AFTERNOON TEA - Anatolia: Adventures in Turkish Cooking (2016)

Anatolia: Adventures in Turkish Cooking (2016)

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.

ASTARLI SÜTLAÇ

SAFFRON-LAYERED RICE PUDDING

This layered dessert is a speciality of the southeastern city of Gaziantep (best known for baklava). In the Turkish name, the word sütlaç (pronounced ‘sutlatch’) means ‘milky rice pudding’ and the word astarlı means ‘the lining of a jacket’.

Saffron—either home-grown or imported from Persia—was an important ingredient in Ottoman cuisine, because it allowed the sultans to show off their wealth. Pretentious people got into the habit of leaving the saffron threads in the pudding so their guests could say: ‘Wow, that must have cost a bit!’ There’s actually no reason to leave the threads in, since all the flavour and colour you need is extracted by the warm water within 20 minutes.

I like to decorate my astarlı sütlaç with candied chickpeas, which you should be able to find in Middle Eastern food shops. But the dessert works perfectly well without them.

SERVES 4

RICE PUDDING

100 g (3½ oz/½ cup) rice

1 piece mastic crystal (less than 1 g/1/25 oz)

1 tablespoon sugar

750 ml (26 fl oz/3 cups) milk

2 tablespoons rice flour

pinch of salt

SAFFRON TOPPING

5 saffron threads

1 drop geranium oil (or rose water)

1 tablespoon currants

1 tablespoon pine nuts

50 g (1¾ oz/¼ cup) rice

110 g (3¾ oz/½ cup) sugar

1 tablespoon rice flour

DECORATION (OPTIONAL)

20 candied or roasted chickpeas

4 tablespoons pomegranate seeds

Wash the rice in cold running water to remove the excess starch. Transfer to a saucepan, add 100 ml (3½ fl oz) of water, bring to the boil and simmer for 10 minutes. The rice will absorb most of the water.

Crush the mastic crystal into a powder, using a mortar and pestle or the handle of a knife, and then combine with the sugar. Heat the milk, mastic mixture and strained rice in a saucepan over medium heat, and bring to the boil. Combine the rice flour with 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) of the boiling milk mixture and then add to the pan. Add the salt and simmer for 10 minutes, stirring constantly, to thicken. Remove the pan from the heat and leave to cool for 5 minutes, then divide the rice pudding equally between four 250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) glasses. Leave to cool completely at room temperature and then transfer to the fridge and chill for 30 minutes.

Next, make the topping. Put the saffron threads in a bowl and cover with 60 ml (2 fl oz/¼ cup) of warm water. Stir in the geranium oil and then leave to rest for 20 minutes. Discard the saffron threads and set aside.

Cover the currants in warm water, leave for 10 minutes and then strain. Toast the pine nuts in a frying pan over medium heat for 2 minutes, shaking the pan constantly to evenly brown.

Rinse the rice in cold running water to remove the excess starch. Transfer to a saucepan and add 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) of water. Bring to the boil and simmer for 10 minutes. Add another 375 ml (13 fl oz/1½ cups) of water and half the sugar, and continue to simmer for 3 minutes, stirring constantly. Combine 125 ml (4 fl oz/½ cup) of the cooking liquid with the rice flour in a bowl. Discard the remaining rice mixture, and then pour the rice flour mixture into the pan. Add the remaining sugar and cook for a further 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the saffron-infused liquid and simmer for a further 5 minutes until it starts to thicken. Add the currants and pine nuts, remove from the heat and leave to cool.

Remove the rice puddings from the fridge, cover with saffron topping and then refrigerate again for 1 hour.

Decorate the chilled astarlı sütlaç with the chickpeas and pomegranate seeds, and serve.

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 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

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.

AŞURE

NOAH’S ARK PUDDING

This could well be the oldest pudding in the world. The Turkish name aşure means ‘ten’ because you’re supposed to eat it on the tenth day of the first month of the Islamic calendar (which, being lunar, changes every year). It’s staggering how many important events need to be remembered on that date—Moses crossed the Red Sea; Abraham’s son Ishmael was born; Adam’s plea for forgiveness was accepted by God; the prophet Jesus was born; and Noah’s ark landed on Mount Ararat as the waters receded after the Great Flood.

It’s the last event that explains why the full version of this pudding has forty-one ingredients. To celebrate his return to dry land after forty days on the water, Noah cooked up all the remaining supplies in the ark—nuts, pulses and dried fruits, but definitely no animals—and shared the resulting stew with everybody who had survived the flood. We’ve simplified Noah’s recipe, but the spirit of generosity remains—you’re supposed to offer this dish to anybody who could smell it cooking.

SERVES 16

100 g (3½ oz/½ cup) white haricot beans

100 g (3½ oz/½ cup) dried chickpeas

3 cloves

150 g (5½ oz) dried figs

200 g (7 oz) dried apricots

100 g (3½ oz) currants

100 g (3½ oz) sultanas

100 g (3½ oz) hazelnuts

50 g (1¾ oz/1/3 cup) blanched almonds

100 g (3½ oz) walnuts

350 g (12 oz/2 cups) pearl barley

880 g (1 lb 15 oz/4 cups) sugar

1 tablespoon cornflour (cornstarch)

250 ml (9 fl oz/1 cup) milk

1 tablespoon honey

zest of 1 orange

DECORATION

2 tablespoons cinnamon

4 tablespoons toasted sesame seeds

80 g (2¾ oz) walnuts, coarsely ground

80 g (2¾ oz) hazelnuts, coarsely ground

140 g (5 oz/1 cup) pistachios, coarsely ground

75 g (75 g (22/3 oz/½ cup) dried apricots, finely chopped

200 g (7 oz) pomegranate seeds

zest of 2 oranges

Soak the white haricot beans and chickpeas in water overnight, in separate bowls. Strain and rinse under cold running water and then place the beans and chickpeas, together, in a saucepan. Cover with water, bring to the boil over medium heat, then boil for 40 minutes until they are soft.

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

Crack the cloves with a wooden spoon and soak in warm water for 1 hour. Finely chop the dried figs and apricots, and then place in a bowl with the currants and sultanas. Cover with lukewarm water and leave to soak for 30 minutes.

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. Halve the hazelnuts. Halve the almonds. Put the walnuts in a food processor and coarsely grind.

Wash the barley in cold running water to remove the excess starch. Half fill a saucepan with water and bring to the boil over high heat. Add the barley and cook for 10 minutes. Strain the barley, half fill the pan with fresh water and boil the barley again for 10 minutes. Strain the barley a third time, add to the pan with 1.5 litres (52 fl oz/6 cups) of water and boil for a further 40 minutes. Add the strained chickpeas and beans and continue to boil for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the almonds and hazelnuts. Reduce the heat to a simmer and cook for 5 minutes, stirring slowly.

Next, add the strained dried apricots, sultanas, currants, figs and sugar. Dilute the cornflour in the milk, then add to the cooking mixture. Simmer for 3 minutes, stirring constantly. Add the strained cloves, honey and orange zest. Simmer for another 7 minutes until the mixture starts to thicken.

Divide the pudding into each serving bowl and then refrigerate for at least 2 hours.

Decorate the top of the pudding with cinnamon, sesame seeds, walnuts, hazelnuts, pistachios, chopped dried apricots, pomegranate seeds and orange zest, and serve.

NOTE

Aşure will serve four people over four meals, and can be stored in the fridge for a week.

The cradle of civilisation, just north of the Garden of Eden, the Euphrates River in southeastern Anatolia, and the sunken city of Halfeti.

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 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). 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

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 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 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

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 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 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

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.