a delicious discovery

Nearly every day, I pass this tiny hole-in-the-wall fish restaurant on my way home from work, that catches my eye and yet escapes my memory when brainstorming dinner ideas. The little hand-printed signs in the window advertise a four lira fish soup and a take-away option, which I reported back to Pedro with great enthusiasm. So the weekend before last, when we were both racked with a terrible cough and feeling incapable of cooking, Balikçi and its soup came to mind.

Though we were focused on the idea of soup, we were delighted to see a pile of scallops lying on a bed of lemons in the vitrine by the door, and when it was confirmed that they were "Taze— very fresh!" by the owner, we ordered a portion. Indeed they were fresh, and smelled of the sea— and the little morsels of meat were so sweet.



The soup itself was mild and soothing, with plenty of flavour and a generous amount of fish. I believe that soups have a magical ability to heal any woe, and so I squeezed in the lemon and hoped that this one would cure us of our nasty cough. It's refreshing to have a delicious alternative to the ubiquitous kebab, and one that doesn't hurt the wallet— plus the guys at Balikçi were really nice. I suspect this little place will fast become one of our favourites.

Balikçi
Süslü Saksı Sok. No: 28 / Beyoğlu // 212. 244. 4553

breakfast of champions

My favourite place to eat breakfast in Istanbul— other than at my dining table, is the oh so delicious Van Kahvaltı Evi in Cihangir. With a cosy atmosphere and a great team of waiters who fly through the packed room balancing trays of tea glasses and burning plates of menemen, the scene is set for a great experience. Typical Turkish breakfast plates of cheeses, tomatoes, cucumbers and olives, with a few extra yummies like bal kaymak (thick clotted cream drowning in honey) and cevizli çemen (a tangy walnut and fenugreek paste), make up most of the menu. You can also order eggs cooked in a copper dish with sausage, or a variety of gözleme, which are crêpe-like folds of dough filled with your choice of potatoes, cheese, or spinach.

The best, best part of the experience is being served by the most intense and dedicated waiter Turkey has to offer. I don't know his name, but each time I go, I cross my fingers that I'll get seated at one of his tables. With the utmost seriousness, he'll look you dead in the eye to tell you that the bread is fresh baked, special, and only available at Van Kahvaltı Evi. And it's not a lie— the bread really is that special.

"This olive oil— is ONLY for the salad. You understand?"

Why yes, I do understand, and I would never, ever use the olive oil for anything other than its intended purpose. Never. Time after time I have wanted to sketch him, as he is so integral to the whole Van Kahvaltı Evi experience, but his gravity and quick movements intimidate my sluggish hands. This weekend however, I got the nerve.

As per usual, my sketch was discovered by one of the waiters and whisked away amid good-natured laughter and grins. Every staff member was asked to guess who, and when the man himself saw his portrait, he remained unmoved, and as stoic as ever. I began to worry that I may have offended him, and desperately hoping that I hadn't, I searched his face for any shred of a reaction.

Nothing.

Upon leaving, he came to us, shook my hand, and thanked me.

here comes the food

Living in a relatively pork-free country makes one do funny things when travelling abroad. You find yourself sniffing out bacon like a bloodhound and salivating salaciously over sausages. In Vienna, where sausages lurk in stands around every fourth corner, I was pulled like a helpless puppet toward the scent of smoky pork and grease. I somehow ended up ordering myself a tasty beer and a snack in excellent German to a woman with a grill of wursts (apparently my languages resurrect themselves under the hypnotic groans of my belly), and sat down at a picnic table in front of a church to dine. At the end of my table sat an old sailor of a man with a fantastic nose, and a younger fellow with wild, cavernous eyes and tattooed fingers. We briefly glared at each other, then went about the business of devouring our wursts. That hot kiss of mustard... the grainy bread... the beer... It seemed a sin to be so fiercely enjoying myself in front of a church.

But let's travel to Bratislava, where I was confronted by a delicious delight— pickled herring with gherkins and onions, served in a jar. I haven't the foggiest what this wondrousness is called, but oh my goodness... sit me in front of a pickled herring, and I'll be the happiest girl on the planet. My Danish roots come joyously springing out through my tastebuds, and I'm instantly grinning from ear to ear, drumming my feet.

After such an immense pleasure, I decided to indulge in a more traditional fare which frankly was, a bit too much for me. I introduce you to Bryndzové Halušky, dainty little potato dumplings swimming in a sheep cheese. I love potato dumplings and I love sheep cheese, so in theory, I should have been as happy as a clam— but this was overkill. Had the serving been a fourth of the size of what was set down in front of me, I think my stomach would not have protested. I'm just not built to handle that much lactose.



Apparently my stomach forgave me somewhere over the Austrian border, because later that same night, I wandered into the Viennese tavern Zu den 2 Lieserln, on Burgasse. Greeted by a dense cloud of cigarette smoke and an ornery, moustachioed older gentleman, I peeked at the dated wood panelling and omnipresence of green, and sensed I was in for something tasty. Sometimes you just know. What I couldn't predict however, was the mastadonic proportions of the tavern's famed wienerschnitzel— which forced an "Oh mein Gott!" from my lips, and a slight chuckle from the man.

The pounded and breaded pork was roughly the size of my head, if it had been flattened. And because I was still under the pork-craze, I got my schnitzel stuffed with ham— oh, and peppers. The crispness of the breading was a wonderful contrast to the tender meat, and the sour, pickled peppers seemed to cut the well, for lack of a better word, porkiness. I took my time, even pausing to sketch my dinner plate, and did my very best to make it through as much of the schnitzel as possible. When I got to that elusive point just before being full, I put the fork and knife aside, and glanced up at the white moustache in the corner. He knew. He was ready with a container for me to carry the rest of my dinner home.

"I really thought I was going to do it!" I grinned.
A short laugh, and a shake of a head was his reponse.

summer in sketches, part three

belly belgique

My belly has an odd, GPS-esque ability when it comes to finding food. One of the first things I wanted to do in Brussels was devour a paper cone of frites— more commonly and mistakenly known as the "French fry". What most people don't realise, is that the ubiquitous "French fry" is actually Belgian. Nowhere on earth will you find a fry that can compare to the frite. Top it with a dollop of eggy mayonnaise (please don't kill it with ketchup) and heaven feels more accessible. Ignore the calories, forget about cholesterol— life is worth living to the fullest. These humble, double-fried potatoes hold special place in my memory, so I was delighted to find myself in front of a frite stand within less than twenty minutes of walking through town. They were exactly how I remembered them— crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, eggy mayo.

After walking around for a bit, taking in the sights and digesting, I decided to seek out another childhood favourite: the gaufre. Surely you have heard of the Belgian waffle? Here's where the waffle as we know it in America becomes portable. Walk up to any stand and order up a sweet, buttery, doughy waffle, and you'll have a great little treat in your hands. The toppings of whipped cream, Nutella and strawberries are mostly for tourists— try it plain, with just the butter and sugar first, to get a real taste of the gaufre's goodness. I remember cold, dark winter days, wandering through the city streets with my mother, peeling off our gloves to avoid getting them sticky as we snacked on gaufres, little trails of steam rising from the golden dough.



Lucky me, I got to meet up with fellow Moleskine Exchange artist Anna Denise, who I previously had the pleasure of meeting back in San Francisco once upon a time. It's always a wonderful experience to meet up with someone in real life, who you've known for several years online and have built a friendship with. We've been exchanging art for about four or five years now, and I find her love of life and dedication to her artwork a source of inspiration.

Anna Denise, knowing how much I love to eat, decided to take me to a most delicious restaurant, famous for its traditional Belgian cuisine. Viva M'Boma is a cosy little place with a menu that's not for the faint of heart— sweetbreads, calf liver, kidneys, horse steak and a raw meat patty mysteriously called the "Americain" are pretty much all you'll find. Not being a big fan of organ meat, I decided to go with the stoemp— a potato and vegetable mash, that was served with two massive sausages and thick ribbons of bacon. It was absolutely divine— and very, very filling. I tried Anna Denise's calf liver and onions, which I must admit, was quite tasty and not so organy.



On Friday night I had a most delicious cuisse de lapin— a rabbit leg in a sauce that I want to say had some mustard in it, from a wonderful little restaurant in some tiny square. I really wish I had written the name down of this lovely little place, it was oh so good and the service was super friendly.

Viva M’Boma / Rue de Flandre 17, 1000 Bruxelles / 02/512 15 93

urban curry

On Broadway, among the flashing neon, one can order up a plate some of the most exquisite curry I have had in San Francisco. You can actually taste the tomatoes in the chicken tikka masala sauce at Urban Curry, and the flat screens blasting flat-bellied Bollywood beauties dancing in colourful saris just adds to the deliciousness.



If you find yourself craving some Indian food and are in the North Beach/Chinatown area, do drop into Urban Curry— it's oh so yummy.

Urban Curry
523 Broadway, between Kearny and Columbus / SAN FRANCISCO
415 677 97 44

a bag of crustaceans

I can't think of anything better than beginning the new year with friends and a bag of crustaceans. Priscilla and Angelo took me to the yummy and messy The Boiling Crab in Sacramento, where lobster, crawfish, shrimp and crabs are sold by the pound, steamed and simmered in bags of garlic, spices and sauce. My goodness, for a girl who will passionately eat anything that comes out of the sea, this was heaven in a bag— and you get to eat it with your hands! There's something deliciously childlike about feeding yourself with your fingers— it puts you literally in touch with your food and well, it's just fun.

As I was cracking open my saucy King Crab legs, I couldn't help but think of the Alaskan crab fishermen who brave the violence of the Bering Sea for our bellies. When I lived in SF, I was an avid watcher of the Discovery Channel's Deadliest Catch— I cheered on the crew of the Cornelia Marie, Time Bandit and Northwestern as they charged into icy mountainous waves to haul up giant cages of spidery treasure. I'm not a big fan of television, but I was strangely captivated by this show, and often think about it when I watch the fishermen head out to the far tamer Black Sea in Istanbul.




The absence of plates and cutlery makes dining at The Boiling Crab a saucy, garlicky mess— a blissful saucy, garlicky mess. I've never experienced such a thing— how fitting to start a new year by trying something new!

galata gastronomie

On the way to Galata Tower, stretches a colourful row of fresh juice vendors. Their tables of expertly peeled pomegranates are as sumptuous looking as the juices are tasty. A few lira will get you a large cup of yumminess, perfectly refreshing on a warm day.


I always dismissed the restaurants at the foot of the tower as being tourist traps, suitable only for sketching people in, but when Yelda told me that Kiva Han is a gastronomical joy not to be missed, I happily followed her inside to inspect what was being offered.


Savoury rice-stuffed artichokes, meat and green plum dolmas, sweet irmik— which is a crumbly semolina cake topped with a pine nut. My goodness, that artichoke was petaled perfection— a little sweet, a little olivey, a buttery heart. One of my greatest pleasures in life is eating an artichoke. What better way to follow the visual treat that is the Botero exhibit?


Galata's cats bank on the kindness of strangers. Just look at that brightly coloured fur— they don't eat from trash cans!

sunday, yummy sunday

Quel day! Behold the beauty of a meze at Giritli:


Buttery aubergines, creamy tarama, sweet peppers, succulent white beans, a zesty Turkish ceviche— followed by crispy kalamari, warm and subtle börek, and the softest, most beautiful grilled octopus. My mind was scrambled; I found it hard to think— the colours, the scents, the flavours.
Heaven on the tines of my fork.


Dessert— a warm and gooey helva, accompanied by little yummy fried pastry things that disappeared in a matter of moments.

I am truly at a loss for words; the food was exquisite, to say the least. I cannot begin to explain how to find Giritli— it's in Cankurturan, a place I had never been to before, somewhere behind Sultanahmet. I apologise for the brevity of this post, but I feel that whatever I write won't measure up— so please, feel free to drool over the photos!

Giritli Restoran
Keresteci Hakkı Sokak (Armada Otel Yanı) Cankurtaran / Ahırkapı / İSTANBUL
0 212 458 22 70

a delicious discovery

Cihangir is a veritable maze of teeny-tiny winding streets, with treasures hidden around every corner. I just so happened to be walking down a street I've walked dozens of times, and noticed this charming little restaurant for the very first time, Hanımeli.


Hanımeli, which I just learned means honeysuckle, is so small that I bet you could only fit about twenty people inside, if you were squeezed tightly. You feel like you've been invited into someone's home, and that you're about to sit down to a warm and delicious home-cooked meal. The dining room is cosy, separated from the kitchen (which looks like my mum's kitchen) by a glass case of cold dishes, warm dishes placed tantalisingly on top. Ooh and the smell that greets you is incredible— dill, hot tomatoes and sweet onions.

I discovered Hanımeli while walking around with Javier the other day, and decided to bring two of my newest friends, Gyl and Tia to try it out. The life of a travelling nomad is a marvellous one— you never know where you'll end up and who you are going to meet. While in Budapest, I had the pleasure of meeting two fabulous travelling ladies, Molly and Nancy, and last week I got an email from Molly's friend Gyl, saying that she and Tia were coming to Istanbul and wanted to meet up. This is what I love most about my life— meeting new people, hearing new stories, discovery. After showing off my favourite Cihangir çaybahçesi, Gyl, Tia and I walked around the corner for some amazing stuffed zucchini, köfte and soup.


Seriously, look at that. Not only did my stomach love me, but the fact that each plate is around five lira, makes my artist's wallet happy too— and the owners/cooks of the restaurant are so sweet, the whole experience left me feeling warm.

Hanımeli Ev Yemekleri
Ağahamam Caddesi No.6A Firuzağa / Cihangir / İSTANBUL
0 212 245 98 78

dim sum!

Holy Cow! Istanbul has dim sum!

Having spent the better half of my twenties in San Francisco, the dim sum capitol of the United States (I'm sure there are plenty of New Yorkers who would fiercely disagree with me on that), I have what can only be explained as a passion for dim sum. For those of you that have never experienced this visual and delectable delight, dim sum is like a Chinese meze; a variety of light dishes to be enjoyed over tea. I love dim sum. So imagine the gasp of surprise and excitement I let out when I heard of Istinye Park's latest culinary addition— Dim Sum. Easy to remember, right?


So what did I have? To accompany my flowering jasmine tea, I chose steamed wasabi and prawn dumplings, squid cakes, steamed chicken and spinach dumplings, steamed lamb buns (normally they'd be filled with pork, but pork is not generally found on menus in Muslim countries), and the most exquisite and unusual mango prawn pastry. This pastry is something I could dream about at night.


An inventive spin on tradition, Dim Sum is located on the uppermost floor of Istinye Park, right next to House Café. Dishes of two to three pieces go from 7 to 11 lira— from what I can remember. Grab some friends and brave the mall crowd for a yummy, yummy experience.

birds and powdered orchids

I always wanted to be a bird. As a child, I collected feathers in a secret wooden box, and leapt off walls and swings while vigorously flapping my arms. I took up the trapeze as an adult. As I stood atop Galata Kulesi, cold hands on the even colder railing, I marvelled at the labyrinth of Istanbul spread out below me. Red-tiled crumbling roofs, salmon-walled buildings, grey cobblestones and silvery Bosphorus, Golden Horn and Marmara beneath my feet. Seagulls and jackdaws soared and plummeted in the wintery sky, this, their daily perspective.


After wandering around Beyoğlu all morning, I hopped on a ferry to Kadıköy for a heavenly lunch at Çiya, which has got to be my most favourite restaurant in this city. The waiters and guys behind the counters were so friendly, happy to explain what was in every single dish and offer recommendations. Beet salad and cooked turnip greens, oregano salad, dolmas, something with eggplants, a spicy nut purée— oh! There was this soup with chickpeas, lamb and yoghurt that just enveloped me in warmth— a silver bowl of comfort on a perfect rainy day. Fresh herbs, bold spices and subtle sauces. Every bite was exquisite, every scent a delight.

Belly full and happy, a walk in the icy rain was in order. Fishmongers and grocers called out the names of fish and fruit, as people huddled under umbrellas splashed by.


I warmed my fingers with a paper cup of sahlep on the ferry ride back to Beşiktaş. Sahlep is a hot, sweet beverage made from the ground tubers of orchids. It's thick and delicately flavoured— a flavour hard to describe— a wonderful winter treat.


Even though the minibuses of Istanbul will terrify you with their speed and irritate you with their stuffed-in-a-can sardine feeling, I love them. I love watching people lost in thought. What are they thinking? What worlds live behind their eyes, inside their hearts? When I sketch someone, I hope to feel even the tiniest bit of what they are feeling.