...Turkey (Part 4 - In Praise of Sweet Things)

Baklava, a common sight all over Turkey

Gaziantep may mean little or nothing to anyone outside Turkey (and Hackney). However, to the Turks it means one thing. The best Baklava in the world. And so in the name of ‘research’ we dragged ourselves kicking and screaming to a city that is home to over 180 pastry shops. All for you dear reader. All for you.

So with that many pastry shops, how does one choose a good one? We headed straight to Gulluoglu, a huge chain that even has a shop in Hackney. But apparently there is one branch that is head and shoulders above the rest. A small, nondescript place in the heart of the bazaar which sells only baklava. You can't even get a cup of tea dammit!



Try walking past without going in...

It seemed perfectly normal for people to order themselves five or six pieces (for the record, Finn and I shared five). Baklava comes in many forms but essentially consists of layers of buttery pastry and crushed pistachios, all drenched in honey or syrup. Trays upon trays of the little devils sit in the windows of pastry shops taunting you until you give in. I have eaten a lot of baklava in my time but this has to be the best. They say the Gaziantep stuff is so good because they grow the best pistachios and have the best honey. Whatever it is, it works.

On the subject of sweet things, I mustn’t forget kunefe. We first ate kunefe in Antakya, a city who's cuisine is heavily influenced by Syrian cooking due its close proximity to the border. It is in this city that we were kidnapped by an English teacher and taken to 'teach' her students (read about it on Finn's blog!). Anyway, back to kunefe! It is a little slice of culinary genius. But only a little slice mind. Too much would definitely result in a heart attack. It basically consists of a piece of cheese, not that dissimilar to mozzarella. This is coated in a thin kind of vermicelli which is made on hot wheels in the bazaar. 

Making Kunefe

The whole thing is drenched in sugar syrup, topped with nuts and served warm. Et voila. A heart attack on a plate.

Nothing better than a piece of kunefe in the sun

In the holy city of Sanliurfa, we were kidnapped by a friendly man we bumped into somewhere in the depths of the sprawling bazaar. He offered us tea and took us along the dark twisting alleyways until suddenly we came out into bright sunlight. We had entered an old caravansari, a place where silk road travellers would stop for the night. We sat in the courtyard and drank tea, talked international politics and ate kunefe to the sound of old, head-scarfed Arabs throwing dominoes down on the small tea tables. And suddenly, we felt very far from home.

Finn, new friend and kunefe in the caravansari