This morning I woke up craving desi food and did some diligent research to find a place in Fatih, across the Golden Horn: a small Indian place run by an Indian couple. A bit of a dhaba, so less likely to water food down to Turkish tastes. So we took the tram over to a point a little past the touristy bits, into a large clothes market with the usual division into streets selling only socks, streets selling only synthetic men’s button-down shirts, etc. It was all closed, and it was notable how very different the few people around were from our usual haunts in Beyoglu etc. Much more Arabic spoken, generally far darker skin, and many people of African descent. Curious. It made me wonder also about non-Turkish cuisines from other Asian and African countries – they seem rather hard to find but I imagine they are out there, perhaps sold from homes or in small cafes.
The little dhaba was ok, no more – not quite enough to scratch the itch. The woman running it did tell me that almost no spices etc are available in Istanbul and she has them shipped over from India or Pakistan. So my hope of getting a curry plant will have to wait, and I missed Malaysia very much indeed for a few moments.
The dhaba itself was very much that: a counter with a stove behind it, a couple of tables on the pavement. Next door was a building where a man was attacking the plaster facade with a drill so every now and then a chunk would crash down and make us jump. Beyond that was a betting shop with swarms of men of all nations. Occasionally a child rode past doing wheelies on a motorcycle.
We walked on in the direction of the Sultanahmet area and came to some of the older bits, less markety and with the occasional small hotel or travel agency. We popped into one doorway the stone steps leading upwards opened up into the most beautiful courtyard of a madrassah (I think) with a man sitting and reciting the Quran, his qirat quite unlike any I’ve heard in Pakistan. It was a lovely scene, though I could not go in all the way as I was wearing a skirt and had nothing to cover my hair.
We went past the Little Hagia Sophia – again, I couldn’t go in – and strolled through a quiet neighbourhood of fish restaurants that had clearly once been a fishing village and was now an appendage to Istanbul’s tourist heart. From here we arrived at the shore facing Asia and a large ship painted with the Turkish flag and I wondered if it was the Oruc Reis of great notoreity these days. There was a burning mist upon the water in the late afternoon sunshine, making it hard to see across the water and feeling rather unearthly, almost hadesian. It was a long walk along the shore and the end of it was unpleasant as it was no longer by the sea but along a busy road, and I was tired and looking forward to coffee. Unfortunately the cafe was closed when we arrived so we carried on.
It was a pleasant day though I was tired and the hadesean feel of the air only reinforced the oppression of the imminent flat purchase. We returned and I had some work to do which I signally failed to do, and that was Sunday.