Unless any man is an enthusiast, it is as well to test
Turkish cookery at Tokatlian’s or Janni’s, and not to
venture into any of the Turkish restaurants in Stam-
boul. Not that the cookery is not excellent, for it is ;
but a Turk does not seem to mind how garish, or
sordid, or dirty the surroundings are, so long as his
food is well cooked. If you wish to try the novelty
of eating a Turkish dinner in a Turkish restaurant, do
not forget that a Turk takes his one substantial meal
of the day about noon. The best place at which to
experiment on Turkish cookery is an out-of-doors
eating-place in what is by courtesy called a garden
near Sta. Sophia. There is an enclosure and a grove
of dusty little trees. A kitchen and a wooden shed in
which the “ hubble-bubble ” pipes are ranged on
shelves are in the centre of the enclosure, and there
are many plain wooden chairs and tables occupied by
officials of all grades, military officers, and the Turkish
mercantile community.
Another dining-place is close to the railway station,
and in the Grande Rue de Sirkedji near the Galata
Bridge there is quite a choice of restaurants. At the
Restaurant Osmanlie in this street I have eaten red
mullet stewed in oil with pickled cabbage, peppers
and olives as a garnish, a capital Mousaka of Aubergines
— for there are several vegetable foundations for Mou-
sakas — a Bilaf Kabobs roasted over a charcoal fire, and
Baclava , as a “sweet.” The dinner was well cooked,
the oil surprising me by being excellent ; but the dirty
room, the cheap coloured prints, the great bunches of
foliage put in vases to attract the flies away from the
guests, the mirrors in soiled gilt frames, the strange
conglomeration of food shown in the windows to at-
tract customers, were not appetising. And the guests,
all of whom seemed to have been a week without a
shave, and such of them as showed any linen having
evidently quarrelled with their laundresses, were quite
Turkey 363
in keeping with the dirty blue paint on the walls
and the stains on the marble-topped tables.
Therapia
Constantinople, with its mangy dogs, and its streets
all in holes, always seems to me an unclean and
abominable city, and I take steamer as soon as
possible to Therapia, which is a civilised village.
Here, as in Pera, the choice of dining-places lies
between one of the Palace Hotels; the Therapia
Palace, and Tokatlian’s. Both are clean and airy,
and the sea breeze blowing down from the Black
Sea fills all the rooms with healthy salt-purified air.
I do not think that there is anything to choose
between the two hotels in the matter of cookery,
which is fair at each.
Constantinople Clubs
Page 195
Presented as published in 1903. Historical recipes may not meet modern food-safety standards. Cook from the modern interpretation, not the original instructions.
AI-modernized reading of the original text
Unless any man is an enthusiast, it is as well to test Turkish cookery at Tokatlian’s or Janni’s, and not to venture into any of the Turkish restaurants in Stamboul. Not that the cookery is not excellent, for it is ; but a Turk does not seem to mind how garish, or sordid, or dirty the surroundings are, so long as his food is well cooked. If you wish to try the novelty of eating a Turkish dinner in a Turkish restaurant, do not forget that a Turk takes his one substantial meal of the day about noon. The best place at which to experiment on Turkish cookery is an out-of-doors eating-place in what is by courtesy called a garden near Sta. Sophia. There is an enclosure and a grove of dusty little trees. A kitchen and a wooden shed in which the “ hubble-bubble ” pipes are ranged on shelves are in the centre of the enclosure, and there are many plain wooden chairs and tables occupied by officials of all grades, military officers, and the Turkish mercantile community.
Another dining-place is close to the railway station, and in the Grande Rue de Sirkedji near the Galata Bridge there is quite a choice of restaurants. At the Restaurant Osmanlie in this street I have eaten red mullet stewed in oil with pickled cabbage, peppers and olives as a garnish, a capital Mousaka of Aubergines — for there are several vegetable foundations for Mousakas — a Bilaf Kabobs roasted over a charcoal fire, and Baclava , as a “sweet.” The dinner was well cooked, the oil surprising me by being excellent ; but the dirty room, the cheap coloured prints, the great bunches of foliage put in vases to attract the flies away from the guests, the mirrors in soiled gilt frames, the strange conglomeration of food shown in the windows to attract customers, were not appetising. And the guests, all of whom seemed to have been a week without a shave, and such of them as showed any linen having evidently quarrelled with their laundresses, were quite
Turkey 363
in keeping with the dirty blue paint on the walls and the stains on the marble-topped tables.
Therapia
Constantinople, with its mangy dogs, and its streets all in holes, always seems to me an unclean and abominable city, and I take steamer as soon as possible to Therapia, which is a civilised village. Here, as in Pera, the choice of dining-places lies between one of the Palace Hotels; the Therapia Palace, and Tokatlian’s. Both are clean and airy, and the sea breeze blowing down from the Black Sea fills all the rooms with healthy salt-purified air. I do not think that there is anything to choose between the two hotels in the matter of cookery, which is fair at each.
Constantinople Clubs