Things Turkish People Like

The Turkish Flag and Atatürk. Every country likes their flag and their most revered leader. But, in Turkey, it's easy to spot. The bright red flag flew everywhere. This one, pictured, was stenciled onto a car. Mustafa Kemel's photo hung on walls in establishments. He is the father of Modern Turkey, "Atatürk," and devotion to him is so strong that it is actually illegal to say anything negative about the man.
Branded Wet Naps. For most businesses in Turkey, giving customers wet naps isn't just a service - it's promotional. These branded packages, filled with napkins doused in lemony cleaner, are given before and after a meal. Sometimes, yet again, on the way out. We have quite a collection.
Nuts, Seeds and Chickpeas. Here, at a meyhane, men drank tea and Efes beer and snacked on pumpkin seeds. The click click click of shelling is heard all over the place. Beer is always accompanied by a bowl of nuts, sometimes salted peanuts, sometimes small, soft, tasty Turkish pistachios. My favorite is the "Koktyl" mix of almonds, peanuts, pistachios and dried, crunchy chickpeas.Gravestones with Hats. On the Gelibolu Peninsula, these markers were designed to look like they were wearing helmets. In Istanbul, we stumbled upon an old cemetery with gravestones topped with turbans and fezes fashioned out of the stone.Male Hair Salons. Since women traditionally keep their hair covered it's up to men to keep the art of hair sculpture alive. And boy do they. There's a salon on every block and they do not lack for business. Teenagers go for mohawk-type hairdos with fancy designs shaved into the side. They gel their hair up in the front, down in the back, to one side or another. Older men go for a less ostentatious, neat styling - usually some version of a short cropped bowl cut meticulously blown out.

Simits. These wildly popular snacks are available all over the place. Having taste-tested, we've decided that the one sold by men who balance a stack on their head are the best. The ones sold in stores or cafes are the worst. All are covered in fragrant, roasted sesame seeds - sometimes applied with a delicately sweet egg white wash. They taste a lot like a bagel and it's become popular in Istanbul to eat them sliced with cream cheese.
These Shoe-Shine Stands. There were a lot of shoe-shines and they all used these stands. Really cool.
Bargaining and Touting. I know I've mentioned this in a lot of other posts, but touting and bargaining are a real part of day to day life. What's nice about both practices here is the congeniality with which they're done. It is simply how business runs and you never get the sense that anyone's really trying to rip anyone else off.

Do You Know the Mussel Man?

In Istanbul, food is absolutely everywhere. Pushed up against store-front windows are casserole dishes filled with prepared foods, hazir yemekli, vegetable dishes and sauteed meats. In cooled glass boxes sit skewered meatballs and marinating meat, raw fish set on plates with a lemon slice. Moist rice and chickpeas steam up big, glass boxes, layered like a cake with roast chicken frosting. All of this can become overwhelming and monotonous. Exciting in theory, a cuisine fatigue can set in. But then, all of a sudden, Istanbul street food offers you a surprise. Ours, was the mussel man.
We first spotted him while roving for some balik ekmek on the waterfront. A man in a trench coat stood with what looked like a newspaper covered steel drum. He waited patiently, hands in pocket, right next to this chestnut vendor. A woman walked up and handed him some money and he slid his hand under the newspaper and handed her a mussel. One mussel, which she ate clean, handed back to him and walked away. Was it raw? Cooked? Why only one? I was intrigued and, later, flipped through my photos to see if I could find evidence of his exact position on our walk. The next day, I found the same chestnut vendor but the mussel man was gone.
The fishing market felt like a likely place to find him. Between the fishing tool shops, this man sauteed up some sığır eti. Do you know the mussel man? That smells great, but I'm on a mission. Down by the fish vendors, hamsi tava crackled in big frying trays. Fresh lemon was squeezed on a plate of everything in the sea aside from mussels. No luck there.
For the next few days, my eyes were always peeled for the mussel man. Is that him?!? No, just another chestnut guy. This is how street food works - and, being from New York, I love the chase. In Istanbul, with so many people serving up the same stuff, you have to be discerning - and patient. You search out your fresh orange juice guy, your under-the- bridge sandwich dealer, that perfect simit. At night, when kebab places are lit up in a row and the doner slabs glisten and drip, it feels like a sort of red light district. So much available flesh, but I was looking for that missed connection. That little shiny shell I'd caught just one fleeting glance of.
Do you know the mussel man? No answer. Too busy delivering lunch in true Istanbul style. A meal of soup, rice, meat and salad plated and covered tightly in plastic wrap. A bag is filled with sliced bread, tied and placed on top. You eat just as you would in the restaurant itself and the bus boy comes back later for your dishware. Food, food, everywhere, on carts, on heads, in mounds. But still my mysterious mussel man had yet to be found.
Then, on a street corner in Cihangir, I saw him. Right on the main shopping drag, tucked up beside a grocer, he stood. We approached and asked for two. He pointed to Merlin and then to me, making sure we wanted one each. We nodded. He picked one up, removed its top shell, squeezed some lemon on it and handed it to Merlin - who was a little worried it may be raw. Then, I was given mine in the same fashion.
It was stuffed! We were so delightfully surprised that the man broke into a huge grin, waiting patiently (as he is so very good at) for us to eat our morsel and hand him back the bottom shell. The cooked mussel was surrounded by packed in bulgur, sweet and spicy with a heavy dose of clove. It was absolutely delicious and we wanted another immediately. But he handed us a napkin each and covered the newspaper back over his stock. We went back the next day, but he wasn't there.

Gypsy Kitchens: Mercimek Çorbasi

The first time we had Turkish lentil soup, we didn’t know what it was. It certainly didn’t resemble any kind of lentil soup we were used to. Spicy, smooth and vegetal, this was something familiar that also tasted emphatically like Turkey.

Mercimek çorbasi is served at the beginning of most Turkish meals (it seems), and comes in a variety of different forms. The notable components are red lentils, cumin, red pepper flakes and dried mint. Here’s a recipe that’s really easy, but takes a little while – chicken stock isn’t easy to find in this part of the world, so we did this the old fashioned way.

Much easier to find: spices. At the spice bazaar, one can find all sorts of strange tastes and powders. The air inside – a heady mix of scents – seems to have absorbed some essence of centuries of caravans. It’s actually flavored, it’s so dense and exotic.

Mercimek çorbasi begins with cumin and pepper, the two princes of the bazaar. We added them to the pot first – dry spice in the bottom of a dry pot. Heated for a few minutes, they get fragrant, their richness emerges. Use as much as you feel comfortable with. The amount will depend on how hot your pepper is, of course, and how much spice you like in a soup. We’d say a base amount should be four or five tablespoons. It should be said that these red pepper flakes aren’t chili powder.

After you can really smell the cumin and pepper, add an unhealthy pour of olive oil and some bony scraps of raw chicken (it’s surprising how hard it is to find stock parts in the US, and how easy it is to find them overseas). Cook for a few minutes on high heat, adding a chopped onion, a few cloves of crushed garlic and about two carrots, finely cubed.
When the onion has softened up and the chicken's begun to brown, incorporate about three tablespoons of dried mint, then pour in enough water to semi-fill the pot. As it’s coming to a boil, chop parsley and stem thyme, adding them as you go. Boil the water, reduce to a simmer and then leave it for a few hours or all day. We also put in fresh mint, though this isn’t quite as traditional.

About an hour before you’re ready to eat, remove the boiled chicken bits and check your water level (add more if you don’t have enough). Peel and chop two tomatoes and throw them into the stock along with a squeeze of tomato paste (we’re hesitant to suggest an amount because tomato pastes vary so much – salt levels are especially important, so it’s best to taste the paste yourself and then decide how much to use). Salt to taste.

If you’ve added additional water, bring the stock to a boil again, then add both a cup of lentils and three-quarters of a cup of bulgur for every estimated gallon of liquid you have. Simmer slowly for about forty five minutes, stirring occasionally. When the lentils are really tender, turn the heat off and let the soup sit for a few minutes before serving. Usually, this soup is served blended – but we didn’t have a blender.

This is a delicious soup for cool weather, and is even better with a dollop of thick yogurt mixed with mint. Not surprisingly, most of these ingredients are also part of our last recipe, for imam biyaldi – we can personally attest that the two dishes go well together.

Making mercimek çorbasi with store-bought stock is about the easiest thing you could do. Just don’t add the chicken and cut down the amount of garlic and onion. The whole process should take only about an hour.

One more note – you should only use red lentils for this recipe – and make sure to pick through them for stones and rinse them well before cooking.

Here’s the recipe!

Mercimek çorbasi

Ingredients:

- 4 tablespoons Turkish red pepper flakes, easily replaced by almost any red pepper flakes

- 2 tablespoons cumin (not curry)

- 3 tablespoons dried mint

- 2 tablespoons fresh thyme

- Half-handful fresh parsley, chopped

- About 10 leaves fresh mint, chopped

- 2 carrots, cubed

- 1 onion, chopped

- 4 cloves garlic, crushed

- 2 tomatoes, peeled and chopped

- 1 or 1 ½ pounds bony chicken, raw

- 1 ½ cups red lentils (maybe more, if there’s a lot of stock)

- 1 cup bulgur

- Olive oil

- Tomato paste, salt and water

Method:

- In a soup pot, heat the cumin and pepper until fragrant, then add oil and chicken. Cook for a minute on high heat, then add onion, garlic and carrot. When the chicken has begun to brown and the onions are soft, add dried mint and fill pot with water.

- Bring water to a boil. As it’s heating, stem and chop the other fresh herbs and add them to the pot. When the water boils, reduce to a good simmer. Cook uncovered for anywhere between two and ten hours.

- Remove the chicken and discard. Try to gauge how much stock you will need for the soup and add water accordingly. Add tomato paste and tomato, taste and add salt. Bring to a boil.

- Rinse and pick through the lentils, then add them to the boiling stock. Add bulgur. Reduce to a hard simmer and cook for 45 minutes to 1 hour, stirring occasionally.

- Blend if you want.

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Castle Hunting: Kizkalesi Castles

You know you’ve arrived in Kizkalesi when you spot the floating castle. Sitting some thousand feet offshore, it’s the focal point for this sandy little town in southern Turkey. Walking the beach or sitting in a deserted shorefront bar, the "Maiden" castle is pretty much the best and only thing to look at.

But this isn't the only castle in town. At one end of the beach, more ruined and less photographed, a second fortress lies. Maybe not quite as immediately gripping, Korykos castle was once more impressive. (Admittedly, though, it just doesn’t look as cool.)

The natural harbors that line this part of the coast are made even more attractive by plentiful freshwater springs, which have been an important part of life here forever. Situated at a strategic point in the Eastern Mediterranean, Korykos, as Kizkalesi was called under Greek rule, was once at the naval crossroads between Greece, Cyprus and the Middle Eastern states further south. It changed hands many times, grew and then diminished, and eventually came to be ruled by the Byzantian Emperors for a short time. It was during the Byzantine era that the two castles were constructed – the 12th century rulers were worried about pirates more than anything, and were trying to fortify the port.
The pirate activity continued throughout the middle ages, much of it committed by moorish and cypriot boats. A lot of this Mediterranean piracy was actually focused on land raids, and the population in the area shifted away from the water to the inland fields. Still, the Korykos and Maiden forts were maintained to guard the harbor, and to act as a base for a fleet of Byzantine naval ships that patrolled the regional waters.

Interestingly, many pieces of the old Roman town were incorporated into the stonework, with scrolling and carved letters visible at random in the walls, and even pieces of round columns fitted here and there. We talked about how evocatively Mediterranean white stone is, and how anything built with the stuff seems ancient almost by default.
The land castle (called simply Korykos) is really quite huge, with remains of a large residential complex and chapel protruding from the weeds. Unlike the Maiden castle, the Korykos complex wasn’t repaired after the Ottomans took control in the fifteenth century. Kizkalesi had shrunk to a village by that point, as more people moved inland away from the pirates. It’s thought that the new empire was more concerned with the aesthetic value of the floating fortress and less about its strategic importance.
The walls on shore remain, though, with impressive engineering that allowed for Korykos to be accessed by water while remaining protected. Around the eastern and northern walls, away from the sea, a complicated moat system (it’s dry now) was carved into the rock. Fronting the ocean, the exterior wall was fitted with port doors that could be reached by small craft. Bulwarking this lower wall were low towers designed to engage with enemy ships while remaining below the line of sight for the main keep.

The outer walls, in fact, were built slightly later than the inner walls. They were added both to create a second layer of defense and to cut off the shoreline so that boats couldn’t land directly in front of the battlements.

A land bridge was built to connect the two castles, doubling as a breakwater.

The popular (and probably untrue) story about Maiden castle is that it was built by a king for his daughter. A fortuneteller had prophesied that the girl would be killed by a snakebite, so the king found the one place in his domain where there were no snakes - the small island in Korykos harbor – and built a fortress there. The girl was imprisoned in the castle until the prophesy came true – a small adder was brought to the island accidentally, hidden in a basket of fruit. In the princesses memory, the castle was named “Maiden.”

In reality, there are many towers and forts in the Middle East called “Maiden.” We’ve seen four or five ourselves. The name used to mean that the fortification hadn’t been breached, though often the moniker stuck around after a place had been captured. There’s always a more fanciful story attached, though, that usually has to do with a king and his daughter (a famous example, the legend of Baku’s iconic Maiden Tower, involves the heartbroken maiden throwing herself from the top).

We were offered a ride out to the castle, but it would have been in a paddleboat and the sea was a bit rough for that. In the summer, most visitors swim out, but the February water was a little cold to try. It was disappointing not to be able to poke around, but it was pretty enough that we didn't care.

It’s quite a building, and at sunset it’s gorgeous. It's the offseason, so we had the beach almost to ourselves in the cool evening. With a line of recent, ugly development at our backs, we could look out to sea at a view that's remained unchanged for centuries.

The Caves of Heaven and Hell

Heaven and Hell are more similar than you would think. Formed by the same underground river, they sit side by side, both enormous mountain chasms in the town of Narlikuyu. Heaven is deeper and more easily accessible (doubly ironic). You take a lovely ramble down 450 odd steps into the mouth of the cave. At the bottom, surrounded by red-rocked cliff sits this church - the Chapel of the Virgin Mary. It kind of appears out of nowhere, obscured by the twists of your path and the twisting trees all around. From down in Heaven's mouth, it's hard to imagine anything in the world exists besides the chapel. Looking up at the ancient house of worship, silhouetted against the sky by a blazing sun, made me wonder if the cave itself isn't dubbed "heaven" but, instead, the view from it.
It's an amazing thing to be right at the bottom of a cave, where the water that began forming it thousands and thousands of years ago still seeps out from the earth. You know that it is, drop by drop, still changing the landscape - like the longest ceramics project in history. In some caves, you can hear a drop here or there. Here, it rushed from a few different points in the rock and mud floor. The echo was loud and the air was humid. This is the same water that the locals drink, as it flows out into their cove, giving the warm, salt water a cold fresh water cover. It's also believed to be the River Styx - the boundary between the Underworld and Earth according to Greek mythology.
It was hard not to poke around the 5th century Byzantine church a little longer on our way up. It was brighter and less slippery and there were so many little details to notice. The Chapel of the Virgin Mary is beautifully ruined, a partial skeleton with half of its dome remaining. On it, you can still make out a few frescoed apostles out of the dozen that used to be there.
What's nice about Heaven is that it's just so pleasant to walk around. It was a new definition of "cave" for us. The sun was our flashlight, the clouds swirled like bats and twisted trees were our stalagmites. About 600 ft tall, 270 wide and 210 deep, this is where Zeus is said to have been imprisoned by the 100-headed dragon, Typhon. He's rescued by Hermes and Pan, who must have left his mark on the place. The Chasm of Heaven is a really perfect picnic spot and would be an ideal backdrop for flute-playing nymphs.
Once he was free, Zeus didn't travel too far to punish Typhon. He buried him deep into the ground, in The Chasm of Hell, only a few feet away. When we saw a woman coming back from the site in high heels, we wondered how in the (insert cave's name) she did it. The powers that be wisely keep you away from the massive hole in the earth. It's really only impressive as a companion piece to Heaven, or if you're a mythology buff, but how can you resist taking a peak? Near the viewing platform, two camels for rent stood tied to a rock. Another version of Hell.
If the first two caves take your breath away - or the massive amount of stair do - there's the nearby Asthma Cave! This is a much cave-ier cave, complete with metal staircase, crazy drip-stones and spot lighting. A man sat at a dusty staircase, ripped off two tickets from his pad, took our money and pointed toward a spiral staircase. It kept going and going at such a tight wind it was almost like descending a fireman's pole. The arcade at the bottom was stunningly large. A testament to Turkey - if this place existed in so many other countries, it would be a heralded tourist attraction. And not just for its "asthma healing capabilities" (aka its humidity), but for its beauty.
There were some really amazing formations, ranging from whimsical to sort of demonic. What struck me was the variety and how closely they coexisted. Stalactites that looked like large bundles of fanned out parchment paper hung right above dark pillar-like stalagmites. The bundle in the picture were a common design and reminded me of melted skulls. I'm not very well-versed in speleology, but I love to walk around and make out shapes, like you do with clouds. Well, the asthma cave is a really amazing place for that sort of exploration. Especially because you are able to walk around without a guide.
This, of course, has its downsides. It was difficult to tell where you should and shouldn't walk and I'm sure very delicate structures are touched more than they should be. It's very slippery and could be dangerous and, well, there's the whole "carve your name into a cave" urge. For now, not enough people visit to make a guide necessary. The proprietor at Hotel Rain, who kindly offered to drive us to and from the site, told us it was his favorite cave, but it generally gets overlooked. Too many people exhaust themselves on the first two and never make it to the third, he lamented. Personally, I think it just needs a sexier name. Like Purgatory.

Note: Three different people reiterated that we only needed one ticket for Heaven and Hell, not two. We assume this means that visitors are sometimes scammed by people who hang out and try to get them to pay a second entrance fee. This didn't happen to us, but we figured it was worth mentioning. The Asthma Cave does require a separate ticket - and it's totally worth it.

Gypsy Kitchens: Imam Biyaldi

"The priest fainted!" Don't worry, it's just the name of the dish. Imam biyaldi translates literally to this phrase - though, what it really means is braised eggplants stuffed with tomato, onion and garlic. It's the most popular eggplant dish in Turkey, which means that it's one of the most famous dishes in general, as eggplants are a sort of culinary king here. Perhaps it's because religious fasting has historically placed an emphasis on vegetarian dishes that the eggplant is featured as often and with as much variety as it is here. No matter, the imam fainted over this dish and you will, too - both because it is as foolproof as it is delicious. And it is very, very delicious.
The ingredients are simple and classically Turkish: small eggplants, tomato, red chili flakes (which are present on every table top beside the salt and pepper shakers), onion, garlic, thyme and a whole lot of parsley. And olive oil. Explanations for why the priest actually fainted tend to be along the lines of "he found out how much olive oil was used in the dish" or "after asking his wife to make it four days in a row, he discovered their entire stock of olive oil was finished." Most morbid is a theory that it was the fatty oil itself that just knocked the poor man out. The truth is that there's actually no need for an excessive amount in your preparation. We were all set with a full, new bottle and wound up using about a quarter cup in all.
"Stuffed" is a little bit of a loose term. The eggplant isn't scooped out to make room for the filling. Simply split your eggplant in half and cut a slit down the middle of each half. This way, all of the great flavors you'll be piling on top can seep in a little more. If the eggplants you've bought are too round to sit flat and work with, go ahead and cut a slice out of the bottom, flattening its bulbous side.
Something we've noticed a lot here is the skinning of tomatoes. This dish calls for exactly that. Remove the skin, slice and discard the seeds and liquid. Since tomato is going to be the bulk of your filling, one small fruit per half of a small eggplant should work well. Heat up a healthy dose of olive oil in a deep pan or shallow pot (something with a lid) and soften chopped yellow onion and minced garlic. When they're done, add them to your sliced tomatoes. This is the base of your mix. In goes as much chopped, fresh parsley as you can stand, lemon juice, a pinch of fresh thyme (de-stemmed), salt and red pepper flakes. The spicier the better.
After combining the ingredients, strain the mixture. The most efficient way of doing this is to initially mix it up in a colander set in a bowl. Then, you can simply lift the colander, shake and drain the excess liquid out. We decided to separate the juices in order to uses them in the braising later. This way, you don't lose an ounce of the flavor you're working with. Speaking of utilizing every last drop...
That pan you sauteed the onions and garlic in should still be nice and oily. Rub your eggplant halves face down to give them a coating of olive oil. Then, flip them over and fit them snugly, side by side, in the pan. - flat side up. Spoon your mixture on top. Having the eggplant all lined up makes an even smothering simple. When you're all "filled" up, pour the liquid you set aside down into the bottom of the pan, along with about a cup of water. Bring to a simmer, cover and lower heat. After an hour, uncover and cook some more. The eggplant will already be meltingly soft, but it's nice to try to cook off as much remaining liquid as possible. We wound up spooning some out and then cooking for ten minutes "dry." A thin coating of nice brown molasses had formed at the bottom of the pan.
Half of the eggplant dishes we've had in Turkey have come smothered in yogurt. The two flavors work so well together. We decided that the perfect "cooling agent" for our spicy imam biyaldi would be a mint yogurt. All we did was chop up fresh mint and mix it into plain yogurt, resisting the urge to salt. Our first helping of eggplant was served warm, and the cold yogurt melted beautifully onto it. Our second was, more traditionally, served cold. The yogurt was a vibrant new layer on the chilled dish. Either way, it was an ideal complement. Not to be skipped.
The flesh of the eggplant was so tender and pillowy that it made us wonder if that's why the imam really fainted. Here's the recipe. Ingredients aren't measured out because a lot of it should be chosen by personal preference. That's part of the fun and ease of this amazing dish!

Imam Bayildi

Ingredients:

small eggplants (a lot less seedy than their bigger relatives)

small tomatoes (one for each half you are making)

garlic

yellow onion

fresh parsley (a healthy bunch)

fresh thyme

red pepper flakes

lemon (or unsweetened lemon juice)

water

fresh mint

plain yogurt (milk, sheep or goat - just not flavored)

Process:

- remove stems and halve your small eggplants. cut a slit down the flat side of each half.

- peel, slice and remove seeds from your tomatoes. place in a colander, set in a bowl, and add lemon juice, chopped parsley, red pepper flakes, fresh thyme and salt.
-soften your chopped yellow onion and minced garlic in olive oil. add these to your mixture. combine and strain, but lifting and shaking colander over the bowl.
-set aside liquid.
-rub the flat side of your eggplant on the bottom of your oil-coated pan (previously used for onion and garlic), then place them skin side down, snugly side by side.
-spoon filling over the lined up eggplant.
-add about a cup of water to your liquid and pour into the bottom of your pan.
-bring to simmer, cover, lower heat and cook gently for one hour.
-uncover and cook for a half hour more. at about the halfway mark, spoon out any excess liquid. a thin brown coating should form at the bottom of your pan. you're done!

- Serve cold or hot, but definitely with a mixture of yogurt and chopped mint spooned on top.

It's next to impossible to over or under cook your imam biyaldi. So, just relax and enjoy!


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Cihangir

Here's something that might surprise you: Istanbul is the third most populous city on earth and has the largest population in Europe. It's bigger than New York, Delhi, Tokyo - with almost thirteen million people crowded onto these shores, and more in hills beyond, it's a certifiable megalopolis.

But the funny thing is, it doesn't feel that huge. It's more spread out than a lot of cities, and the old part especially is low-lying, more a collection of dense neighborhoods than a easily recognized whole. Each part of the city has its own feel, its own style. For the past few days, we've been staying in Cihangir, which is... well, it's almost unsettlingly hip. But more than that it was familiar.

Above, the popular Cihangir bar and restaurant (bar, really), White Mill.
At first, Cihangir reminded me of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Then, I realized that it just feels youthfully international in that well-trodden style of the early 2000's. In other words, there are lots of places that have begun to feel like some version of Williamsburg, or at least the popular idea of the place. The sunglasses are the same, the color of the spraypaint, the music in the boutiques.

Cihangir was developed in the late 1800's, as Istanbul expanded and the non-muslim population was forced out of other parts of the city. Once primarily Greek, the neighborhood was, for a long time, considered seedy and dangerous. Bordered in the north by the Taksim Square area and, in the south, by the utilitarian Bosphorus businesses, Cihangir is still nearby to a few unsavory streets on either side. There's little hint of danger here, though, and none of the old red-light feel. Just like so many other places around the globe, gentrification has brought bright storefronts and fresh paint on the victorian walls.
Cihangir's bar and restaurant scene is famous - throughout the weekend, taxis stream into the neighborhood, dropping their customers off at some hotspot or other. The heels are high, the look is studied "hipster," the young Turkish men and women seem genuinely thrilled to have somewhere that's happening. In a traditional city of kofte and kebab, where the teahouse is the center of many districts, it must feel refreshing to find a place that's metropolitan in the international style, as bland as that style can feel to an outsider.

The neighborhood habitués have embraced brunch in a big way. At Susam cafe (the name means "sesame"), there was a line out the door on Sunday morning.
The neighborhood began its journey to bohemianism with Antiques, and there are still lots of great stores that sell vintage knick-knacks and offbeat used clothing. Sidewalk displays cater to a crowd of both wealthy young Istanbulers and British, American and Indian ex-patriates. It's a taste that's been established, but can't really be owned. The worn-edged ambiance doesn't belong to any time, really, or to a specific place.

What it feels like is a play on internationalism - we come to Turkey (or Europe) expecting to see "foreign." What we find is that there are parts of Istanbul (or Chișinău, Tbilisi, Krakow, St. Petersburg, Rome...) that feel like parts of home. It's strangely shocking, and initially made me feel suspicious that we (as New Yorkers) were being copied. But who is really copying who? Aren't our posters supposed to look like German ones, our cafes supposed to look French, our decor supposed to translate San Francisco-Scandinavian?

One begins to wonder about what entitles a place to "natural" internationalism. In New York or Paris, no-one gets excited about a little gourmet shop. Here, they're intriguing and rare. A place like Antre Gourmet Shop feels somehow un-Turkish, even when it's selling local olives, apple preserves and cheese. It's the fact that the stylistic type is foreign that makes it not fit in, even though it's of a vaguely Italian style that's unremarkable in hundreds of American shopping malls.

The thing is, what I think Istanbul's supposed to be isn't what a Turkish person thinks the city should resemble. This is the third largest city in the world. Shouldn't it have some Italian-feeling stores, some organic bistros, a few Seattle style coffee shops? Shouldn't the young people be just as cosmopolitan as they are in other places? How unique is internationalism?

A perfect example is the small Miss Pizza. Probably the most popular restaurant in Cihangir, the place feels like a supper club for those in the know. The pizza is good, but that's beside the point. What brings in the crowd is the ambience, the soundtrack, the fashionable cut of the waiter's plaid shirt - the sense, really, that one is anywhere but Turkey. And why shouldn't that be exciting?