yoghurt is good for the skin

Doğubeyazıt reminded me a bit of some parts of Kathmandu. Streets were full of potholes, buildings were incomplete or leaning a little to a side, and the Western tourists (the first we had seen in a long time) were geared up for treks in the Ararat area. This was the farthest east I had ever been in Turkey, and it seemed as though we had crossed a border into another land— in fact, I heard more Kurdish spoken than Turkish. With the Iranian border a mere 35 km away, the military presence here is strong; army barracks and lots lined with tanks and other armoured vehicles are prevalent. Despite this show of force, I took an instant liking to Doğubeyazıt.

We wandered up the busiest street that we believed would have the most potential for lunch, and soon found in one of those leaning buildings a most marvellous establishment for kebabs. Judging by the stares I received, this was a dude's joint, and perhaps a place not usually frequented by foreigners. The waiter seemed delighted by our presence, and quickly brought us two succulent kebabs and beautiful copper mugs of the frothiest ayran.



No matter how delicately I tried to sip my ayran, I ended up looking somewhat like this:



Naturally, the initial two swigs I took were closely watched with glee by the two guys at the next table, who did their best to giggle discreetly— and I deeply appreciate that Pedro did not photograph my foamy moustache and nose. Anyway, yoghurt is good for the skin, isn't it?

a feast after dark

As the sun made its exit, we began our search for dinner, eventually deciding to splurge on a small feast at a trendy-looking rooftop restaurant. To my delight, there were dishes on the menu that I had never heard of, dishes with more of a Syrian or Persian flare— kibbeh and biryani in disguise. The scent of cardamom took me home to my childhood, a cloud of a memory, nonspecific. We ordered a sampler of Mardin specialties and a walnut kebab to share.



I could have been happy with just that little dish of incredible, sweet and sour cherry sauce and a bit of bread, but goodness when the sauce, walnuts, and spiced beef meet... Over the moon, I tell you! Though I enjoyed every bit of our meal, it's the taste of that kebab and cherry that I still remember. The only way to end such a wildly delicious experience was with a dainty cup of coffee with cardamom.



We had to take a walk to digest. At some point, a small truck slowly passed us spraying a noxious gas into the air, which we learned was for killing mosquitoes. The gas burned in our throats and eyes, and as the truck made its way down the street, it left coughing people in its wake.

a small feast

here comes the baklava

Rumour had it that a stop at the famed Imam Çağdaş was a must. From my understanding, the restaurant has been around since 1887, and ships about a tonne of its fine baklava to all corners of the globe each year. A tonne. In preparation for the sugar rush, we ordered a mix of kebabs to line our stomachs— some familiar, like the good old Urfa and Patlıcan kebabs, and some I have never before seen and will never remember the name of. For instance:



The combination of spiced meat, butter, garlicky yogurt, and aubergine was simply out of this world (ok, out of curiosity and a slight pang of hunger, I just looked up the kebab on the Imam Çağdaş website)— the Ali Nazik is a perfectly justifiable reason to unbutton the top of your pants or loosen any drawstrings at the waist in public. Really.

Then there was the baklava.



I was instructed by a concerned waiter that the proper way to down this sticky piece of heaven was to first carefully wrap it in a piece of paper, then eat it by hand. I confess that I do not have much of a sweet tooth, nor do I find baklava particularly exciting, but this was fantastic. The syrup balanced perfectly with the pistachios and pastry— and my, oh my... those pistachios were good!



I think I've been converted into a baklava lover, and might have to return to Antep some day to sample more baklava at other sweet shops and restaurants— you know, to see if the city really has the best baklava in Turkey. So far from what I've tasted, Antep's claim to fame seems to hold truth...

lunch

I was wandering around the bazaar, weaving in between crowds of pushy women and busy vendors, when suddenly, I felt that all-too familiar ache in my belly. Shops with heaps of spices and pomegranate molasses were lined up on my left, cheese and olive stalls on my right— but not a café in sight. There was however, a baker with some tantalising rounds of flat bread, smothered in a mix of chili and herbs.

Ne kadar? I asked the moustachioed baker, whose flour-dusted hands incessantly kneaded  the mountain of dough before him. He glanced up at me long enough for a warm smile, and a declarative:

Bir lira.

I fished around in my bag for that one lira coin I remembered seeing earlier at the soap stand, located it with my finger tips and held it up. A nod was issued from the baker to the knowing older gentleman standing beside me, whom I never realised was part of the operation. With a smile spreading under another fine moustache, he rolled up the bread in newsprint with great ceremony, and presented it to me with pride.

Teşekkürler! I thanked him, and placed the shiny coin in his leathery palm.



Oh my... The bread was soft and warm, and fragrant with olive oil. The baker, his assistant and the gentleman paused as I took my first bite, staring hopefully at my face, waiting for the verdict. The chili delightfully burned my tongue, and there was cumin and thyme...

I rolled my eyes back, and let out a very indelicate MMMMMM, which caused much joy. There was something of my childhood in that bread— something of Sunday mornings, of my father, my Tante Leyla. I can't quite describe it, but at that moment, I felt close to them.



The bread was divine, but I was still hungry— as were my travelling companions. As we walked past a butcher shop, a man in a white jacket, presumably a butcher, ushered us inside. Seeing the hanging carcasses in the window, we were doubtful, but apparently the key to a delicious lunch in Antakya can actually be found at the butcher shop. You order the meat at the front, the butchers grind it, then mix it up with some spices and walk it over to a guy who cooks it for you. This novel idea had us intrigued, so we found ourselves at a table in a garden at the back of the shop, ordering the specialty: tepsi kebap, a kebab cooked in a metal tray.



There are no words... truly. Any attempt to describe the kebab would seriously diminish the experience of that wonderful, wonderful meal. Just look at it. What a thing of beauty! I had to post two photos, that's how much I loved it.