Carpetblogger

Kebabingo

We would never dream of stepping on the toes of the increasingly awesome Istanbul Eats but until they develop a franchise called Gaziantep Eats or Urfa Eats, we feel  confident that we can weigh in on dining options in these Eastern paradises without stealing their thunder. We're also not likely to be as nice as they are.

There's an increasingly common meme around Istanbul that is most easily summarized as "Gaziantep has awesome food." We take mild issue with this assessment. It is true that this provincial city of 2 million about 100 kms from the Syrian border has surprisingly tasty food, given where it's located (the baklava is, without question, awesome). And compared to, say, the food in Urfa, it is pretty good (but truthfully, most things compare favorably if Urfa sets the baseline).

 Gaziantep cuisine is heavily meat-based and by meat we mean "sheep." You can make a kebab better by adding cracked wheat and sprinkling pistachios on it, but it still won't be good. It will always be poor quality meat cut without any apparent skill and cooked within an inch of its life. If you go to Gaziantep, you will eat a lot of kebab and some of it will be better than kebab you have had elsewhere. The rest of it will taste and look exactly the same. We didn't come across any particularly interesting vegetable dishes or anything we hadn't already tried in Istanbul. Lahmacun (a Turkish pizza), the other specialty of Gaziantep, is pretty much the same no matter where you go. Given the buzz, we expected something more, something different.

What Gaziantep does have is an aggressive civic boosterism project that's promoting the "Gaziantep has awesome food" meme. We admire the ballsiness of this effort, even if we disagree a bit with the premise. In fact, there's a Gaziantep Cuisine Museum which is located in a traditional stone house and is well worth a visit if you happen to be in town. There is also reputedly a woman who is promoting Gaziantep cuisine but unfortunately we were unable to track her or her restaurant down.

If you are looking for a decent meal and you have all of Eastern Anatolia at your  disposal, go to Mardin. Mardin perches on a rocky hillside, overlooking the vast Syrian plain. It's got an interesting mix of Turks, Kurds (oops sorry, Mountain Turks), Syriac Christians and Arabs. This, in our estimation, is more promising recipe for a surprising meal than a handful of extra pistachios. Accordingly, it has a gem of a restaurant, Cercis Murat.

 We had tried Cercis Murat's branch in the wealthy Asian Istanbul suburb of Bostancı a few months back. It was memorable mostly because we took a boat to get there and it seemed like we traveled practically to Beijing for dinner, but also because they stuck a bunch of stuff we didn't order on the bill (seriously, how many yabancı women order beet juice with dinner? Did they think we wouldn't notice?). The very fact we've considered going back is a testament to the quality of the food. Surprisingly, when Carpetblog's Paris Correspondent wrote about it here, she didn't mention we were with her.

Mardinese (we made that word up ourselves so please credit accordingly) food seems to be influenced as much by Arabs as by Turks but the whole is better than the sum of the parts. The mezze at Cercis Murat reminds us a great deal of those at Çiya, which is an Istanbul favorite. Made with pomegranates, dried tomatoes, walnuts, capers and whole green lentils and served in copper ayran spoons, they are genuinely different from typical Turkish food. For that, we bestow praise. If you're still hungry after the mezze sampler plate, order Dobo (lamb shoulder stuffed with garlic on rice), but temper your expectations, especially if you've ever had plov.

Van in Northeastern Turkey gets a lot of praise for its breakfasts (even here!) and there are Van Kahvaltı Sofrasılar all over town. Why has no one ever mentioned the awesomeness of Diyarbakır kahvaltı? Is it because people, rightfully, hesitate to use the word "awesome" and "Diyarbakır" in the same sentence? Well, in the old Han across from the Ulu Camii in D'bak there are half a dozen breakfast places and they rock. We had fresh yogurt with fruit and fruit syrup, bal kaymak (honey with clotted creme) with pistachio, fresh butter with walnuts and honey, a delicious tomato and eggplant ezme (sort of like a salsa) and white cheese that was genuinely complex and tasty. That, and the carpet shop across the street, make D'bak famous for more than just Kurdish separatism and 40% unemployment in our book.

Oh, did we forget to mention Urfa? Seriously, there is nothing more boring than an Urfa kebab, no matter what anyone from the Urfa booster club tells you. It's simply a blander, greasier version of an Adana kebab.

*Kebabingo is what you say when you have already eaten every single kebab offered on the standard Lokanta menu in Eastern Turkey.

Carpetblog Recommends: Istanbul Eats

This city is woefully lacking in useful online entertainment and restaurant information in English that's targeted at people who live here rather than visit. Props to Yigal Schleifer (of the excellent Istanbul Calling) and Ansel Mullins (who hosts our favorite Turkish radio show on Açik Radyo called Soul Sendikası) for starting a new restaurant blog Istanbul Eats.

It's got reviews of off-beat places like one of our favorite bean restaurants, Fasuli, and odes to Kaymak, the best condiment ever. Better yet, it seems to avoid the obvious places deemed "hot" by the travel press a year after they start to suck.

We've often considered writing more restaurant reviews but we think sometimes you need to be nicer to be in that line of work. Go show Yigal and Ansel some hit love!

The Fruits of Our Labor

We've mentioned the lamentable booze situation in Turkey once or twice. Turkish beer is filled with poisonous preservatives, Turkish wine is overpriced swill and imported liquor is taxed 100%. Therefore, hosts who typically allot two bottles of wine per guest for Sunday Dinner must constantly plot ways to keep the Booze Dolabı (a hilarious play on the Turkish for refrigerator, which is buzdolabı, lit. ice cabinet) stocked.

We've also more than once mentioned the dreadful pork situation. Though we never really ate pork before moving to Baku and Kyiv,  now we can't get enough.  Pork, along with wine/liquor, are the number one and two requests from those traveling to Istanbul. Though our contemporaries are almost always coming and going, logistical challenges still exist. Pork, it turns out, is perishable. Wine is heavy and frequently breaks. Each passenger can only buy four bottles of wine or two bottles of liquor on arrival at Istanbul Duty Free. Asinine restrictions on liquid carry-ons challenge duty free buyers coming from America, and, absurdly, Georgia.

We've tried several different approaches to solving these problems. Trips to Bulgaria? Not advisable. Attempting to use two different passports at Istanbul duty free? Denied. Insisting that all visitors fill their duty free quota both at their European layover airport and upon arrival in Istanbul? Red State Sibling was initially shocked at the audacity of this request, but, having spent a week here, concluded it was completely reasonable.

So, we plan stopovers in airports with quality duty free and schedule trips to places that have desirable wine or spirits with which we can fill an extra suitcase. We've even created a trade consortium called the International Liquor Transport Team, or ILIQTT, the purpose of which is to coordinate trips abroad with shortages ("Hey, I'm running low on scotch" or "I wanna have a margarita party. Grab some tequila!")

We hate to brag, but we achieved a personal best in the wine and pork department on our recent trip to South Africa. Between Johannesburg's first world, non-Muslim supermarkets and the airport's spectacular duty free wine department, we packed up 11 bottles of wine, three bottles of liquor, three kilos of pork products and some hard cheeses. We dreamed of bacon and boerewors for breakfast. Malaasef, it was not to be.

Memo to Turkish Airlines: Is it really so complicated to put someone's bag full of wine and pork products on a non-stop flight? Isn't that sort of a core competency? And should it be overlooked (these things happen!), could, perhaps, the recovery process be speeded up to less than SIX DAYS?

The thought occurred to us that ILIQTT had finally been busted for international trafficking of the forbidden meat, but it turns out the bag was just lost. Props to The Turkish Life for accepting delivery of the greasy, smelly, wine-stained mess while we were in Lebanon!

The Producer and I also did well in Lebanon, boozewise. Not only is the Bekaa Valley home to Hezbollah, it also hosts some pleasant wineries that offer decent, cheap reds. On the recommendation of one his Saudi clients, our driver took us to Kefraya (and, really, who wouldn't take advice from a Saudi on wine?). We also enjoyed Ksara, where we loaded up on lots of cheap and cheerful varietals that we hope will last us through Christmas.

For ILIQTT, the occasional greasy, stinky suitcase and broken bottle are the cost of doing business . If we devoted as much mental energy to more profitable activities, such as "work" as we do to importing liquor and pork, we might become wealthy enough to establish our own vineyard in a non-Muslim country.

The Carpetblog Effect

Did this highly influential blog force a change in marketing strategy at our beloved World of Urine/Wine in Tbilisi? 

On the left, August 2006. On the right, February 2008.

Soviet History in a Bottle

Knowing my taste for Georgian wine, my Georgian friend told me to watch out for a delivery he had sent over to my hotel. "Make sure they give it to you," he warned.

Having already purchased six bottles at my beloved World of Wine/Urine. I worried that I had already reached maximum capacity (Carpetblogger Travel Hint #1: half empty suitcases are convenient for transporting wine and carpets). If it didn't all fit, I figured I could always go local and drink a bottle before leaving for the airport at 3 am. Or on the plane.

A wine gift bag arrived and as I pulled the heavy, dark bottle out, dirty flakes of old label fell onto the bed. Capped with what looks like a heavy glob of dark chocolate, the bottle seems to have spent time in the ground or a dusty cave. A wood tag tied around the neck indicated the contents were vintage 1961 and "Rkatsiteli." The bottle leans slightly to the right.

From the Cradle of Wine, a blog devoted to Georgian wines, says this was one of the most popular varietals in the Soviet Union.

Rkaksiteli (pronounced "rkah-tsee-tely"; Georgian რქაწითელი; literally "red stem") is a variety of grapes grown along the Black Sea coast of Georgia, used to make dry white table wines of the Kakhetian style...

Rkaksiteli grapes are often blended with other grapes: with Khikhvi and Mtsvane to produce Rkatsiteli Khornabujuli wine; with Mtsvane to make the aged white wine Tibaani; with Chinuri and Chkhaveri for sparkling wine; with Saperavi and Cabernet Sauvignon for a semi-dry rose wine; or with Khikvi and Mtsvane for the fortified white port Kardenakhi. Rkatsiteli is one of the oldest varieties of grapes in the world; clay vessels have been found in Georgia with Rkatsiteli seeds dating from 3000 BC.

We can all agree that this is a pretty awesome gift.  I do think there are some pros and cons to consuming a bottle of 47 year old wine made during Soviet times, however. Not that I doubt the skills of the mid-century Soviet winemakers in Georgia, but there's a reason why you don't see a lot of 1961 Volgas or Zhigulis on the streets any more. Other, more tangible considerations than "quality" and "longevity" frequently guided production decisions in those days.

But I think the best reason not to drink this is that it is history in a bottle. The early 1960s were the era of the Khrushchev thaw, when it began to become more OK to say that Stalin had made a few mistakes. The Berlin Wall went up. Khrushchev gave millions of landless peasants the right to migrate to the cities and built millions of gray, poorly made five-story apartment blocks ("Krushchyovkas") to house them, shaping the psychological landscape of Soviet cities for decades. In Georgia, dissident and first democratically-elected President Zviad Gamsakhurdia began resisting Soviet efforts to Russify Georgians. There was a lot going on when the wine was bottled.

Where did this wine sit out the stagnation of Brezhnev's 70's? Why wasn't it drunk by a Georgian looking over the precipice of the '80s? How did it survive the chaos, civil war and hardship of Georgia's first years of independence?

I think it has too many stories to drink.

Instead, it will sit on the shelf, next to the "Za Karabagh!" ("To Karabagh!) Jubilee vodka I bought in Baku (on the left) and the limited edition Turkmenbashi vodka from Ashgabat (in the green cylinder).

Azeri Oil Vs Wine: I'll Take a Glass of Dry Caspian Crude, Please!

Paul Goble is a fascinating analyst who runs a geek-tastic blog called Window On Eurasia. If you have been wondering, for example, what the 17,000 Muslims in Chelyabinsk have been up to, his blog is a MUST READ.  Lately, his byline says he's writing from Baku -- sorry about that.

Normally, I'm not one to openly challenge experts, but his post the other day on a report (in Russian, alas) by Ismail Agakishiyev, a Moscow State University specialist who believes that the Azeri wine industry is well-positioned to burst on the international scene, provoked me.

Among other things, I consider myself an expert on Azeri wines. The very idea that a Russian analyst believes that Azerbaijan's wines will be drunk by people who have taste buds suggests that the analyst has never actually tried Azeri wine. Alternatively, the guy could be breaking the news gently to Russians that, due to geopolitical awkwardness, they will never get another bottle of Georgian Saparavi, ever.  To me, the "delightfully upbeat" message to Russian wine drinkers in that report is "embrace the suck."

Sure the history of wine production in Azerbaijan is interesting and it's tragic that the Azerbaijanis ripped out all the vines in the 80's during Gorbachev's anti-alcohol campaign (boy, that worked out about as well as that whole "glasnost" thing, didn't it?), but it doesn't change the fact that Armenians still manage to make a decent cognac or two and Georgian wine is the best, uh, in the greater the Black Sea region.

The report also talks mentions that many farmers and peasants were left with no livelihood when the vineyards were destroyed and how efforts to replant may draw people back to to the land. If I was a urban emigre considering a return to to agriculture, I'm not sure I'd sell the Zhiguli to finance my dreams of starting up winery tourism in, say, Masalli.

Finally, this line really killed me.

"After a brief bout of problems with fraudulent production in the 1990s, Baku has reestablished effective quality control and its wines have won 27 prizes at international competitions since 1991."

The 27 prizes at international competitions? Was that at the Wine Special Olympics  in Almaty in 1993?  "After a brief bout of problems with fraudulent production?" Was better wine made and sold under the name Yeddi Gozelli (Seven Beauties) but someone concluded that might damage the brand and put a stop to it?

A word of advice, Paul, if you value your social standing in Baku: never, ever bring a bottle of Karavansary to a dinner party. Recent arrivals who don't know better probably never notice that their hostess smiles politely and puts it in the "it's 3am and the shops are closed" box. Anyone in Baku more than a few weeks who brings a bottle would be subject to merciless mockery and may, ultimately, notice a drop-off in invites. Skunk, garden party and all that.

Since I don't want to sound like I am discouraging Azerbaijan from diversifying its economy, I suggest winemakers take an incremental approach: strive to make better wine than the Turks. I'm sure the Turks have won at least 30 prizes at the Wine Special Olympics, but not as many as the Moldovans.

New Coffee Table Book Idea: Guts

My friend, photographer Chris Herwig, is in town from Liberia to shoot for a coffee table book, so we've been playing around a lot. I took him on my best tour of the Grand Bazaar (also known as "the parts that don't suck").

Then I realized, I can do a coffee table book too! At first, it was just going to be limited to kokoreçi , artists whose media are stuffed lamb intestines, but then I decided that since I have so many photos of tripe, I shouldn't take such a narrow approach.

Here's a sampling. Don't steal this idea, k?

Karaköy kokoreçi

A kilo of sheep trotters costs a little more than an American Peso!

 

Kadıköy Kokoreç Evi

 

Lamb İşkembe does not come cheap!

Közde Kokoreç in Kadıköy

Calf İşkembe. The priciest!

Sigir İşkembe is either buffalo or cow tripe; either way it seems like a good mid-priced alternative

I am sure some İşkembe and Kelle Paça partisans out there will explain at length the pros and cons of each type of  tripe.  Be sure to read the comments for that discussion. You wouldn't want to miss it.

An Article about Istanbul that Doesn't Suck!

In today's NYT travel section, Matt Gross writes about the restaurant scene, and mentions my current favorite Istanbul restaurant, Çiya (pronounced like the pet).  The cold mezzes are absolutely to die for and the special Çiya kebab -- ground meat with melted cheese in a fresh pide -- is one thousand different kinds of awesome. I tried a green mezze there that was so unlike anything I had ever tasted before, I can't even describe its taste. The menu has been different every time I've been. Seriously, there's no excuse not to make the easy ferry trip to Kadiköy to try this place out if you're in Istanbul.

Also, I need to talk about brunch for a moment. It is becoming my favorite day of the week. There are two kinds of brunch. The first is the kind with bacon and pancakes and scrambled eggs and lots of coffee. You can call it American or you can call it English, the goal is the same: repair one's system after a night of drinking.

Right now, our fave place for this is Kahvedan, in Cihangir. It is not perfect. Asking for substitutions like "no eggs, extra bacon" can be risky, but they're getting better all the time. We know the owner and the cook and most of the waiters all of which is important. Kahvedan's minor sins of commission and omission are usually forgiven because it serves real bacon.

The other kind of brunch is Turkish breakfast. As a rule, Turkish breakfast is the best basic breakfast, even if it's served in the cheapest, most touristy hotel in Sultanahmet: fresh crusty bread, white cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, jams and a boiled egg. It's simple, to the point and hard to fuck up. However, its simplicity suggests it's not the kind of meal over which one might linger to discuss the issues of the day with one's contemporaries.

When some actual effort is put into it, Turkish breakfast is actually extremely well-suited to lengthy brunch with your pals. It doesn't get cold. It can sit untouched while you consider your next move or expound at length about Istanbul's Arabic death metal scene. Its components are easily shared. The cons are that it generally doesn't come with filter coffee (Turkish coffee: not the same) and there's very little grease. It's not a hangover cure by any stretch.

New favorite breakfast place: Van Kahvalti Evi. Van is a largely Kurdish city in far eastern Turkey, near the border with Iran, known for its breakfast culture. Van Kahvalti Evi is a very good example of the evolving food scene in Istanbul scene that the NYT article mentions: fresh ingredients typical of and unique to this huge country's ecologically diverse regions. I wonder if it's coincidental that both Van Kahvalti and Çiya specialize in food from the east, where there are a lot of, uh, Mountain Turks?

Van Kahvalti Evi recently opened in my 'hood and we approached its bright yellow exterior and IKEA-lite interior with some trepidation (it needs to be substantially gay'ed up). It's got a slave* lady who makes fresh gözleme (flat pancakes stuffed with cheese or potatoes) on a convex black griddle in the window and a rather limited menu. A window case holds mounds of fresh cheeses and honey.

May I recommend Van's Luks Kahvalti plate? Sure, it's got the usual boiled egg and some cukes, tomatoes and olives, but the real stars are the sides. Have you ever had fresh kaymak? It's a clotted cream and, when mixed with honey, it may be the food of all gods, monotheist and polytheist alike.  Van's is as fresh as the day and the honey has little chunks of comb in it. There's a guy in my neighborhood who sells it from his car from time to time, but it's not the sort of thing you should eat every day. Go find some for yourself.

There's also a thick cacik (yogurt with herbs) with fresh butter, and at least three different kinds of fresh cheeses. My approach to Turkish cheese is pretty much "there's all kinds of cheese here as long as its white," but Van serves on that's sort of like a Georgian sulguni and a famous "grassy cheese," because, well, it's got greenery in it. The most unusual side is murtuğa, a heavy wheat flour porridge that I find appealing in neither taste nor texture, even when it's mixed with fresh honey or eggs. It, too, is a specialty of the region. And they've got the various types of egg dishes (menemen), but I recommend the Luks plate. It'll keep you going all day.

Like Fasuli (a local place that serves Black Sea specialties), you'll never see Van Kahvalti in the New York Times. It's just a low-key neighborhood joint with increasingly long lines on the sidewalk on Sunday mornings.

*I have no idea if this woman is a slave or not. We refer to all the ladies who cook gözleme in restaurant windows as slave ladies. I am sure she is very well-compensated. Regardless, her cheese gözleme are outstanding and she deserves a merit raise on those grounds alone.

Lament of the Crapistan Expat

While I write a review of my new most favoritest restaurant in Istanbul, read about poor Mind The Gap's grilled cheese experience.

Then, when you read about my most favoritest new restaurant, Istanbul will shine even brighter and remind you why you never want to live in the FSU.

Ice Cream that Doesn't Melt

Via The Thinking Blog, comes a lot of detail about the famous Turkish dondurma.

Dondurma is ice cream made with salep (flour made from an orchid tubers) and mastic, which makes it taste like a cold, sugary tire. Personally, I can't stand it, but Turks go nuts over it. Generally, I like hot salep (a warm drink made in winter that cures every ailment) and mastic makes Turkish puddings nice and gummy, but the two together in ice don't work for me.

The vendors on Istiklal do raging business, stretching it and whacking away at it with metal poles and playing tricks on little kids.