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What was once a refuge for the cliquish few now provides shelter for a mass movement. I began to sense there was a revolution afoot when within the space of a week I received separate invitations to 1) coffee 2) a bite of lunch 3) a drink in The House Café. THC made its way into this magazine several years ago as a somewhere where the up-and-coming could step off an Istanbul sidewalk into a world of Lower Manhattan cool. There were long tables, comfortable chairs, brownies, bean salads and the day’s specials chalked on the wall. It was the sort of place where you tried to read the paper through the fog of the previous night’s hangover or whipped out the laptop to write that first novel. Since then, the single House on the fashionable fringes of Nisantasi has become a virtual Housing estate: there are now 10 in Istanbul and the first one has opened up Ankara. By the time you finish this paragraph there will probably be one outside your door. Unquestionably, THCs succeed through their sense of style. It’s the interiors that win the day. Designed by the clever architectural firm Autoban, they give the period feel of a golden age – what Istanbul should have looked like had it not, somewhere around 1947, taken a wrong turn. The floors are wood and encaustic tile. The rough-plastered pillars are whitewashed, then stencilled with a decorative border. There is a mix of individual and communal tables. Even the enormous branch in Beyoglu has the atmosphere of a private but informal club. You certainly don’t feel you are in a Starbucks. For a start the service is pretty slow – this is fast food for people with all the time in the world. The food is careful but middlebrow, with a few extra touches to justify above-average prices. I had a fishburger that was satisfactory, light and fluffy, but it fell apart in the bun. An extremely fussy Italian friend of mine swears by the prosciutto and fresh fig pizza, as well as the lentil and goat cheese salad. Apparently the chicken schnitzel is the hottest-selling item. I suspect regular patrons don’t eat their way through the menu but find something they like then order it again and again. THC now markets its own jams and olive oil, coffee and other generic foodie basics. Even a curmudgeon like me doesn’t begrudge THC its success. I prefer it to the rival chain Kitchenette. It has the Ben-and-Jerry feel of a good small idea writ large, rather than a conglomerate pretending to be authentic and down to earth. The House Café’s executive chef, Coskun Uysal, has his own dream café, or at least a restaurant that he and fellow chef Esra Muslu can call their own. Moreish is lodged in the Tepebası NuPera building – a small dining-room but bursting with ambition. I have moaned before in this column that the Istanbul restaurant scene rewards formula and “concept” rather than encouraging individual talent. People look at who owns the restaurant rather than who is actually working in the kitchen. Apart from the humblest lokanta, they are rarely the same person – and not always then. Proprietor-chefs who are the mainstay of the European restaurant scene, and who account for the lion’s share of Michelin entrie, simply don’t exist in Turkey. Except in Moreish. Moreish is unashamedly fusion, but with the exception of the chorizo purée lingering in the smoked aubergine soup, more a rainbow coalition of flavours than of ethnic cuisines. Root vegetables play a strong supporting role. Roasted Jerusalem artichokes are a pedestal for a slice of lagos (grouper), parsnips streak their way through the menu and celariac purée sits beside the scallops. There is a thick smudge of red carrot purée with the red mullet and even an obelisk of beetroot sorbet alongside the chocolate tarte. And, reassuringly, mashed potatoes come with the steak. The plates are carefully composed, in the genre which takes its lead from the child’s obsession with not having the gravy touch the veg. There is a line of firik – the smoke-dried wheat grain with a deep, attractive flavour that doesn’t actually look like cocaine on a mirror but could be inspired by the same school. I was very pleased by the juxtaposition of my steamed piece of monkfish on a bed of veal-cheek stew with a meat demi-glace, and only wished I had the temerity to ask for more. The desserts are sweet with something savoury to cut the cloy, like the scoop of blue-cheese ice cream that accompanied the crunchy cooked pear on a thin pastry. | ||||
Sometimes the chef’s artfulness crosses the line into self-parody. That was the case with the match-head cubes of salted bonito (lakerda) arranged like measles beside the scallop. I can see how this could get on some people’s nerves, particularly those who arrive with a bib round their neck, not to taste but to eat. My own instinct is to cheer Moreish on, to encourage Uysal and Muslu to be bolder still in their flavours and a touch more generous with their portions. This is really a restaurant where there should be a set menu – the chefs should take charge not just of the plate but of the whole meal. Foolish to complain about artfully arranged food in a place where it all began. It was with a sigh of relief that I learned that Ninja, one of Istanbul’s first Japanese restaurants, has found a new home after it was forced out of the Talimhane side of Taksim by vandals digging up the streets for new hotels. It is now on the other side of the square, on the picturesque side of the street opposite Aya Triyada church. The old Ninja was all slate floors and Eastern austerity. Owner Eyüp Akgün has the sense not to tamper with the elegant Levantine feel of its new premises, and the Japanese furniture and curtained booths sit comfortably in the building’s comfortable postwar rooms. The main change is in the bigger menu, including some Chinese dishes. There is also a street-level basement that has been turned into a small Udon noodle bar and, I imagine, somewhere to wait for takeaway sushi. I’ve had the bean-curd hotpot and enjoyed the tempura, but the fish at Ninja is just very good – the salmon and tuna striped with fat, the sea bass buttery, and I am partial to the eel. I have been back on a few occasions and worked contentedly through a full bowl of chirashi. Mr Akgün is a man I admire and although he has an understated way, gleaned from his adopted homeland, he cannot conceal the glint in his eye. I believe that it is not so much passion that makes for a good restaurant as obsession. He is clearly a man on a mission to get things right. His enthusiasm is infectious. I saw one of the waiters rush out to greet a Japanese couple perusing the menu posted outside. The smile of pleasure on his face as he addressed them in a language which was not his own suggested he was not there to tout but to spread the word. Ninja is not cheap and it would be irresponsible in these recessionary times to ignore the establishments around the corner that are in their own way just as stylish. The Bambi chain of sandwich buffets (“büfe”) have undergone a remake, complete with a doe-eyed deer logo and glowing pink plastic portico. So what if they take their cultural cues from a truck stop off the M16 or a fresh juice parlour in Baghdad? Besides, the toasted-sandwich shop has an honourable place in the socialisation of schoolchildren in Turkey. Buying your first sliced döner or cheese tost with the first few lira in your pocket is as important a rite of passage as your first kiss. The aroma of sizzling margarine, gently smeared over the bread in the waffle-iron-like grill gives the corrugated bread extra crunch, and is as exquisitely evocative of adolescence as was the taste of a madeleine to Proust. The Bambi is a particularly attractive version of the genre, and so popular that there are several outlets neighbouring each other along the “sandwich row” off Taksim Square. The furnishings are aluminium-framed chairs, bright lights and lots of mirrors. The choice is huge and the menus set beneath the glass tabletops are an endless invitation to sample Dagwood-style delights – including one arrangement that contains sausage, salami, cheese, tomato, pickle, ketchup and mayonnaise. One bizarre concoction is the “wet burger”, in which the beef patty is inserted in a small bun that has been allowed to soak up its weight in tomato broth. The more conservative stick a toasted mix of cheese and garlicky suçuk sausage. That and a glass of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice (best to cut the sourness with some fresh orange) beats the pants of a Big Mac. It’s not just for kids. Bambi is where members of the state theatre across the street spend their Sodexo luncheon vouchers. And so should all of us. ?
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