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Turkish Delight1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Itinerary | Home
Nevizade pulsed around us. Impossibly beautiful women in pastel head scarves and T-shirts under their tank tops held hands with men boasting varying degrees of unshavenness. A man sold bottles of Jack Daniel’s and Jim Beam to diners. A photographer with a digital camera wired to a portable printer offered to take our picture. Feral cats prowled the ground beneath the tables for fallen scraps. A woman quaked on her turquoise high heels and shouted into her cellphone. Occasionally, pairs of bewildered tourists squeezed through the crowd with their rucksacks on, gripping plastic water bottles as if they were holy talismans. Our first plates of cold mezes arrived: grape leaves stuffed with fish, pine nuts and currants; haddock fillets rolled with olive oil and basil pesto; a spicy bulgur and tomato salad called kisir. The small plates of food did not last long. Besides, we had a whole bottle of raki to get through. We waved at our meze-burdened server and ordered three more: a sesame and chickpea purée flavoured with cinnamon; tender fried calamari; and some chicken kofte. All were delicious, except for the McNugget-ish chicken that failed to dazzle. Suddenly, a trio of men at a nearby table produced a drum, tambourine and violin. Still seated, they began to play fasil, mournful Turkish folk music that is the soundtrack for Nevizade dining. Eventually, they stood and wandered through the restaurant, pausing in front of our table, and performed a sloppy rendition of what might have been Boney M’s “Rasputin.” Afterwards one of them held out his tambourine and yelled, “Thank you! Thank you! Money!” We sat at Boncuk for hours, leisurely picking at our food as a smooth raki buzz washed over us. The street scene flowed onwards, and passersby brushed against our shoulders as they hurried past. It was invigorating to be so coupled to the chaos. Our dessert of fresh watermelon and nectarines arrived just as we finished off our bottle. By then, I was convinced I could actually taste the grapes my raki was made from. Then again, by that time, I was convinced I could fly. Write to us: letters@enroutemag.net |
