer’ with toasted chickpeas
breads
bazlama
Black Sea cornbread with leeks and whitebait
bread and beef stew
ekmek
pide see pide breads
poğaça
simit
breakfast, regional variations in
bream, vodka and mustard-cured
brioche, Balkan-style, stuffed with potato and chilli
buffalo mozzarella
bulgur
in Anatolia
mint and cucumber salad
pilav
shells

C
calamari
calcium hydroxide (pickling lime)
capsicum (bullhorn peppers)
capsicum salça
capsicum sauce
carob molasses
carrot and beetroot juice
carrot and coconut balls
carrot and saffron dip
cashew and chicken stuffing
casserole, prawn and haloumi
cauliflower purée
caviar
celeriac milk
celeriac with quince and orange
Cerciş Murat Konaği
cheeses see also feta
in Anatolia
buffalo mozzarella
four cheeses with pide bread
goat’s cheese and zucchini salad
haloumi and prawn casserole
cherries
cherry stuffed vine leaves
mahlep
with poached quinces
chestnuts, leeks stuffed with chicken and
chicken dishes
chicken and yoğurt soup
chicken kebap with prune orzo
Circassian chicken
leeks stuffed with chicken and chestnuts
melon stuffed with chicken and cashews
rice, veiled
yoğurt soup with chicken
chickpeas
 in Anatolia
Armenian domes
and dumpling stew
humus
Noah’s Ark pudding (aşure)
chill and capsicum butter
chill and capsicum salsa
chilles in Anatolia
chocolate custard
chocolate dates
Circassian chicken
clay pot cooking
clotted cream
cocktails
cookies see also desserts
almond
fork biscuits
Kavala
Ottoman donuts
semolina domes
cooking equipment
cooking glossary
cooking techniques
cornbread, Black Sea, with leeks and whitebait
courgettes see zucchini
cream, clotted
cream and soy sauce
Cretan eggs with wild weeds
currants
custard, chocolate

D
dates
chocolate
 date molasses glaze
desserts see also cookies
almond truffles
baklava see baklava
buffalo mozzarella and pistachio pastry
burnt milk and mastic pudding
carrot and coconut balls
chickpea domes
chocolate dates
figs, sleeping
Noah’s Ark pudding (aşure)
palace pudding
pancakes see pancakes
pumpkin with tahini
quinces poached with sour cherries
rice pudding, saffron layered
semolina helva with raspberry iced yoğurt
strawberry and rose snow cone
zuppa turca with chocolate custard
dip, saffron and carrot
dolma (stuffed)
almond-stuffed apricots
apricot and walnut
eggplant stuffed dried
garfish in vine leaves
lamb ribcage roasted
sour cherry-stuffed
spice mix
stuffing technique
walnut-stuffed figs
dondurma
döner kebap
donuts, Ottoman
drinks
 apple and cinnamon tea
basil lemonade
boza ‘beer’ with toasted chickpeas
çay
cocktails
herbal teas
minted yoğurt shake
pickled carrot and beetroot juice
wild thyme tea
drying (kurutma)
duck and silverbeet parcels
duck and sour cherry gözleme
dumplings see mantı

E
Efendy (Balmain)
eggplant
in Anatolia
charred salad
purée
smoked eggplant kepab with lamb
stuffed dried
stuffed with beef
stuffed with peppers and tomatoes
eggs
Cretan, with wild weeds
poached
scrambled
spicy sausage with
ekmek
ezme

F
feta
feta
in Anatolia
and kale börek
nettle and feta fritter
watermelon and feta salad
figs
in Anatolia
and hazelnut salad
sleeping
walnut-stuffed
filo
firin (baking)
fondue, Black Sea
fork biscuits
freekeh in Anatolia
freekeh stuffing
fritter, nettle and feta
fruits see also apricots; cherries; dates; figs; pmegranate
melon stuffed with chicken and cashews
orange and wild thyme salad
quinces, poached, with sour cherries
watermelon and feta salad

G
garfish in vine leaves
garlic in Anatolia
garlic sauce
garlic shoots
Gaziantep eating places
Gaziantep pistachio nuts
ghee
goat and dates in baked yoğurt
goulash, beef
gözleme
gözleme, duck and sour cherry
grains
bulgur see bulgur
freekeh in Anatolia
freekeh stuffing
lamb and barley porridge
purslaine and ancient grains stew
rice see rice dishes
grape and almond soup
grape leather stuffed with walnuts
green bean pickles
green olive and walnut salad

H
halva see helva
hamsi
havyar
hazelnuts
in Anatolia
and fig salad
Kurdish-style börek with
and milk baklava
helva
in Anatolia
semolina, with raspberry iced yoğurt
herbs in Anatolia
humus

I
incini
islak
Istanbul
 eating places
lokantas
spice market
Izmir

J
jams
juice see drinks

K
kadayif pastry
kahve see Turkish coffee
kangaroo pastırma
Kantin
katmer
pistachio pancakes with clotted cream
Kavala cookies
kaymak
clotted cream with rose jam
Kayseri
kebap (grilling)
chicken with prune orzo
lamb and smoked eggplant
lamb with barbecued salad
liver
loquat
sole skewered with braised fennel
veal
keşkek
köfte (kneading)
lamb and beefball soup
red lentil
soggy burger
 spice mix
technique 36
veal with rice and eggs
veal with white bean and tahini salad
venison tartare
kurutma (drying)

L
labne (minted yoğurt balls)
lamb
in Anatolia
and barley porridge
and beef dumplings
and beefball soup
kebap and smoked eggplant
kebap with barbecued salad
liver kebaps
pastry with see böreks
ram’s eggs
ribcage roasted
and rice soup
sheep’s head soup
shoulder pie
spicy lamb topping
leblebi
leeks in Anatolia
leeks stuffed with chicken and chestnuts
lemonade, basil
lentils
red lentil and bulgur soup
red lentil meatballs
lime, pickling
lime marinade
liver, veal
liver kebap
lokanta
lokum
Turkish delight
loquat kebap

M
mackerel with barberries
mahlep
mantı (dumplings)
beef
and chickpea stew
lamb and beef
oxtail with yoğurt broth
maraş.
meatballs see köfte
melon stuffed with chicken and cashews
meyhane
meze
midnight express
Mikla
milk and mastic pudding
mint in Anatolia
mint yoğurt
mozzarella, buffalo
muhallebici
Muhammara sauce
mullet, red, pan-fried with okra
mullet roe
mussels stuffed
mussels with tarama
mustard dressing

N
N
narito
nettle and feta fritter
Noah’s Ark pudding (aşure)
nuts see almonds; hazelnuts; pistachio; walnuts

O
octopus grilled
offal
kokoreç
lamb liver stuffing
liver kebap
ram’s eggs
sheep’s head soup
veal liver
okra
olive and walnut salad
onions in Anatolia
orange and wild thyme salad
Orfoz
Ottoman donuts

P
palace pudding
pancakes
gözleme, duck and sour cherry
pistachio with clotted cream
Pando
paprika butter
parsley in Anatolia
parsley salad
pasta
egg with walnut and bottarga
orzo pilav
prawns, crunchy
pastane
pastırma
in Anatolia
böreks
eggs with
kangaroo
salmon and baby zucchini
white beans baked with
pastry see also baklava; böreks

in Anatolia
filo
gyoza
kadayif
for lamb shoulder pie
pistachio
rice-paper
for veiled rice
water
yufka
pâté, broad bean
pepper salça
peppercorns in Anatolia
peppers, bullhorn
pickles, fried green bean
pickling lime
pickling technique
pide breads
in Anatolia
baking
 finger pide
with four cheeses
with spicy lamb topping
pie, lamb shoulder
pistachio
in Anatolia
baklava
pistachio pastry and buffalo mozzarella
poğaça
pomegranate
deseeding
dressing
glaze
humus with spicy sausage
molasses
porridge, lamb and barley
prawn and haloumi casserole
prawns, crunchy
puddings see desserts
pulses see beans (pulses); chickpeas; lentils
pumpkin with tahini
purslaine and ancient grains stew

Q
quails, freekeh stuffed
quinces, poached, with sour cherries

R
Ramadan rice-paper baklava
restoran
rice dishes
in Anatolia
rice pilav
 rice pudding saffron layered
rice veiled
standard fillings with
rocket salad
rose jam
rose petals, candied
rose syrup

S
saffron and carrot dip
saffron layered rice pudding
salads
bulgur, mint and cucumber
celeriac with quince and orange
eggplant charred
fig and hazelnut
green olive and walnut
lamb kebaps
parsley
red onion and sumac
rocket
sumac
tomato, walnut and sumac
watermelon and feta
white bean and tahini
wild thyme and blood orange
zucchini and goat’s cheese
saiça
chilli and capsicum
paste-making process
pepper saiça
salep
salmon pastırma and baby zucchini
salsa see salça
sardine birds
sarma (rolled, rolling technique)
sausage see sucuk
scallops with kangaroo pastırma
scorpionfish soup
seafood dishes
in Anatolia
bottarga with pasta and walnut
bream, vodka and mustard-cured
calamari
garfish in vine leaves
mackerel with barberries
mullet, red, pan-fried with okra
mussels stuffed
mussels with tarama
octopus grilled
prawn and haloumi casserole
prawns, crunchy
salmon pastırma and baby zucchini
sardine birds
scallops with kangaroo pastırma
scorpionfish soup
snapper whole in celeriac milk
sole skewered with braised fennel
squid with green chillies
whitebait and Black Sea cornbread with leeks
whiting sandwich with tarator
Selim Usta
semolina domes
semolina halva with raspberry iced yoğurt
semolina helva with raspberry iced yoğurt
sesame rings
shakes see drinks
sherbet
silverbeet parcels
simit
sesame rings
snapper whole in celeriac milk
snow cone, strawberry and rose
sole skewered with braised fennel
soups
chicken and yoğurt
cold almond and grape
çorba
lamb and beefball
lamb and rice
red lentil and bulgur
scorpionfish
sheep’s head
yoğurt with chicken
soy and cream sauce
spice rub
spicing (baharat)
spring onions
squid with green chillies
stews
bread and beef
dumplings and chickpeas
purslaine and ancient grains
stewing (tencere) technique
strawberry and rose snow cone
sucuk (spicy sausage)
in Anatolia
with eggs
sumac salad
sweets see desserts

T
tahini, pumpkin with
tarama sauce
tarator

teas see drinks

tencere (stewing) see stews

terbiye

tomato, walnut and sumac salad

tomato paste
tomato sauce
topik
Turkey
history of
Turkish alphabet and pronunciation
turkey pudding
Turkish coffee (kahve)
Turkish delight

V
Van breakfast
veal dishes see beef and veal dishes
vegetable casserole
vegetarian dishes see also salads
 chickpea domes
eggplant stuffed with peppers and tomatoes
purslaine and ancient grains stew
sour cherry-stuffed vine leaves
vegetable casserole
water pastry with feta and kale
zucchini flowers, stuffed
venison tartare
vine leaves, sour cherry-stuffed
vodka and mustard-cured bream

W
walnuts
paste
sauce
walnut-stuffed figs
watermelon and feta salad
wheat, roasted
whiting sandwich with tarator

Y
yoğurt
broth
goat and dates in
iced raspberry
labne (minted balls)
making
mint
minted shake
sauce
soup with chicken
 and tahini topping
Yörük people
yufka pastry

Z
zucchini
in Anatolia
and dill topping
flowers, stuffed
and goat’s cheese salad
patties
zuppa turca with chocolate custard
Published in 2015 by Murdoch Books, an imprint of Allen & Unwin

Murdoch Books Australia

83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Phone: + 61 (0)2 8425 0100
Fax: +61 (0)2 9906 2218
[Link]
info@[Link]

Murdoch Books UK
Erico House, 6th Floor
93-99 Upper Richmond Road
Putney, London SW15 2TG
Phone: +44 (0)20 8785 5995
[Link]
info@[Link]

For Corporate Orders & Custom Publishing contact Noel Hammond,

National Business Development Manager, Murdoch Books Australia

Publisher: Diana Hill

Design Manager: Hugh Ford
Designer: Sarah Odgers
Photographer: Bree Hutchins
Stylist: Michelle Noerianto
Editor: Emma Hutchinson
Production Manager: Mary Bjelobrk

Text © Somer Sivrioğlu and David Dale 2015

Design © Murdoch Books 2015
Photography © Bree Hutchins 2015

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Every reasonable effort has been made to trace the owners of copyright
materials in this book, but in some instances this has proven impossible.
The author(s) and publisher will be glad to receive information leading to
more complete acknowledgements in subsequent printings of the book
and in the meantime extend their apologies for any omissions.
and in the meantime extend their apologies for any omissions.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored

in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without
the prior written permission of the publisher.

A cataloguing-in-publication entry is available from the catalogue of the

National Library of Australia at [Link].

ISBN: 9781925266016 (ebook)

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Colour reproduction by Splitting Image Colour Studio Pty Ltd, Clayton,

Victoria