Breaking Fast

Not the breakfast described, I left my camera.

More than mosques or bazaars, I anticipated food on this trip. An introduction, no matter how slight, into the palate of Turkey. My journey started with sour cherry juice and a pistachio Turkish Delight on the flight to Istanbul. Turkish Delight, which I’m still unsure of ingredients or recipe, and cherry juice are two things I never see in America despite our love of cherries and all things sweet.

My first meal off of the plane was underwhelming to me. Not bad, but not different or inspiring. This could be Morocco all over again- flavor extinguished for the touring masses, I could be in a place noted more for the spectacular view than the food, or I might have imagined a greatness that no meal could meet. Whatever the issue, there was breakfast to look forward to. I’d read about Turkish breakfast with interest and excitement I seldom bestow on the first meal of the day. 

Certain that the breakfast included with my room would not be the stuff of articles, I nevertheless wandered upstairs in search of my morning meal, disoriented from lack of outside light in my windowless room- it could have been midnight it could have been noon. 

The 6th floor offered a muted view of the area. The glass wall exposed the heavy gray clouds, erasing the previous day’s heat. At the back of the room were tables filled with food, and in front of those tables three gray haired guests stood idly before the platters of food, seemingly unable to decide what they should eat. 

The white platters filled with eggs and olives and vegetables and cheeses, reminded me of the breakfasts in Japan. Not in specific dishes, but in the array of diversity on display, in the distinct difference wrought to the same staple items I might eat at home –though not for breakfast.

There were olives, and feta (and other cheeses), halved boiled eggs sprinkled with oregano chili flakes and olive oil. There were potatoes with what looked like dill but tasted more of parsley, borek (something similar to phyllo dough filled with cheese and other deliciousness) of different shapes, and steamed sesame broccoli. 

The egg yolks and the butter were so yellow they bordered on orange (an almost obsessive observation of mine in places where I presume the chickens and cows get to be chickens and cows).

But the honey...

Cappadocia breakfast

I’d read about fresh honey but I wasn’t prepared. How could I be? There was a dripping honeycomb arranged on the table, hung from some kind of wire contraption. No one else seemed to take notice or care, but I stopped for a moment, awestruck. A honeycomb waiting for me to chisel off a piece for breakfast.

I’m not a honey fan. I cook with it and will put it in my Greek yogurt from time to time but I’ve never been a fan. I never wanted honey instead of sugar. But this...this I had to try.

I scraped off a small piece and then searched for the conduit needed to taste it and spotted soft sliced white bread and seized upon that.  Seated, I slathered butter on, distracted by its vibrant color, I checked the package to make sure it was in fact butter, and the tentatively spread the honey -comb and all - onto my slice of bread. It was a burst of sunshine, different in every way than Ugandan pineapple and yet exactly the same in the response it evoked.

I had two more pieces, smiling to myself while gazing intermittently at my kindle and the top of a mosque obscured by buildings and trees. 

Breakfast as my first food triumph...I am so ready for the next.