Heyo!
It’s hard to tell if I’m on vacation or a work trip. I probably shouldn’t be writing right now. Or, I don’t know, maybe I should. This is my god damn job, after all—a job that requires me to monetize every single thought I have. Like this one: “Hospice care should include a hammock. If I’m going to die, I want to be in a hammock, not a bed.” See, that was like $7 right there.
On a flight to Paris, I struck up a conversation with the person next to me (a chemistry professor from Abu Dhabi.) She asked what I do for work, and when I told her, she said, “Wow, that’s cool. Every time I meet someone from America I hear about a new type of job.”
When people find out that I’m a writer, they get excited. I usually temper this excitement: “Imagine how much money I make. OK, now imagine a whole lot less.”
Istanbul is a hectic, sloppy, historic, gorgeous, fluctuating city. It’s also a place ruled by cigarettes. People smoke outdoors, they smoke indoors. They smoke while standing still, while walking, while gesturing, while driving, while drinking coffee and eating. I swear to you I saw a guy scooping ice cream on the street with a cigarette in his mouth.
In the last 24 hours, I have experienced the most second hand smoke of my life, but at the same time it’s also just refreshing to not see people vaping.
A Bustling Baklava Factory
I went to Karaköy Güllüoğlu, a place that was recommended not just by the internet, but my internet pal Eylül Savaş, who grew up in Istanbul and moved to America just 10 years ago.
Karaköy Güllüoğlu is a dessert cafeteria with dozens of different baklava choices. Most of them feature pistachio and walnut, and from there you’re pretty much choosing layers—it starts at one layer of baklava and then goes up to 100. Some are filled with cream. Some are all nuts. Some are chocolate. Some omit the phyllo dough altogether and feature a sugary, sticky breading as its base. Most have a shade of green, however, because the pistachio nut is preferred in Turkey.
I tried the traditional, 100-layer baklava, which is flaky (not dense), nutty, and really buttery. The nuttiness of the pistachio is enhanced by the deep, browned butter. Another baklava bite was pure pistachios, another was hazelnut, another contained one layer of phyllo and pistachio butter. Each was different, but each exercised the same amount of restraint. Nothing was overly saccharine or syrupy.
My grandmother’s baklava, which my memory holds in high esteem, was famous in our family for being sticky-icky sweet and kissed by orange zest. She was from Greece. In America, we think of baklava as being so sweet that it’s syrupy, but sweetness is sometimes the 3rd or 4th flavor in a good bite of Turkish baklava.
It is to my understanding that Turkish baklava is much more heavy and substantial. It’s almost savory. The nuts play a more prominent role, which is honestly now my preferred way of enjoying baklava. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth these days.
Though, I will always crave my Grandmother’s version made with orange zest.
A cloudy glass of raki, AKA Lion’s Milk
After getting some baklava, I needed a drink, so I hit up one of Karaköy’s nightclubs for some raki.
Raki is an alcoholic beverage made from twice-distilled grape pomace and flavored with anice. I’ve had similar things before—ouzo in Greece and arak from Lebanon. Raki is strong, however, about twice as strong as ouzo, carrying a 40-50% alcohol content. Diluting it with water turns it murky, and adding an ice cube makes the drink cool and refreshing.
I ordered a double because when in Rome!*
*At one time Istanbul was referred to as Second Rome, which is kind of cool but also kind of a cheap shot? That’s like Chicago being called “The Second City.” If I was Chicago I’d be like “hey fuck you I’m not second to anyone, bitch.”
Karaköy is the neighborhood I’m staying in, near the harbor leading into the Marmara Sea. It’s been a busy port since the Byzantine empire, and it’s one of the oldest and coolest neighborhoods in the city. I drank alone and meandered through several different alleys, and struck up conversation with anyone who spoke English. Then, I got hungry. Lucky me, because mackerel wraps, which are called balik dürüm, are a speciality of Karaköy.
This sandwich is curious. For one, the mackerel here is said to get flown in frozen from Norway. That’s strange, considering horse mackerel are quite common in the surrounding seas. Secondly, these fish wraps are a relatively new food in Istanbul, and locals say they’ve taken off only within the last 10 years. Before balik dürüm, there was balik ekmek, a fish sandwich stuffed inside thick, somewhat bland bread. Balik ekmek is traditional, but flawed. Balik dürüm is the upgrade. It’s a tangy, lemony, hand-held mackerel wrap wound tightly in parchment paper. In short, it’s great food when you’re all stumbly drunk.
Of course, I didn’t know this when I walked past one of these blue, mackerel wrap stands. I just thought, “Oh, shit. Fish wrapped in lavash bread? Sign me the fuck up.” And then I burped.
This stand is a two-man operation.
One guy is the mackerel man: He’s busy grilling the mackerel on a griddle above some hot coals, then he splits and de-bones the fish before handing them off to the man to his right, the assembly specialist. This guy slaps flaky-thin lavash onto the griddle and cooks it, but he seasons the thing with sumac and sour pomegranate sauce. One the mackerel is plopped on, he piles on a mixture of greens, carrot, and pomegranate seeds. Then, a lemon gets squeezed. The lavash is wrapped and toasted and seasoned again. You can see the lavash crust below, which is seared with sumac and sour pomegranate sauce.
Sometimes the fish wrap has bell pepper. Sometimes, there’s no pomegranate seed. Some places don’t season the lavash before grilling it (a huge mistake in my estimation.) Every place is different.
The wrap costs anywhere between 5 and 7 dollars American, and it is a godsend. Mackerel is delicious, sticky, fatty, and strong. People don’t like “fishy flavor,” but I prefer mackerel’s clear annunciation, and it’s a must-order whenever I go to a place like Surawon Tofu House in L.A.
I had three different versions of balik dürüm in the last 24 hours, and each one was pretty damn good. Though, I would say that the best place, which is showing up in my Amex feed as “Super Mario Balik Dürüm,” enforces three important tenets: They have to grill the mackerel fresh, they have to sear the lavash with sumac and pomegranate, and they have to squeeze the lemon. Not everyone does all 3 things, but they each combine to make the optimal mackerel wrap.
You can search for fish wraps in Istanbul on maps, or you can just follow the smell of grilled mackerel yourself. In Karaköy, sooner or later you’ll stumble down an alley selling the stuff.
I’ve got many questions about this sandwich. Why is the fish wrap popular here? Is it touristy? A trend? An upgrade of a traditional Turkish sandwich that’s rubbing the locals the wrong way?
I get the sense that social media helped its rise.
This afternoon, a young Japanese woman next to me, in line at Balık Ekmekçi Mehmet Usta, said the fish wrap stand was famous in Japan. One quick, perhaps hasty observation: Istanbul does have a lot of tourists, but not as many Americans as you think. The city straddles Europe and Asia, so I imagine many Japanese, Koreans, and other travelers further east finding comfort in the mackerel wrap. It’s just not a fish that is embraced very much in America, so it’s definitely not being made for us.
Still, we need more balik dürüm. It’s the most interesting sandwich I’ve had in recent memory.
One Final Thought
The nightlife here is fun as hell. People keep saying that Gen Z is lonely, but not in Karaköy. They’re drinking and dancing and pounding tables and singing. Young people in Istanbul do it right. I witnessed countless people last night smoking cigarettes on stoops and doing bits for their friends. I can’t understand a thing anyone is saying, but I get the sense that people here are funny. Intentionally so. Animated and quick and using their voice to get a laugh.
Anyway, Christ, I need to go wash my hands. They still smell like sumac and mackerel.
That’s it! Thanks for reading The Move. I’m on vacation I think but I’m still getting emails from editors and shit. LEAVE ME ALONE.
Nah just playin’. Hey subscribe will ya? Upgrade to paid if you want. That helps A LOT.
That baklava plate looks incredible. And the sumac and pomegranate syrup in the fish wrap. I must travel to Türkiye soon!!