Istanbul_ The Collected Traveler_ An Inspired Companion Guide - Barrie Kerper [66]
IT IS said that on a certain day in June the crazy tilt of the buildings allows the sun briefly into this alley. Between solstices it gets its light secondhand; from slime-silvered cobbles and from shining marble tabletops awash with beer. Osman Efendi passed by here an age ago and his delight in what he saw was such that the alley has been named for him. The Street of Osman Efendi Passed By leads from the flower market to the fish bazaar by way of an arcade lined with meyhanes, or curbside taverns, and is therefore a museum of Stamboul smells. It is more often called the Çiçek Pasajı, the Passage of Flowers.
The meyhanes of the Passage are the favorite haunts of the Akşamcılar, the Evening Drinkers, who can be seen there daily draining giant glasses of beer called Argentines. The Evening Drinkers, who on occasion have been known to drink in the afternoon and in the morning too, usually sit at long marble tables inside these meyhanes. In good weather they move out into the alley itself, taking their meals from the tops of beer barrels. Some prefer the Church, a spacious tavern hung with rococo chandeliers, but I prefer the Senate because the talk is best there. The Senate is in session throughout the day, but more important affairs are discussed in the evening, after the sun has set and steel shutters come crashing down in the shops around town. This nocturnal congress is illuminated by colored lights, protected by pendant talismans, and presided over by a bored and omniscient cashier.
The meyhane kitchens perch on the upper floors of the taverns. Swarthy, unshaven cooks lean out from smoke-spewing windows and gossip with their friends across the alley, commenting on the deformities of the strollers, whistling at passing girls, now and then disappearing into their cavelike kitchens when waiters rush out into the Passage shouting up orders from the taverns below. I sometimes amuse myself by walking quickly through the Passage, calling out the names of all my favorite dishes, and then sitting quietly at a beer barrel while waiters run about looking for the gentlemen who ordered the stuffed mussels, the grilled mullet, the shish kebab, the fried brains. Once accusing fingers were pointed at me and I was forced to eat it all, and did so with pleasure.
The Turkish meal is a long and unhurried ceremony; a procession of delicacies carried by platoons of staggering waiters; irrigated with rakı, that soul-satisfying, intellect-deadening, national anise drink; and, above all, accompanied by talk. The talk is continuous, loud and passionate; emphasized and punctuated by ritual hand gestures; illustrated by dramatic facial expressions; all pronouncements requiring exclamations of agreement, disagreement, astonishment or disbelief; all tipsy speeches applauded with roars of laughter and an exchange of rough embraces and bristly kisses; followed by a glass-clinking toast and a bellowed order for more food and drink. Exhausted waiters in unlaced shoes shuffle to the table with yet another tray of “Belly-Split-Open,” a sweet plate of “The Lady’s Navel,” a savory dish of “The Imam Fainted,” a girth-expanding mound of zerde pilav, that favorite dish of eunuchs and Janissaries, and one more round of rakı. And when they have had their fill of food, these stout men sing to one another soft and quavering Turkish love songs. Late at night, as they sway together at their long tables, the Akşamcılar resemble apostles at a drunken sacrament.
Istanbul is best seen from a seat by a tavern window in the Passage of Flowers, froth-crowned Argentine in hand. The city is at heart nothing