Meze
The opening course that rakı is built around — and the small plates that hold the long evening together.
Anatolian Tables · The cup and the glass
Turkish coffee with its tiny grounds and its long social shadow, the small red tulip glass of tea, fermented winter boza, orchid-root salep, and rakı — the country's national spirit.
Volumes have been written about Turkish coffee — its history, its social weight, the long-lived atmosphere of the coffeehouses where it was, for centuries, the central event. Without some sense of that background, it is easy to be disappointed by the tiny brew with its gritty bottom — on which an uninitiated traveller (Mark Twain among them) may accidentally end up chewing. A few words of caution have to suffice as introduction. First, the grounds are not to be swallowed; sip the coffee gingerly. Second, do not expect a caffeine surge from a single cup — Turkish coffee is not "strong" the way an espresso is, only thick. Third, remember that what matters most is the setting and the company. The coffee, in the end, is the excuse for the occasion.
Çay — tea — is, on the other hand, the main source of caffeine for most Turks, and the single drink that most reliably runs alongside the working day. It is brewed in a distinctive çaydanlık, a double teapot, over boiling water, and served in delicate small clear glasses — the tulip-shaped ince belli — that show off its deep red colour and keep it hot. A working office without tea is unimaginable; any disruption of the constant supply of fresh tea, even for a morning, is a sure way to cripple productivity.
There is a famous joke that illustrates the point. Once upon a time, a lion escaped from the Ankara Zoo and took up residence in the basement of a government building. It began devouring public servants and executives. It even ate a few ministers of state, and nobody took notice. But a posse was immediately formed when the lion caught and ate the çaycı — the man responsible for the supply of fresh tea.
A park without tea and coffee is inconceivable in Türkiye. Every scenic spot has a tea house or a tea garden.
A park without tea is inconceivable. Every scenic spot in the country has a çay bahçesi — a tea garden — under a plane tree by the village square, on a hilltop with a view of valley or sea, by a harbour, in a market, on a roadside lookout, near a waterfall, deep in the woods. Among Istanbul's most beloved are Emirgan on the European Bosphorus, Çamlıca on the Asian side, the famous Pierre Loti café in Eyüp looking down on the Golden Horn, and the tea garden in Üsküdar. The traditional houses are, in the most tourist-oriented seaside locations, beginning to give way to modern pubs and beer gardens — but inland and in the older neighbourhoods, the tea garden remains essentially what it was a hundred years ago.
Among the country's distinctive drinks, the most particular is boza — a thick, lightly fermented drink made from wheat or bulgur, traditionally sold by neighbourhood street vendors on winter evenings, the man calling "Bozaaa!" in a long single note as he walks. It is enjoyed with a sprinkle of cinnamon and a handful of roasted chickpeas. Boza is one of the oldest Turkic beverages, with roots stretching back to Central Asia. In Istanbul the most famous purveyor is Vefa Bozacısı, in operation since 1876; a small visit to the original shop is one of the city's small literary pilgrimages. Boza can also be found year-round at certain cafés and dessert shops.
Then salep — a hot winter drink made with milk and salep powder, derived from the dried tubers of wild orchids of the eastern mountains. Rich and warming, dusted with cinnamon, it is a traditional remedy for sore throats and colds — and delicious in its own right. (The wild-orchid harvest that produces salep is now strictly regulated and the powder is, accordingly, expensive; in many cafés the drink served is a starch-based imitation rather than the real thing.)
And, finally, rakı — the national spirit. Anise-flavoured, distilled twice from grape pomace and again with aniseed, it turns milky-white the moment cold water is added, which is why Turks call it aslan sütü, lion's milk. It is what the meze table is built around, what the meyhane lives by, and what holds the slow, polyphonic Turkish dinner in shape from sunset until late at night. Rakı has its own deep literature — its great producers, its etiquette, the proper way to pour, the dishes it is friend or enemy to — and the place to read about it is its own dedicated home, our sister site Rakı.com.
Excellent bottled fruit juices, locally pressed şıra in autumn, ayran with the kebap, fresh pomegranate juice from the street press in winter — the table runs on more than coffee and tea. But coffee, tea, boza, salep, and rakı are, between them, the country's drinking life.
For rakı in depth — its history, its houses, the proper pour, what to eat alongside it — see Rakı.com. For the meze table that rakı opens, /tables/meze.
The opening course that rakı is built around — and the small plates that hold the long evening together.
The Bosphorus meyhane and the slow seasonal procession of fish, sipped between glasses of rakı.
The baklava and muhallebi the small cup of Turkish coffee is genuinely meant for.
The bread, börek, and pilaf that the working day's tea-glass punctuates from morning to night.
The kebapçı's salty ayran, and the strong Turkish coffee that follows the meal.
The lokanta lunch the Turkish working week eats, with a glass of tea before and after.