• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Pomegranates

“Along with figs and olives,” notes cookbook author Ayla Algar, “the pomegranate is mentioned in the Qur’an as an indication of divine abundance and provision for man and as one of the fruits of paradise.” The pomegranate was one of the foods scouts sent out by Moses brought back from Canaan, proof that the Promised Land was fertile. It’s also considered a fertility symbol due to its many seeds, and some Jewish scholars claim a pomegranate has 613 seeds, sealing its identity with the 613 commandments Jews are supposed to observe. Simply put, pomegranates are symbols of love and plenty, and visitors to Turkey will encounter them often.

In the winter months, when pomegranates are in season in the Northeast, I often mix pomegranate seeds in with mixed greens for a salad. Sometimes I buy a bag full of them and put them in a bowl, just because they look beautiful. And I drink a lot of pomegranate juice—POM brand is good, but recently my local grocery store started carrying a Turkish brand that I like even better (and it’s less expensive).

In The Bastard of Istanbul, there is a revealing dialogue in the chapter entitled “Pomegranate Seeds”:

Hovhannes Stamboulian remained quiet for a while, chewing the ends of his mustache. Then he muttered slowly but surely, “We need to work together, Jews and Christians and Muslims. Centuries and centuries under the same imperial roof. We have been living together all this time, albeit on unequal ground. Now we can make it fair and just for all, transform this empire together.” It was then that Kirkor Hagopian uttered those gloomy words, his face already closing up: “My friend, wake up, there is no together anymore. Once a pomegranate breaks and all its seeds scatter in different directions, you cannot put it back together.

Pukka Living

Pukka Living (pukkaliving.com) is a Web site about life in Istanbul. It’s very up-to-the-minute and features “unique stuff only known to the locals with a zest in life.” I’ve found out about some great people, hip happenings, and unique products and services by subscribing to Pukka Living’s weekly e-mail. It’s never boring.

Q

As with the letter x, there is no letter q in Turkish. But unlike for x, I haven’t been able to find a single word having anything to do with Istanbul or Turkey beginning with q.

R

Rakı

Stephen Kinzer, in Crescent & Star, related that “the first friends I made in Turkey told me that if I really wanted to understand their country, I would have to drink a lot of rakı. These were wise people, so I took their advice. Every year the annual level of rakı consumption in Turkey rises by slightly more than one million liters, and my contribution to the increase has not been inconsiderable.” Pronounced RAH-kuh (not RAH-kee), rakı is one of several anise-flavored Mediterranean alcoholic beverages. Like its counterparts in Greece (ouzo) and France (pastis), rakı is served in a glass, usually with ice and a pitcher of water alongside, allowing the imbiber to add as much or as little water as he or she likes. When water is added, just as with ouzo and pastis, the clear liquid turns cloudy. (Sambuca, on the other hand, is an Italian after-dinner drink made from anise, but it is not served with water or over ice.) Evliya Çelebi wrote that some taverns of his day sold rakı made from bananas, mustard, cinnamon, cloves, and pomegranate.

Lonely Planet’s World Food: Turkey guide states that the Turkish name for rakı derives from the Arabic arak, which means “sweat” or “sweating.” “But according to knowledgeable sources, it first came from East India where they’d produce it by distilling sugarcane sap mixed with rice yeast. The same sources say that dried grapes and dates were used to produce it in Iran. In Turkey it was originally made from barley and corn. There, the name evolved over time from ‘arak’ to aroka, ariki, araki, arakı, and ırakı—until it was finally shortened to rakı.”

Raki’s true home is at a meyhane. White cheese,