I would describe the Turkish cuisine as
simplicity of flavor. Each savory dish focuses on one or two flavors. For
example, fava is a green, mashed broad bean dip with dill in the shape of a
soft, rectangular block. Eggplant salad is a mashed, burnt eggplant dip with
garlic. Red lentil soup is a thick lentil soup with parsley and lemon juice.
Fistik kebap are juicy meatballs with pistachios cooked on skewers. Cig kofte
are vegan lentil balls made with spicy red pepper paste, bulgur, and green
onions. Pide is a boat-shaped, goat cheese pizza with an egg cracked on top.
Lahmacun is a thin crust pizza with ground lamb meat and fresh parsley on top.
Grilled fish sandwiches include sliced tomatoes, arugula, and a squeeze of
lemon. Basically, Turks can afford to be a nation of picky eaters with such a
fantastic cuisine.
Next, I would describe Istanbul’s soundscape
as a sea of noise. On certain blocks the noise may be so loud that it is impossible
to hear the person standing next to you. “…And that is the meaning of life,” I
would say in between sound blasts. The daily sounds may include the shouts of
Turkish men selling fruits, vegetables, and bread on the streets; the horns of
docking or departing cruise ships and container ships floating along the
Bosphorus; the honks of taxis and cars; the dings of the tramway; the rattling
jackhammers drilling at construction sites; the calls to prayer reverberating
from the speakers attached to the mosque minarets; cats meowing and screeching
at each other; the early morning drums during the month of Ramadan; and, my
favorite, the cry of seagulls. Basically, the cacophony of sounds orients the
listener to what goes on in the city. I
often thought that Istanbul should create a decibel map by measuring the level
of noise around the city. As the popular T-shirt says, some call Istanbul
chaos, but I called it home.