The Grand Bazaar

You know that ‘Keep calm and…’ series that was doing the rounds some months ago? Of course you do. How could you miss the t-shirts, mugs, pillowcases and any surface which could float a logo? Admittedly, it all got a bit tiresome in the end and, like a stand-up comedian that has been heckled for an hour upon the stage, it lost its sense of humour and then was heard no more.

However, we can start a new prefixing thread. Like, ‘See (insert name of city) and (insert ending of choice)’. The first one is ready: ‘See Naples and die’, which Goethe jotted down in the March 3, 1787 entry of his Italian Journey (1786-1788). Now whether that death comes courtesy of the ancient kingdom’s staggering beauty or as a consequence of a heavy table leg meeting the back of your head is up to you.

You can keep calm and carry on (there it is again) with other cities. See Madrid and try and get directions in English. See Mumbai and get horribly, tragically lost. See Pretoria and hide to escape carjacking and potential death (see Naples). See Istanbul and, well, feel the hunger.

Istanbul sizzles, simmers and splatters with the joy of a nation that is proud of its food. Proud of a piece of flatbread with some onions, you might ask. However, Turkish food is the kind that doesn’t translate well when it journeys to Europe. It’s like with Chinese food. For those who have never gone east, Chinese food is a dollop of smudgy noodles and a splash of lemon chicken. The truth, however, is that Chinese food is layer upon layer of region-specific cuisine, each with its own identity, like single strands of pulled pork. It’s so regional that you cannot even call it Chinese food, because there’s no such thing.

In much the same way, there is no one Turkish kitchen. Rather, Turkish cuisine is rich with the heritage of Ottoman recipes, Middle Eastern flavours, Mediterranean hints, Turkic elements and Balkan tastes. Hence the bubbling pots of variety. And Istanbul has the best representation of that variety.

The lamb kebab at Aynen Dürüm.

In the city that straddles two continents, there’s a plate that can partner your every hunger. You can feast on freshly grilled fish from the stalls around the Galata Bridge, choose a selection of mezes at Giritli’s heavenly courtyard in the Sultanahmet district, or tackle the traffic of the best street food in the form of ring-shaped simit topped with sesame seeds or kofte with a spicy bulgur and onions mash.

The waiters will tell you that theirs is the best kebab. Don’t believe them: they are all very good

For a more upmarket take, climb up to Mikla, on the top floor of the Marmara Pera hotel. Here, Turkish-Swedish chef Mehmet Gurs will amaze you with his trademark crispy sardines with olive oil bread and pistachio-crusted lamb.

But since travel, especially the short-haul version, is all about clichés – you don’t have time to uncover the layers of a city anyway – what encapsulates Istanbul is the humble kebab. And not just any kebab – a kebab eaten on plastic chairs in some hidden stall at the Grand Bazaar.

That sounds easier than it actually is. First of all, “Grand” doesn’t even begin to describe the Grand Bazaar. Opened in 1461, the Grand Bazaar is one of the largest markets in the world, with more than 60 covered streets and over 3,000 shops. There is signage, of course, but it’s a bit difficult to read because every day, close to half a million visitors descend on the market to toil, trouble and haggle.

Secondly, there’s a stall selling kebabs every few feet. Sweating, moustachioed men, feed the wood fires, which in turn sizzle huge slabs of meat. Young boys nip at leaves, preparing salad beds for the crispy bites. Others slap dough and toss it in the oven: seconds later, the smell of slightly burnt lavash (flatbread) is like the very good morning of toast. The waiters will tell you that theirs is the best kebab. Don’t believe them: they are all very good. Which makes finding the best one close to impossible. The best one might not even exist because, despite appearances, every stall is serious about its kebabs. And no kebab is the same. There is the fistik kebab made of minced lamb and pistachios and skewers of meat grilled with fresh garlic and quince. The smell of hashasli kebabs fills the air: a heady mix of meat and poppy seeds.

The Grand Bazaar is also one of the world’s more ancient food courts. My first stop is Gaziantep Burc Ocakbasi, where a beef kebab dipped in a puree of yogurt and eggplant is a good introduction to my kebab-crawl. A few metres away, I perform that old sword-swallowing trick: yet instead of a sword, what I manage to make disappear in a few seconds is a skewer of fatty, spicy lamb and green peppers.

I never make it past the third kebab. But it’s a very good ending. At Aynen Durum, just outside the walls of the Grand Bazaar, a hungry crowd is seemingly engaged in an eating contest. A steady procession of durum (wraps) exits the tiny kitchen to the applause of smacking lips. Finally, my kebab arrives. The lamb is deliciously tender yet has spring’s bounce to it. The tomato and parsley salad is a cool contrast to the spicy cuts. The wrap absorbs the meat’s fat, and in turn, I absorb the wrap.

And then it’s over, a little bit too soon. Could that have been the best kebab I’ve ever eaten? There’s only one way to find out, I reason, as a rejoin the queue.