SAUCE MAGAZINE
Posted On: 02/01/2009
Upon returning to Turkey after a summer break in St. Louis, we decided to upgrade our mattress. This meant hauling our loaner up 180 steps to our landlord’s building.
Having a frame too small for the task, I called a friend to see if he was available to help my husband, Steve. I was so excited about getting a new bed that I hastily offered what we consider gold in Turkey. “If you help us get the mattress up the hill, we’ll give you a jar of chunky Smucker’s Peanut Butter.”
James was at our apartment within 15 minutes.
After living in Istanbul last year, we’ve become acquainted with many expats, all longing for food from home: sushi, fried chicken, hamburgers, even Marmite. Of course, the gourmet grocer does have Jif, but, being a purist, I cannot pay $7 for a peanut butter that contains sugar. And, yes, there are restaurants in Istanbul where you can find something that resembles what you miss, but it never really hits the spot.
I must admit, it was difficult to hand over that peanut butter, even though I’d brought back 12 pounds to last us the year. Before we left St. Louis, the possibility of using food for favors had crossed my mind. We also packed what was perhaps the most desirable currency among our carnivorous expat friends: pork. What must security have thought as our food suitcase went through X-ray?
For some, hauling food products across the ocean may seem extreme, especially since Turkish cuisine is one of the finest in the world. Even eating in the university cafeteria is satisfying: stuffed grape leaves, eggplant moussaka, Turkish meatballs. But back at our tiny apartment that hovers above the Bosphorus, we reach in our cabinets for diet staples, our “home food.” We have pangs for what we have loved since we were children. Most likely, the Turks would have no problem understanding this, as some have told me they do not care for non-Turkish cuisine, that when they travel outside of Turkey, they take their own food with them. The travel writer for Today’s Zaman, a Turkish newspaper I often read, discusses food mostly in terms of the difficulties a traveler might incur. On traveling to Aceh, he wrote, “Indonesia offers many variations of Far Eastern fare. But if you are not familiar with Far Eastern food, you really might have some trouble here … you could always stick to the buffet menus offered at five-star hotels if you are having difficulties adjusting.” Of course, I’ve passed by the McDonald’s and Starbucks in places like Krakow and Budapest. And there are my compatriots, supping and sated, perhaps slightly embarrassed of their desire for that which can be had almost anywhere.
Though peanut butter can motivate people, pork is more for celebrations. Pork products are increasingly rare in Istanbul. Over the years, the market has been shrinking due to the rise in religious observation, but there was always a handful of Greek and Armenian butchers who sold it. Often, we hear rumors of a guy who stocks pork on some back street off Balık Pazar, but a kilo of prosciutto can cost as much as $80, depending on the exchange rate. The strange thing is that I rarely eat pork back home, but the inaccessibility has whet my appetite to the point where I actually spend time thinking about it. Our refrigerator is filled with different types of Volpi, an absolute must to get Steve, a salami addict, through the tough times.
There’s a man I’ll refer to as Toohey, an Australian, who, because of visa issues, must travel to Bulgaria every 90 days. Across the border, Toohey walks to the butcher and buys Canadian bacon, Bulgarian sausage and whatever else looks good that day. He throws a party the weekend after each excursion. Others must bring something of value to the table: a bottle of California wine, a nice Brie or more pork. It seems appropriate that to get to his apartment, one must traverse the edgy side of town, an area that boasts brothels, bars popular with transvestite prostitutes, and a heavy police presence at the entrance to uphold the appearance of the law. We walk two blocks into the neighborhood, turn left and press a buzzer with no name. The cast-iron door unlocks, one that I cannot push open by myself, and we’re in.
Not only does food bring back memories, it can form new communities. It can also take us back to the practical reasons of banning pork so very long ago and inspire a more lighthearted discussion of religious differences. Often, we are joined by secular Turks, some of whom do not partake and others of whom were raised eating pork.
But for now, I’m hoarding my peanut butter and kicking myself for not bringing granola. I’ll soothe my inner being, though, with dinner at Doğa Balık: a plate of spicy crushed tomato, sautéed seaweed, yogurt with watercress and a grilled local fish staring back at me, reminding me of what is done well right here in the Cihangir neighborhood of Istanbul.
St. Louisan Angela Hamilton is eating in Istanbul for the year while teaching at Fatih University.
