Karry Lu
At midnight they woke us up for border crossing; when it was my turn in line I paid for the visa with the 15 euro I had carefully stored between the pages of a Bosnian novel entitled “Love and Obstacles.” Back on the bus I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the weird angle my neck was bent at. When I woke up I was in Turkey; Turkey the gateway to Asia, straddler of the Black Sea. Turkey the mysterious, the last of the great empires broken in the last of the great wars. Miles of sun-parched wheat emerged against the half-stolen light of morning. A few scattered trees perched aloof and hazy on the horizon. I blinked, yawned, and fell back asleep.
In Istanbul, I ate a lot of kebabs, because that’s practically unavoidable, but I also ate a lot of kokoreç. Kokoreç while I dodged and weaved past impenetrable traffic in impenetrable humidity; kokoreç under the waning afternoon shadows of Besiktas Stadium; kokoreç washed down with a half-liter of Efes and the gentle lapping of the Bosphorus. I ate some other things too, tantuni and midye dolma and even had some Shake Shack on Istiklal Road, past the Urban Outfitters and a McCafe where the hip local kids lined up for soft-serve ice cream at 2 AM and to freeload wi-fi and to be seen and heard.
When I was in Vienna I met a Turkish lawyer who told me to eat kokoreç, and because I crave hipster bragging rights, I had to track it down. After a bit of the typical confused-foreigner routine, I eventually found a stall that sold something that looked like what I found on Google image search: a long, glistening log of fat.
Which is not too far from the truth. Kokoreç is offal (hearts, lungs and kidneys) wrapped in lamb or goat intestines and then slowly roasted on a rotisserie. When it’s turning on the spit it looks vaguely like a giant sausage, wrapped tightly in twine and smoked lightly with off-brand Turkish cigarettes. When you order, the guy slices off a round, minces it, seasons with oregano and red chili pepper, and serves it in a half-baguette. Might set you back $3. Istanbul has no shortage of meats stuffed inside or served on top of a payload of carbs, but kokoreç is a standout, partly because it’s endemic to this part of the world, something that hasn’t yet been packaged and sold by the Western gaze. I imagine it’s the culinary equivalent of the classic foreign romance: unexpected, fiery, slightly questionable and liable to leave a tingling numbness in your mouth. The first taste is always a revelation; supremely savory but with proper heat, the chewy spring of the intestine countered by the comforting softness of the bread. Sometimes they’ll add chopped tomatoes and bell peppers for a hit of lightness. Sometimes you’ve just gotta man up and chow down some tripe-wrapped thymus. You can ask for a squeeze of lemon juice. I remember the first time, that texture, the smell wafting from the charcoal grill and the warm juice running between my fingers, motorbikes honking and roaring straight past the wide-eyed Chinese tourists in visors snapping pictures of Suleymaniye Mosque in the distance. Later on, in the afternoons when I sipped black tea in outdoor cafes and read longform journalism about teenage bullying on my Android because I didn’t have anyone to talk to, I thought about eating more kokoreç. Getting a beer, and maybe some kokoreç. I remember the last time, on my last night, at the end of another winding alleyway choked with exhaust and vapors from sweating humans and panting dogs, a couple of old Turks with graying mustaches and dusty brows running a stand next to a bus stop. Afterwards I sat along the river, chewing slowly with every bite burning away into nothing, observing the lights of Kadikoy, shutting off and going dark in this sprawling, unperturbed city. At the airport I spent my last few lira on local anise liquor and crepes, which weren’t great. When I passed through security there was a group of British kids arriving with their suitcases in tow, wheels rattling over the automated walkway. In town for holiday, for a lark, to find themselves in others, their lilting voices echoing far away as they fired up their Instagram feeds. Outside, the temperature dipped, and the moon hung low over Istanbul.
