You Are Where You Eat
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in Izmir, back on the coast again. We decided to come here (a pivot from our original plan to visit Antakya, which is still reeling from earthquake damage) because it’s kinda-sorta near the ruins of ancient Ephesus, which I wanted to revisit. But in reading about Izmir, I realized that the city’s old name was Smyrna, which is another several layers of history. Türkiye: the history of the world is all right here.
You Are Where You Eat
We had drinks with some fellow nomads a few days ago. They mentioned offhandedly that they were disappointed in Turkish food. I was gobsmacked. The food in Turkey is nothing short of amazing. As soon as Lee booked our flight here, I started planning what I wanted to eat. Gozleme, borek, mezze, baklava, pide, kaymak, olives, figs, rose petal jam—all the things. I love Turkish food.
The trick to eating in Turkey is to eat like Turkish people. That may sound obvious, but apparently it wasn’t to these folks.
Turkey is one of the most food self-sufficient countries in the world, meaning they don’t have a huge need to import food. This is especially noticeable in smaller towns, where people eat pretty much only what’s locally grown or raised or caught or even foraged. It’s also a heavily seasonal style of eating. The people we met had been looking for asparagus and leeks, but it’s September and we’re next to the Mediterranean, so there is no asparagus to be had. Instead, I’m stuffing my face with eggplant and tomatoes and the most gorgeous peaches.
Americans are used to eating in a different way. We are a large, wealthy country with a range of climates, rich agricultural lands, and incredibly modern shipping and transport networks. At the Whole Foods where I used to shop, I could always find asparagus from somewhere, year-round. We are also a melting pot country; we think nothing of diversity. In our brief history, immigrants have brought to our cities the foods and cooking styles of every country in the world. I love that about restaurants in the US—I can eat my way around the globe without booking a flight.
Turkey is … not quite the same.
The cuisines of this part of the world vary from region to region, and are deeply rooted in history that stretches back thousands of years. I am absolutely fascinated by the continuum of dishes that I’ve tasted all around the eastern Mediterranean—if you look carefully, you can trace the layers of influence and conquest through the region: Greek, Roman, Persian, Byzantine, Ottoman.
In a way, this country is also a melting pot—just a much, much older one. The cultures and armies that left their mark on this region all rose and fell hundreds or thousands of years ago. The dishes they created and left behind are profoundly local and seasonal, because two thousand years ago there was no Sysco, no Whole Foods, no train network, no refrigerated 18-wheeler.
I started writing this essay while we were on the coast, where we could see a literal Greek island from our window. I’m finishing it in Cappadocia, which is a) the darling of Instagram, and b) part of the ancient Silk Road where early Christians hid out in caves from the Romans who were persecuting them. Those caves were ancient by the time the Christians moved into them; they were by no means the earliest inhabitants of this area. (On our way here, we stopped off to see the remains of Catalhoyuk, a city that was begun about nine THOUSAND years ago.)
For lunch yesterday, we had a special regional variety of manti, which are tiny Turkish dumplings. This particular recipe, according to the menu of the fancy-pants, hyper-local restaurant, has nearly disappeared, but they’re trying to preserve it.
They were small, triangular dumplings, made from local wheat and stuffed with a soft, slightly dry, slightly crumbly local cheese. They were served in a delicious sauce made from tomatoes and garlic and olive oil, with a dusting of a very difficult-to-source sharp goat’s cheese.
They were delicious, and I felt intensely grounded in this place, this terroir, so to speak. They also looked a lot like ravioli in tomato sauce. I could almost feel the web of armies and pilgrims and traders connecting modern Cappadocia to world history.
What I could not feel was out-of-season asparagus rattling down the highway in a refrigerated truck.
Take care,
Lisa
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