Layla picks a small piece of the fish from the bones and squeezes the juice of the lemon quarter on it. She eats. I stare. She takes another piece and another quarter of lemon. She squeezes. She eats. I stare. She picks a piece of bread from the basket and looks up at me. I nod and smile — a silent thanks for trying the fish.
Anna to my right pulls slabs of the Sea Bream from its bones, drips the lemon onto it. She eats. And then another and another. When the bones are clean, she uses her fork as a serving spoon to pile more of the whole fish onto her plate.
It’s “fish season” here the gal at the Hotel Empress Zoe tells me. I am not sure what that means as we are surrounded on three sides by water. Is there a non-fish season? I scour my Lonely Planet guidebook for a fish restaurant close by. The Turkish author describes a local favorite not far from the hotel. She writes that she had promised the locals not to divulge this restaurant in earlier editions but because the Sultanahmet area is devoid of food gems, she has decided to let the locals’ secret out. Really?
I circle the location of the restaurant on our map and we wind our way south from the hotel. The Sea of Marmara is directly in front of us but hidden by centuries old buildings and narrow streets. We continue under the train track and keep heading right, toward a street that we cannot pronounce or remember the name of for more than two seconds. And suddenly the restaurant is right before us. Eight sidewalk tables tucked under a clear plastic tent with heaters suspended from the building’s facade.
Reserved signs adorn every table. It is Friday night – the Muslim Sabbath. Perhaps this is the locals’ night out. A tall black-skinned man steps out from the tent and asks in a low voice, “Do you have a reservation?” He glances up toward a man walking from the shop across the street. The two men speak in Turkish. The tall man says gently that they cannot accommodate us tonight. “Tomorrow night?” I ask. “What time?” “Seven o’clock?” The two nod, “Yes, seven o’clock.”
Saturday night we return — attempting to follow our footsteps of the night before and yet we are lost and then found again. The tall man recognizes us and welcomes us into the tent. We are seated where I can see directly down into the kitchen a few steps below the sidewalk. A young woman with pale skin is the chef. The man from across the street is there, the owner I presume. He is an older man, reminiscent of the father in the One Hundred Foot Journey. His face lined, nose bulbous and eyes narrow.
The waiter beckons Alex and me to follow him to see tonight’s fish. We follow him outside the tent onto the street to peer into a glass front refrigerator ice at the mezes (small appetizer plates) and the fresh catch. Tonight’s mezes, sardines prepared two different ways, one a sardine-wrapped pimento-stuffed olive, the other filleted in oil. There is also red pepper spread, a yogurt based zucchini dip, aubergine (eggplant) with long, green peppers, and feta cheese. And the fish – “Sea Bream and Bluefish, large and small – grilled. And we have grilled shrimp.” We settle on sardines in oil, red pepper spread, aubergine and feta for mezes and the Sea Bream and grilled shrimp. And a small bottle of wine – of course.
Back at the table, the girls have opened their bags and removed their art supplies for this evening’s meal. Layla’s spread has grown into both markers and colored pencils. Anna’s, simply her pale-blue moleskin and a black pen for her sketches of mosques and palaces. We make room for the different courses as they arrive.
The author of Lonely Planet Istanbul has not steered us wrong. The aubergine, the best of the trip and the Sea Bream moist and flavorful, not needing lemon or spice. A true find in this neighborhood of rug merchants, tour guides and tourists.
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