Enough, be silent, words cannot take the place of opinions, as pomegranates and apples cannot take the place of plums.
Filtered sunlight drifts through the skylights of the covered market. Below, women lift white grapes from wooden crates, crouch over plastic tubs of tiny cucumbers, and scoop crimson tomato paste into clear plastic bags. Strings of dried eggplants and red peppers hang over shop doorways, ready to be rehydrated and stuffed with rice and mince. Garlands of tiny dried okra seem suited to drape on a Christmas tree. Lemon slices and slender green chilies decorate vats of wrinkled black olives. There are mounds of green and black figs. Fruit vendors split open yellow-skinned plums to show the pink flesh inside.
Nevin’s brother dropped us at the Kadinlar Pazari, formerly the Ladies’ Market, where Konya women used to sell the produce from their home gardens. Larger producers dominate the market these days, and the vendors are mostly men. Still, this is Nevin’s favourite place to shop in Konya. She is a celebrity here. The merchants fall over themselves to offer us tart pickles and slices of dried beef pastirma. They wave at her to come and try their cheese. One man gives us a handful of peanuts as if we’d never seen such things before.
I follow Nevin to her favourite cheese vendor. The shopkeeper invites me to dip my bare fingers into a ceramic vat of soft cheese. I scoop out a tiny smear on my fingernail, but the man is not satisfied until I sink two fingers into the cheese down to my second knuckle, and lift a great glob into my mouth. Next, at his urging, I dip my fingers into a vat of whipped butter, then break off a chunk of crumbly cheese that is furry with black-blue mould. I spot tulum, my favourite Turkish cheese, still robed in the goat skins in which it cures. The hairy masses sit in glass-fronted cases under anemic fluorescent light, like freakish exhibits in a sideshow museum.
In a nearby shop, a display case holds a heap of severed sheep heads, still bloody, destined for soup cauldrons. Nevin pauses and points at the gory pile. “All of this would be gone if we joined Europe,” she sighs, speaking of the strict regulations that will come into force if Turkey ever completes its marathon to European Union membership. “It is not fair. They eat haggis in Britain. Why can’t we eat these?” She shakes her head, and I wonder what the European health officials would think of my licked-finger sampling at the cheese shop.
Almond helva fashioned from His walnuts, His almonds, His sugar, does not only sweeten my palate, but floods my vision with light.
Afterwards, Nevin and I make our way to Cemo Restaurant for etliekmek, another Konya specialty. Inside, a trio of chefs stand guard in front of a wood-burning oven. Their oddly feminine red-and-pink aprons seem at odds with their identical moustaches. Nevin waves at them – she knows them all – and they nod respectfully back at her. The proprietor rushes over to greet Nevin and leads us to a table. Nevin insists I take a chair facing the oven and places an order. I stretch my neck to watch as the bakers roll out lengths of dough, spread them with toppings, then slide them into the oven next to a heap of roasting green chilies.
Our first dish arrives in minutes: a slab of thin and crispy bread dough, shining with melted butter, and longer than my arm. It is covered with seasoned minced lamb and a smear of tomatoes. The waiter brings us a plate of fresh parsley, sliced tomatoes, lemon wedges, onions dusted with sumac, and some of those scorched chilies. Nevin shows me how to roll the fresh toppings into the steaming dough, squirt with lemon, and eat with my hands. My fingertips become black from the charred dough and greasy from the butter.
A waiter drops another arm’s length of freshly baked bread; this one is covered with cheese. We are barely through it when a third arrives with just minced meat. Then a fourth with larger cubes of chewy, aromatic lamb.
The waiter calls this last dish mevlana pide, and Nevin wags her finger at him. “It is not mevlana pide. There is no such thing. It is called Konya böregi.” The server nods an apology and backs away from the table. Nevin tells me she abhors how Mevlana’s name is exploited to appeal to the tourists who come to Konya to visit his tomb. “There is a foundation in Konya that wants to change this. It is not good that his name is on everything. Travel agencies. Car repair shops. Beauty salons. It shows no respect.”
