Addicted to Simit

When I first went to live in Izmir, Turkey, known in ancient times as Smyrna and the birthplace of Homer, I was invited to tea on the the palm-laced Kordon, a busy artery paralleling the Aegean Sea. My new best friend Emel broke the sesame seed encrusted ring of bread in two, and handing me half said, “We Turkish people are addicted to simit, we can't live without it.” I ate it with my dark sweet tea and made the appropriate appreciative noises, but all the time I was thinking it wasn't anything to write home about.

Gradually during the year I spent teaching in a university there, I became hooked as well, discerning the subtle differences between neighborhood simit bakeries and the wares of the different sellers who hawk them from bright red trolley carts and baskets carried on the head. I started every day buying a fresh ring with green or black olives and small slices of a sour white cheese, all wrapped in a small paper parcel which I took to school, so that I could leisurely enjoy breakfast with my office mates who did the same.

Back in Berlin, I learned the name I used for simit 'gevrek' (meaning crispy in Turkish) was peculiar to Izmir, and likewise, though I have tasted and tried all the Turkish outlets in Kreuzberg and Neuköln, I can't find the exact, subtle combination of texture and tastes that I remember as my simit, which like Proust's madeleine might unlock those mnemonic codes of emotional pleasure inside my brain. I didn't quite understand the significance of this until I read with great surprise and pleasure, Elif Batuman's “Letter from Istanbul” in the April 19th issue of The New Yorker, where she writes about an extraordinary restaurant, Çiya Sofrasi, found on the walking street in Kadiköy's market district.

Last New Years, I was taken by a friend to eat there, a short distance from his apartment. It was a very unassuming place and never in my wildest dreams would I expect to find it written about in an American magazine. My host Erçu had explained to me that Çiya's owner was dedicated to recovering and preserving the native cuisine of Anatolia, and 'folk recipes' from other regions as well. Apparently, even a place like Turkey needs a Slow Food movement and champion like this chef/entrepreneur, Musa Dağdeviren, who is reproducing the dishes that patrons like Erçu remember from their grandmother's kitchens. Though I didn't see it the night I was there, guests tend to burst into tears brought on by culinary-induced nostalgia for a way of life that's disappearing!