u m a m i

To St Malo to see the sea, and a word about the Bigarrade

May is a curious month. There are three public holidays scattered in the first half so the French try to make long weekends around those dates and the city feels quieter than usual. The sun has been out since last weekend and we who have been locked in by the cold and blustery weather of March and April are taking the opportunity to go out and enjoy some warmth.

Even now, two weeks after our little weekend holiday, every time we take V out she asks if we're going to the seaside. St Malo and Mont St Michel obviously made an impression on her. We stayed in a small hotel in the walled city, took walks around the rampart, rode carousels, walked on the beach, collected seashells and it was absolutely lovely. Definitely a big improvement on the chateaux-tramping of our previous vacation in the Loire Valley. The eating was good too. Lots of crepes, in particular the butter and sugar ones at Chez Margaux. Also lots of seafood, like pink roses with intact ebiko, cold crab and my new favourite, sole meuniere.

Posting will be sporadic again because next week I join third and fourth sister in New York for a girly vacation. I need to shop for some skincare products and children's clothings. In the meantime, if anyone is coming over to Paris the go-to restaurant is definitely Bigarrade. People say it is this year's Spring. I'd say it is much better, euro for euro we get more value for the money as exemplified by a great dinner we ate last night. The multi-course menus (my 45 euro Gourmet one: 2 apps, 1 fish, cheese, 3 desserts and husband's 65 euro Gourmand version which adds one more each of appetiser, meat and dessert) were exciting, brilliantly delivered and very yummy. My favourite dish was a small dessert of mango dessert topped with dried olives, just the thing for a jaded palate.

         

La Bigarrade, 106 rue Nollet. 17th arr. M: Brochant.

T: 01 42 26 01 02

A bowl of rice

               

St Malo was absolutely fabulous. We stayed in one of the many hotels within the old fort town and had a great time walking on the surrounding rampart, playing in the sand and eating superfresh seafood. I have not gotten round to processing the pictures so today I will highlight my current twin staples: plain rice and its perfect condiment.

Everyday we are bombarded by news of rising food prices especially rice. Two weeks ago at Tang Frères many of the shoppers' trolleys contained a big bag of rice, 20kg of the new harvest rice was 32.50 euros, up from the 25+ euros we paid for the same bag just two months ago. Needless to say we are more conscious and appreciative of our daily bowl and make sure not to waste a single grain of it. Instead of cooking dishes to go with rice, I have been simplifying our menus to make the rice the main focus. It can be a bowl of white jasmine rice, sometimes studded with a few precious grains of wild rice (not a rice technically) or mixed with some brown rice or other whole grains or legumes. Then I look for something simple to match the rice.

Around the same time, I came across a nearly forgotten speech by Lim Kit Siang when he talked about his son Lim Guan Eng's prison days:

He relates an incident during a meal on Sunday where each prisoner is given a single hard-boiled egg.  He was unlucky enough to receive a rotten egg. As he could not get a replacement egg, he had to eat plain rice. How he long for some ‘kicap’ to go with his plain rice!  Still, this experience will allow him to have a better story to tell his children than the one his mother told him when he was young. To coax the children to finish their rice when  young, his mother loved to compare her difficult days when she had to eat rice only with kicap.  Now, Guan Eng can say that he is worse off than his mother, kicap also not available - just plain rice!

I was moved by this man's strength and optimism, but more than that I was curious to taste for myself some rice with only kicap, or light soy sauce as we refer to it back home. I remember my paternal grandfather used to do that too but by our generation we were encouraged to eat less rice and fill up with meat, fish, vegetables etc instead. Driven by these ambiguous memories and evocative story, I went into the kitchen to scoop some cooked rice (it happened to be white rice and Korean 5-grain mix that day) and sprinkled it with a few drops of my favourite soy/seasoning sauce. It was a delicious combination, the nutty rice chewing slowly to release its starches and sugars tinged with the umamilicious sauce. I was hooked, and it has been at least three weeks now that I've been eating lunches of just rice and a simple condiment along with some obligatory vegetables and protein matter.

               

What else goes well with rice? Well, Bordier butter flecked with sel fumée (smoked salt) for example. Before she left Paris, Sui Mai told me about melting some of this cult butter on hot rice. And what do you know, last Sunday morning I was in St Malo and there on the little street there was a Bordier signboard. Unfortunately the shutters were drawn though there was a sign saying their butters were sold in the fishmonger across the street. Butter will make any old rice tasty but this golden butter with black flecks of smoked seasalt turns it into another being altogether, mmmm total deliciousness; the smokiness did make me ask where's the ham as it was inexplicably meaty tasting as well. The butter is equally good with bread and home-popped popcorn ( credit to Sui Mai for this too) but I think I'll keep what's left of my tiny stash for rice.

Other well-known condiments would include good quality XO sauce. Like the butter and soy sauce, a little scoop goes a long way and if I have some on hand I usually accompany my XO rice with a boiled egg and some green vegetables. If I don't feel so lavish I would substitute with some Lau Gan Ma chilli sauce, especially the versions boosted with some chicken bones or pork nibs and black olives. Some Indian pickles would be perfect too but this is very hard to find, usually I finish the little pot that they give out with the pappadums at Aarchna my favourite Indian restaurant (19 rue Telegraph, 20th arr, T:+33 (1) 40330657).

But what really gets me and GG going is this jar of gouramy paste we picked up at The Big Store in the Chinatown area of Avenue d'Ivry. For many weeks now, I have been yearning for some cincaluk. It started with lunch at Odori where an order for cold boiled pig trotters came with a little dish of fermented shrimps very much like a less salty cousin of cincaluk. Cold gelatinous pork with cincaluk turned out to be a match made in heaven. However, as husband didn't like neither pig trotters nor cincaluk I had to doggy-back most of it home and the next day GG and I shared it for lunch; the restaurant were so sweet to give us another tiny plastic pot of the dip which we started eating with our just-cooked rice and within minutes we were both rhapsodizing over the pungent baby shrimplets. After that I looked in the Korean stores and all the Asian grocers in Paris and it was impossible to find. Unbelievable! I remembered seeing bottles of it in Paristore and Tang Frères before but had refrained from buying because if left uneaten, the sauce tends to bubble and grow and the bottle has been known to explode in the fridge which will definitely piss my husband off. Just when I want it, the supply dries up, Melaccan, Penang, Korean, all nada, GG even checked the Filipino grocer at Ave Victor Hugo and found only an inferior version. Maybe it's the wrong season, but I hope the stores carry it again.

             

This pickled gouramy sauce has therefore saved me from going a bit mad. I've never tried it before but the description of it sounded closest to cincaluk so we decided to try some. Made of gouramy/gourami fish, ground rice and salt, it is pungent in a very good way, of salted fish and lots of ginger and of course fermentation, some would call it funky and first-timers would probably faint. Sludgy and finely gritty sediments- see top image-would describe the overall texture but the taste is crazy good. Salty, savoury, sweet, gingery and sour all at the same time and then finishing on a decidedly spicy kick. It is our favourite topping for our rice these days though we try to ration ourself as it is very salty and probably loaded with preservatives after all. I am not even sure if this is the most well-liked brand in Thailand but this is the only brand available so we'll take what we can get. Interestingly there is an article on the internet which found that like some fermented foods it contains fibrinolytic enzymes which dissolve clots. There is probably a twisted logic here: eat pickled gouramy, get hypertension, then thrombolytic stroke/ heart attack/ gangrenous legs, then dissolve clots with more pickled gouramy. The humble little fish gets the last laugh haha!

             

La Petite pause

               

And we take a break because I have a mountain of reading waiting for my attention and exams to prepare for. Come the weekend we will drive to the sea, to St Malo; let's hope that the sun will be out and we can enjoy lots of Normandy butter and its derivatives.

Above picture is of an apple tartlette from the famous ice cream shop Berthillon on the Ile de la Cite. The scoops that they dispense are so very tiny, after regretfully licking the last drops of ice cream one can look forward to another ephemeral treat of butter, caramel and apples. Bonne vacances!

We do bistros and brasseries too!

               

Eating with the French is always interesting. Since my spoken French is far from fluent, I am quite contented to listen and the topics, well, fascinating would be putting it mildly. How about plastic surgery and french beauties, divorces, matchmakings, saving wayward French hostages, muggings, holidaying in Colombia and grand chefs of Lyon to start with?

The restaurants chosen are also different from where we might tend to go to, you know, the tiny, overbooked under-30 covers place run by an ex-chef from famous 2 or 3 star establishment and his/her spouse and maybe a spare harried waitstaff but which is all mitigated for, hopefully, by food to swoon over. In contrast most of these "dine with the locals" meals have been in larger establishments serving classic foods with comfortable surroundings and brigades of waitstaffs. Such as Montparnasse 1900 last night. The restaurant has existed for nearly 100 years and was run by the same family for a long time before being sold off to someone else. Sitting on a plush leather banquette in the midst of gorgeous Art Nouveau everything (ceilings, walls, lightings, tiles, my tachycardic heart overwhelmed by all the beautiful craftwork), taking in the details such as the luggage racks and coathooks which harks back to the days when passengers eat there after disembarking from their train at nearby Gare Montparnasse, when we think about it all, the food hardly mattered anymore.

               

Not that it was terrible, thankfully it was not bad at all. Cocktail of avocado and shrimps, steak frites, floating islands (île flottante), creme brulée for husband- competent classic dishes, though my steak was too classical in the sense that I had to chew and chew until my jaws ached and my head screamed. So the food doesn't make you go and extol, say, the whimsical pairing of vanilla and watercress but it does allow one to relax, to carry on a civilised conversation, to butter up the baguettes, to finish the kir petillante (sparkly blackcurrant and champagne cocktail) and to raid the chocolate almonds in the sugar basket come coffee time.

               

If one prefers Art Deco, there is also La Coupole further along the same street, or Le Boeuf sur le Toit near Champs Elysée. And then there's always the bistros like Chez George and Bistrot de la Muette; the decor would not be nearly as elaborate, and the tables are closer together but these places are always full of locals as well as tourists enjoying an uncomplicated night out. 

Addresses below:

Montparnasse 1900: 59 Blvd Montparnasse (6th) T: +33 1 4549 1900

La Coupole: 102 Blvd Montparnasse (14th) T: +33 1 4320 1420

Le Boeuf sur le Toit: 34 rue du Colisée (8th)T: +33 1 5393 6555

Bistro de la Muette: 10, Chaussée Muette (16th) T: +33 1 4520 3593

Chez Georges: 273 Boulevard Pereire, (17th) T: +33 1 4574 3100

Artisan Saveurs

               

Last weekend on the way to Bon Marché we passed Artisan Saveurs, a small and charming restaurant/salon du thé on 72 rue du Cherche Midi. Their door and exterior woodwork had just been been painted a fresh layer of vivid red, beckoning us in for a spot of lunch and a cuppa.

               

The lunch menu was short, mostly tasty and straightforward interpretations of home-style dishes like fricassée du lapin (rabbit), millefeuille of lamb sweetbreads, marinated salmon and ragoût de cochon (braised pork) served with a healthy pile of salad and side dishes like polenta, gratinéed potatoes or rice. Comfortable seating, pleasant and cosy decor and attentive service may explain how this place has been in business for nearly ten years.

               

Their tea menu is long and our Darjeeling selections were brewed before being transferred to the teapot which is correct and would have been even better if they had been more generous with the tea leaves. I chose from the fairly large and tempting dessert and pastry menu a Savarin au Rhum, deliciously well-soused and surrounded by ladylike fruit slices.

All in, a genteel and tranquil place for lunch or a shopping pause in the neighbourhood. They also have baking classes if one is so inclined.

Below: a pictobrowser and composite images of home-cooked lunches for those days when I do not have any lunch appointments, some of which have featured on the blog before. To read the notes please place mouse over the word on the bottom right corner.

Acide

               

Since I am in a bit of a sour mood I decided to pick up a box of frÜ Sicilian Lemon cheesecake dessert. It's good if a bit expensive, and their GÜ range of chocolate desserts is not too bad either.

Why am I in a sour mood though? One, all the China-bashing in the press has been dragging me down. The protests against the Beijing Olympics and its associated hypocrisy, overbearing presumptiousness, smugness and bare-faced opportunism have been so unrelenting it's effects have instead waken some latent Nationalist sentiments in myself. My father would be proud of me I think.

Two, the métro station closest to my school is closed until mid-June so I am not liking this inconvenience.

Three, I just spent a whole morning reading this rubbish book called Doggy Bag by a French writer Philippe Djian. He tries to write in a chick flick meets American prime-time series format and fails abjectly: the plot never moves along, earthquakes mix uneasily with alcoholism and preoccupation with sex, one third of the way through and I still couldn't tell the characters apart. I should have saved my 8 euros for an Asterix comic or settle for yet another translated P.G Wodehouse caper. 

Four, I was walking along the streets and at the corner of Ave George V and Ave Pierre Charron I spied from the corner of my eye a tall suited Caucasian man walking at cross angles and mentally calculated that at the speeds we were both walking along we would definitely bump into each other. In the past I would have stopped, or veered to the side but I was in a mutinous mood. Why should it be me who gives way? The French would never do such a thing, if they bump into you they pretend it didn't happen, if I bumped into them first I would be "tsked tsked" at. Husband says only the Chinese and Japanese do the zig zag walk, and bearing his words in mind I walked straight ahead and hoped for the best. The tall white man in the suit stopped, if he was a cartoon car he would have slammed onto the brakes and screeched to a halt. Whew, I quickly walked away, but not before hearing him say "Pardon" in an English accent. I felt a little bad, but also pleased. Which also explains why when I was perusing the dessert shelf in Carrefour I shunned all the French brands and went English instead!

The Olympics flame passed our street junction

 

Last night it snowed. It was the last thing I expected when I drew the curtains for bedtime. At first I thought it was so strange that the rain was pouring in a horizontal direction, then my eyes registered the flurries and dances of the flakes by the light of the streetlamp. It was mesmerising and beautiful. We wished hard that the snow would settle, from our window we could see husband's car getting a fine dusting, and hoped that the next day V would wake up to see snow. Alas, in the morning it had all melted and the weather was cold and chilly though not in an unwelcome way, looking at all the green trees and jaunty flower beds we are definitely putting winter behind us.

In the afternoon I was interrupted by the sound of helicopters circling overhead. It's not an unusual thing in this neighbourhood, the helicopters come out at the slightest reason- a marathon, Bastille Day celebrations, Veteran's Day, inauguration of the President, a state visit etc- and we are usually grateful if they do not also close the metro stations and/or block the roads. Still, the helicopter was so loud it was practically outside, when I popped out to check, it was actually above us. Looking into Place de Beyrough I saw that Avenue Marceau was completely blocked to vehicles other than police vans.  People from the opposite building came out to observe on their balconies, and traffic came to a standstill.

It was the passing of the Olympic flame, though I was clueless at that time and did not keep an eye out for a runner bearing a torch. Oops, I've just read that the torch was extinguished three times and they had to put it in a bus. Apparently 3000 policemen were deployed in this exercise alone, although  most of them who passed our junction were sitting safely in a van instead of facing off with the protesters. By the time the bus came round I saw and heard only one protester, and a handful of press photographers, contrary to what is reported elsewhere. Also, does this mean that if the Chinese don't do what the protesters want, the games would be boycotted and the thousands of sportsmen who trained so hard have to put their dreams on hold and miss out on the medals.

            

Still, one may ask, what has all these events, fascinating as they may be, have to do in a food blog? Nothing. But I do have a picture of a roasted leg of milk-fed piglet which I bought for a Saturday lunch from the market butcher . The meat was milky and tender, delicious, we finished the lot in one sitting and the dogs got to chew on the bones so they too were happy.

          

Too right says Mimi. Now if only someone could explain to her why the helicopter is still around even though it is nearly 10 p.m The protesters are not tired yet?

Also, I am updating my Twitter more frequently, see column on right hand side.

Eating Fish in Istanbul

It's easy enough to associate Turkish food with kebabs, but fish is a whole different kettle altogether ain't it? Perhaps it is not that common in the rest of Turkey but Istanbul is surrounded by water on at least three sides, with the most beautiful body being the glittering sapphire of the Bosphorus Sea. The catch is often so fresh that fishmongers display them by showing off their vibrant red gills. The cats prowling the neighbourhoods would no doubt be satisfied by the quality as evidenced by their ample girths.

               

We were advised to visit Dolmabahce Palace along the Bosphorus Sea. It is a showcase palace, full of tributes from other countries and is decorated to the hilt with the best craftsmanship and materials of its time. The view was not too bad either.

               

Above, a detail from a bathroom of the alabaster floors.               

               

Another place that we were advised to visit is Bebek. It is about 20-30 minutes drive from Taksim Square and is a whole different world altogether. Of luxury yatchs, elegant tea salons and villas with fantastic views, reminding me of Sausalito and other upscale waterside neighbourhoods. It was pouring madly the evening we visited, and we took refuge in the nearest fish restaurant, because well, one has to visit Bebek and eat fish, and found ourselves in Bebek Balikçi, an old-school and rather grand restaurant with a covered deck jutting into the sea. Even on a wet weekday night it enjoyed a good turnover with businessmen, couples and the occasional tourists like ourselves.

The menu was very short: starters to choose from a tray that the waiters, in black vests and long aprons, bring over to our table, option to have salads or not and then one's choice of fish simply cooked and served with maybe some boiled potatoes or steamed vegetables. We skipped the salads and enjoyed our Turkish wine with fat marinated sardines and marinaded vegetables. The fish prices were by no means cheap but heck we've came out all this way so we decided to live dangerously. I had fried turbot, my very first time eating turbot which even when I was studying in London I came to understand was a revered fish usually served with great ceremony. The fish is flat and generously oval in shape, and studded with barbacle-like protuberances which makes eating a bit fiddly yet the flesh is fine and very sweet. Husband had bluefish, a local favourite, it was fleshy and delicate in flavour.

On the way out we noticed an article pinned to a wall, in it was a list of the top ten fish restaurants in the city. Bebek Balickci was third. Korfez which we had reservations to but did not go in the end because I was too tired, was number 10. Number 1 was given to Kiyi which we did go to, on a beautiful sunny Sunday. Everyone was out to soak in the sun, and our taxi crawled painfully slowly for nearly an hour before we reached Tarabya Bay.

A word about the taxis in the city. First, the driver should use a meter. If there is a meter it should start at 2 liras unless it is night when the night rate start from 3 liras. The meter should not jump too fast, example from Eminonu to Taksim is less than 10 liras and from Taksim to Bebek is less than 20 liras. We knew we were conned when a journey from Taksim to Ortakoy which should cost less than 10 liras ended up as 25 liras, the meter was jumping in an erratic and unpredictable manner. The surest way to be conned is to hail a taxi which is waiting in front of a hotel or a tourist attraction. The driver will pretend that the place we wish to go is closed, or he will 'forget' to turn on the meter or take a long route. We fell for all of these tricks and learnt after a while to only hail passing taxis and to keep a close eye on the meter.

So there we were, enjoying the beautiful scenery of the blue sea, the Bosphorus Bridge and families out strolling or fishing along the coastline stretching to the bay while the taxi kept getting stalled in the one-lane traffic. The meter doesn't seem to tick much when the car is stationery and the driver had to resort to driving against the flow of traffic a few times, very dangerous, at those times the only thing to do is to close our eyes and hope for the best. Finally we reached the restaurant and husband gave him a good tip for his trouble. The driver must have appreciated it because 5 minutes later he returned with my umbrella which I had carelessly left behind.

               

Our lunch was superb. We ordered quite a few appetisers because it all sounded good- fried calamari, fried mussels, stuffed mussel (yes, just the one) and tarama. The waiters didn't speak much English but they were ever so helpful, telling us which fish was available -about 3 on the day of our lunch- and giving good advice, e.g. No, not the lobster because it is wildly expensive, and recommending cooking methods.

                

Above: tarama with toast. Pale orange, briny, delicious, worlds apart from the pink paste one finds in supermarkets. Also a giant prawn grilled to perfect succulence, a dish of tiny shrimps sauteed in spicy Turkish peppers and a whole grilled seabass. Not a wrong note anywhere, breads were replenished without us needing to ask, fresh cutlery supplied with every dish (we ended up with a stunning collection of unused ones), the waiters standing by yet not in the way and generally being totally sweet and accommodating. We cleaned our plates with a bit of regret, considered ordering more food, drank up our chilled white wine and were blissfully contented. The fact that we were sitting next to the window with a dreamy view of the boats floating in the marina did not hurt either. 

               

We still had room for desserts. TWO desserts in fact. Of poached quince with milk ice cream. Oohlala it was good, the fruit on the bottom fresh and yielding while the compote on top firmer, jammier and a little spicy.

               

Steamed pumpkin with more of that incredibly rich milky ice cream and a shower of fresh chopped nuts. With some coffee to help us sober up for the trip back to town.

                              

But not before joining the teenagers and kids with balloons on the marina for a little stroll. And then it was off in a taxi where I dozed a bit and opened my eyes just in time to see a big sign saying "Kanyon" which I have learnt from my friend the Internet is a trendy shopping mall. The words "please, please stop here" blurted from my mouth and he stepped on the brakes. We spent the rest of the day wandering its eerie lonely corridors, watching a lousy Hollywood movie (The Flock) and eating rubbish food at Wagamama.

Thus concludes our Istanbul eating adventures. Husband is still remarking on how good the food was, all the kebabs and baklavas that we'll meet in the future will have a hard time measuring up. If I am fortunate enough to return, I would spend my days along the coast doing nothing much at all, just whiling my time until the next meal comes along. That would be simply perfect. 

Madam, would you like some hairy cheese?

               

This is a typical breakfast served at our hotel. Freshly squeezed orange juice, breads, cheese plate of white cheese and stringy white cheese, tomatoes, olives, butter, white cheese with cherry preserves and more honey and spreads in little pots. Eggs are available too. In the beginning we ate everything, then just the eggs and on our last few days only coffee and juice. Much like in England and our love-hate tango with their full English breakfast.

               

As we can tell from breakfast the Turks love cheese. Most of their cheese are white, in big no-nonsense chunks and also in bags of ropey strings which the vendor grabs and pulls. And always, outside the cheese stalls in the markets, is one of the above mystery object. I touched it- it is really animal hair. The vendor would then offer a small chunk of the cheese that is matured inside this ?goat cavity, the cheese is like feta- crumbly, chalky (in a good way), salty, grassy.

               

On the second day we played tourist. For two hours at the Topkapi Palace, plenty enough already so we went on all the way to Nisantasi to shop for carpets. I bought a very big rug which on hindsight is rather too big for our sitting room but I could not resist the unusual blue green colours, as well as a colourful runner. Therefore on the second day we had a mission to buy a foldable sac to contain the rug. The Grand Bazaar was not much use, it is big and the architecture is a marvel and all that but to us it was just an overgrown souvenir shop. It is also not far from the Egyptian Bazaar, and on the way we walked through a wholesale market area for luggage and found our cheap collapsible plastic bag. Mission accomplished, we entered the treasure cave that is the Egyptian Bazaar. It is known as a spice market but is much much more. There are lots of spices, especially good for tracking down sumac, olives, teas, kebab seasonings and also unusual things like hollowed out dried eggplants and even Iranian caviar if one is so inclined. We discovered Turkish pistachios, the stuff that is in all the pastries and cookies out there. The shopkeeper pooh-poohed the idea of Sicilian pistachios, to him only the Turkish and the Iranian stuff are superior. We were not going to disagree, his pistachios were small, prettily pink-skinned, lightly seasoned and highly delicious. 

               

Other than spice shops and lokum displays, the other predominant stalls sell spicy beef called pastirma and more beefy sausages. My first encounter with pastirma was at Changa where we dined on our first evening, following Chubby Hubby's recommendations. The restaurant is the last word in hip and cool, the waiters wear LCD badges which displays their names like an electronic ticker tape. We sat on the first storey, where there is a transparent opening in the floor to allow diners to see the action in the kitchen below.

The food was firmly fusion and most dishes cram many seemingly incongruous ingredients together. As expected with inventiveness and fusion foods some creations work better than others. In a restaurant with such staying power (it has been around since 1999) it obviously has more winners than losers and on the whole our meal was rather enjoyable. Hits for us included a starter of scallops, pastirma and hummus which is an inventive twist on the rather more traditional bacon-wrapped scallops, also a very excellent dish of roasted lamb with red cabbage, sumac, pomegranate mollasses, peanuts and braised apple, and a stunning dessert of pear poached with chilli pepper and red wine served with milk mastic ice cream and snowed under with their local fairy floss pismaniye. Roasted salmon miso, coconut sauce, rose petals and coriander would have been better if they used fresh coconut milk, the packaged creams always sink whatever they're served with. Still, the most incredible thing we ate there was the breadrolls. Innocuous looking but when bitten and chewed up, it releases the aroma of rose petals, startling and delightful, leaving me to wander how they managed such an extraordinary feat.

               

Strolling through and around the Egyptian bazaar can make one very hungry indeed. We were not sure what to have for lunch and hoped for the best by going for the restaurant above the bazaar itself, accessible by a steep staircase from the short end of the L-shaped building. Bab-i-Hayat serves doner kebabs and sandwiches in a casual cafe below but upstairs it is expansive with many tables, cushioned canapes and soaring tiled ceilings, all rather splendid. One can select items from a buffet of hot and cold dishes or order from their menu of grilled meats. We pointed and got a plate assembled with rice, stuffed aubergines, chickpea beef stew, mini-raviolis and more stews and braises. Delicious and helped to fill the stomach until our mixed grill arrived and that was rather good too even though the meats looked like it could benefit from a longer time on the grill.

               

Most of our restaurant recommendations came from Chubby Hubby and Istanbul food blogger Cenk of Cafe Fernando. One evening when we did not have any place to go to and a kebab place that was lauded in that week's TimeOut was fully booked, we asked the receptionist to recommend something and he suggested Haci Baba. He even had their brochure to show us. We duly made our way there and found ourselves in a large restaurant with traditional decorations and every table occupied by tourists. Uh oh. To give them benefit of doubt, we ordered some dishes. Cold vegetable appetisers passed muster but when our main courses arrived we knew we had been conned. Our kebab plates looked like something a child can put together using their wooden pieces of food toys, you know, the type with the big slit in the middle for the pretend knife. My chicken fillet, which I had ordered because they were out of grilled aubergines, looked like a flattened blackboard eraser with fake grill marks and was woefully underseasoned, it's neighbours an espresso cup sized portion of rice, four, yes dear god, four pieces of pallid undercooked French fries and one thumb-sized grilled pepper could not quite fill up the plate. Husband's lamb shish-kebabs were no better, the cubes looked brown but tasted microwaved. I almost cried, this was not my idea of a Saturday night dinner. We felt bad about wasting food but decided to cut our losses and take our chances elsewhere.

Just around the corner from their rear exit we came across a corner sofrasi which I think is a Turkish word for home-style restaurant. Medi Sark Sofrasi (Istiklal Caddessi, Kucukparmakkapi Sok, 46A Beyoglu IST T: 0212 244 90 56-57) was occupied by three-generational Turkish families, young couples, the local toughies, we were the only foreigners until a group of savvy french speaking ladies walked in. Inside it feels like opium parlor, Bedouin camp and backpacker cafe all mixed up. Seating is on shared canapes and a large copper-tooled tray served as a table. The menu is short, I ordered the grilled aubergines and husband the mixed grill.

               

While waiting, we munched on freshly baked flatbread. It arrived in a big pouf and deflates after being punctured by impatient fingers. To scoop fresh tomato and cucumber salad or to dunk into a dynamite-hot spread. Haci Baba nightmare receding, we started to enjoy our evening.

               

The aubergines were smoky and melty, the skin charred so one has to scrape the flesh away and dollop them on breads or smoosh on the minced meat kebabs, I swooned on the first mouthful. Everything on the mixed grill plate was fabulous, from the red cabbage salad, parsley raw onion salad, various pides and obviously the grilled lamb and chicken pieces. The chicken drumlets were especially finger-licking good. The proprieter's girlfriend/wife/ lady friend came in and proceeded to eat bread and a huge bowl of salad. Just when I thought this is how Turkish ladies keep their figures, she started on a hefty plate of kebabs while the proprieter hugged a generous portion of said chicken wings. We cleaned up our plates and ate up the bread, then reclined on the chairs with full bellies and were able only to ask for tea to finish before waddling back to our hotel.

               

Haci Bekir is a well-known purveyor of lokums otherwise known as Turkish Delights. They have a small outlet on Istiklal Caddessi but we found a much warmer welcome in their outlet at the Asian district of Kadikoy, accessible by a 20 minute trip from Eminonu pier. Kadikoy on a Saturday morning was especially festive, there is a lively market and a few hundred pastry shops. The staff are quick to offer samples and before we knew it, we were tucking a few boxes of pistachio lokums for people back home. The shop is just opposite Baylan patisserie which Cenk mentions as famous for their icecream confections but we were saving our tummies for the main reason of the trip i.e. Ciya Sofrasi, so we only bought some chocolates.

               

There is actually three Ciyas along the Guneslibahce Sokak which is the main path as you wander along the market. Ciya Kebabs serve mainly kebabs and there is a cafe-kebab-sofrasi two doors down but we plumped for Ciya Sofrasi because I remember that in his blog Cenk mentioned a buffet area comprising a cold/ dessert bar on one side and a hot food/doner section on the other. Everyone coming in passes through the buffet turnstile and spends agonising minutes deciding what to eat, we did our usual point and hoped for the best. And it was amazing. The specialty is Anatolian cuisine which means not much to us, but it doesn't need a lot of knowledge to appreciate their various slow-braised meat dishes, the unusual wild vegetables, the clean flavours and the subtle aromatics. The cold buffet section is mainly vegetarian, we much preferred the hot dishes, somehow meat enlivens a stuffed aubergine like no amount of spiced and herbed rice can.

               

Even though we were approaching bursting point, I still stood up to look into the pots. Bingo, the messy vegetable dish looks like nothing special but it was sweet, leafy and meaty, with tender stems, reminding me so much of braised preserved mustard greens (mui-choy) from back home. The other plate is of Iskender kebab which is slices of meat from the rotating kebab stand placed on top of bread and slathered with sauce, honestly a bit superfluous considering the other dishes but husband had to have his kebab. A bit later I realised we could have asked for half-portions which would have enabled us to sample more....

               

We had to save room for dessert, in particular kerebiç which Cenk endorse wholeheartedly as something which would form part of his last meal. It arrived as a large cookie with a splodge of cinnamon covered sticky meringue like substance; Cenk explains that the splodge is made from a special foam from a special tree that also aids digestion. Tea in the background is made with oregano.   

               

The cookie crumbled to reveal mucho ground pistachios. It was salty yet sweet, nutty and crumbly. Meant to be savoured slowly,  with or without the foam which I didn't quite take to on account of the cinammon topping, accompanied by more tea of course. Seriously good, simple yet very sophisticated. Other diners were digging into slices of candied pumpkin and we so wanted to have a slice too but the stomach was filled to the brim already.

Never fear, for the next day we went to another place, heartstoppingly beautiful, and another palace, this time drop dead stunning, and we got our greedy forks into pumpkins and other yumminess. But that's a story for another post, now is a good time, I suggest, to scroll back up and drool at the pictures again. 

I love Simit.

               

This is Simit. It's a screwy (is this a naughty word? ) circular bread with sesame crust. It chews like a bagel but is also soft yet nutty. They make a good anytime snack, I should know, because we never could resist them, especially when they are brought out fresh from the oven like this burnished beauty.

               

In Istanbul, and the rest of Turkey too I would imagine, simit is available everywhere, all the time. In bakeries and on the streets. The vendors sell them from dinky carts and some carry them around on trays and baskets, even on their heads.

               

Here is an aerial shot of a simit diving into freshly dripped honey (from their combs) and home-made yoghurt. Yumyum.

And to think that Istanbul almost did not happen. We did flip-flop somewhat over whether to go or not to go. Back in December after we returned to Paris from our blissful Singapore/KL trip, husband and I admitted to ourselves that our old bones and joints are not what they used to be and weren't really that compatible with the damp cold weather, wouldn't it be nice to go somewhere with longer day hours, someplace not too far away that doesn't spend in euros because the euro is so strong now. We considered Marakkesh and Istanbul, both depaysanne as my French teacher puts it, exotic places with occidental and oriental influences. Marakkesh didn't work out in the end- we managed to book the riad and then Air France announced that it would no longer fly to Marakkesh as of 1 April and the other alternative of Air Maroc was just not feasible after reading safety reviews of their planes which seems to be held together by masking tape. Istanbul it was then, and fortunately we were able to book a hotel room just before their high season starts. Before we know it we have spent six unforgettable days there, coming home in time to welcome the first day of spring, a little wet and chilly though it may be.

Istanbul: there's a good reason why it is not popular in winter which we realised when we were sitting in the taxi on the way to our hotel and our nostrils were continuously assailed by the not too pleasant smells of air pollution, diesel and stale fish. Apparently this winter smog disappears in spring. Anyway, the drive was not particularly pretty, not until we pulled into the Sultanahmet area and beheld the centuries-old museums and palaces as well as the crazy traffic, then across Galata bridge and its fishing enthusiasts, into Taksim square and the crowds, the monuments and finally our conveniently located hotel with the cringe-making name of Lush Hip Hotel. For a tiny hotel I was not expecting to be beaten to the check-in desk by a group of chain-smoking, german-speaking fashion types but shit sometimes happen and we had to wait a little longer before we were settled into our small but clean room. With his and hers amenities- girls get tampons and sanitary towels while guys get gold packet condoms. L'occitane toiletries. Duvets. Modern soothing decor. Very helpful staff, but not so helpful when it comes to restaurant recommendations but more on that later. When I opened the window I saw that the hotel is right across from Changa where we had dinner reservations for the very same night; I had booked it because the address was in the neighbourhood but I didn't figure that it was literally across the road, there we go these neat things do happen sometimes. Things started looking up from that point onwards.

               

Our so-called lunch on the flight over consisted of traffic red smoked salmon and vinegared lentils, too horrible to eat, so I had to make do on just a tiny roll which probably accounted for the grouchy mood that lasted until we were able to venture out and encounter Olimpia patisserie a few yards off the hotel.             

               

The range of cakes, pastries and cookies were so wide we hardly knew where to start so we randomly pointed and chose. Little did we know that this would be the pattern of the entire trip, eating all sorts of cakes, pastries and cookies, more than the combined eating of pastries in Paris! Olimpia is only one of seemingly hundreds of such little neighbourhood joints and within two hours of our arrival my empty stomach was filled with one after another of baked treats.

               

We ended up at Olimpia nearly every day come 5 pm when the system gasps for something sweet to be washed down with a glass of cay (tea).

               

Like baklava type pastries of filo sheets layered with pistachios and doused with rose syrups.

               

We went to other places of course, like venerated Sutis along Istitlal Caddessi. Their display of baklavas and sugar-drenched sweets is more jaw-dropping but one can't eat too many baklavas and my attention was riveted by other things.

               

Like their sutlac, or baked rice pudding. Underneath the weird but delicious skin which is a masterpiece in itself being neither too burnt nor underbaked, just nice and delightfully yielding and tear-able, are found plump yet integral grains of rice suspended in a creamy milky pudding soup made enriched with ground rice. Not too sweet as other versions can be. I also ordered an intriguing pudding made with chicken breast meat but the server didn't understand me and I let it go, pretty stupid huh?

               

The copper-molded ceiling of Sutis was what drew me into the cafe in the first place. The rest of their decor is beautiful too, making it an oasis of beauty and class in the crazy street that Istiklal is.

               

We tried the Savoy too, it's been around since 1950 and the upstairs sitting area is popular with young people and families alike.

               

But we always ended up in Olimpia. Its decor is simple, the television screen shows non-stop football action which the locals are crazy over, and nobody understands English but it felt just right to us. One night we couldn't be bothered to go out for dinner so we snacked on more of their baked savoury goods in our room instead.

             

While Istiklal Caddessi is quite tacky the many side streets and corners that branches off it makes for some fun exploring. Besides the patisseries, there are many kebab shops and small joints serving snacky bread pockets of cheese or caramelised onions.

             

These snack shops typically have a huge round pan of what appears to be a macaroni pie. We were given a small sample to taste and it was lovely, the goat cheese adds flavour but does not make it too rich. That's the beauty of  Turkish food, the flavourings never veers into excessive or overwhelming, always preserving the natural tastes and using aromatics just to enhance or complement. The philosophy is similar to Cantonese food which may explain our easy fondness for it.

             

More bread, pizza like with meat toppings. Near the Egyptian Bazaar.

             

Tea is the ubiquitous beverage to drink with breads and cakes and everything else, we certainly drank more than our share. On the streets tea boys deliver tea on specially adapted trays, sometimes covering the tea with a little dish of sugar cubes to protect from the dust. After dinner most locals finish with cups of tea instead of dessert. There is also Turkish coffee too but I find it too bitter and powdery even when sipped very slowly as advised. It'll always be cay for me, and a simit if it's possible!

In the next post we visit the markets and eat foods from other food groups such as meats and fish....