Istanbul - "How can I help you? How can I take your money?"

City of some 15 million people and approximately 15 trillion cats.

A whole city that smells of barbecue - fatty lamb sizzling over hot coals.

Fishing from the Galata Bridge.

On our first day in Istanbul, after meandering through the old city, we walked from the Galata Bridge, around the Kennedy Caddesi coastline. Fishermen lined the rocky shoreline the whole way along, with hundreds of cats for company. Out from the coast the water was crowded with fishing boats. Passing behind them were ferries and tankers heading up river, and out to sea further hundreds of container ships. Part way along we stopped to watch two men in full dive gear haul in a couple of huge rope lengths of mussels. Another four guys were working at pulling the mussels off into buckets and tipping them into huge sacks (which were stacking up in the full sun). The combination of huge boats in the harbour, sun, and those clever heavy-metal filtering molluscs did not make for an appetising picture. Watching (and smelling) the fishermen wasn't much better. Further on around the coast we came to the fish markets, which are surrounded by seafood restaurants, and I'm sure there must be some good places to eat fish in Istanbul but I wasn't keen. The only time we did see mussels for sale was at a pier-side stall when we got off the ferry and there was a guy with a little stall of mussels (which looked closed) and lemon wedges. On our last night we watched a TV episode of Anthony Bourdain in Istanbul in which he explained the illegality of seeling mussels here, precisely because of the pollution. But of course he ate a whole lot of them, at a stall such like the one we had seen, where the mussels had been cooked and stuffed and then had their shells stuck back together. Can't say he managed to make them look any more delicious.

View from our hotel roof terrace and conservatory.

Our hotel breakfast though, that was delicious.

For me - thick creamy yoghurt with fresh pomegranate jewels, dried white mulberries and figs, and a few rolled oats for good measure. Toast with sour cherry or rose jam (like eating Turkish delight spread on your bread) and terrible coffee (not Turkish).

Finn had potatoes fried with a little sausage, scrambled eggs, potato borek, feta-ish cheese and dill mix, green olives, cucumber, tomato, lettuce, and a super-sesame bagel with cream cheese, oh and some sort of a cold sliced pink tube meat. Followed by brownie and a spicy sesame biscuit with a second cup of terrible coffee.

Lots of food in Istanbul was delicious.

Walnut baklava.

Pistachio baklava.

Hazelnut baklava.

All with syrup-soaked sticky bottoms, chewy nutty muddles, and crispy crunchy tops.

All delicious.

Fresh dates.

Deep fried syrup-soaked churros-type doughnuts.

Freshly squeezed pomegranate juice - oh my allah, delicious.

Honey-syrup soaked almond semolina cake, dipped in shredded coconut and handed over in a square of newsprint. Awesome.

Oh, and Turkish delight.

Maize on the cob. Mm mm, salty, chewy, and corny.

Pure pomegranate.
Intense.

Following the recommendation of a Guardian reviewer, one evening we headed over to Itfaiye Cadessi to find a restaurant specialising in lamb cooked over coals in a hole in the ground, and pilaf in pastry. It was a Friday night but most of the restaurants lining the street seemed fairly empty, so, unable to match the name we had written down to any of the likely-looking establishments, we took a punt instead on the only bustling place. It was a winner. They had the pilaf in a pastry shell, which I ordered, and the pit lamb, but Finn ordered a kofte meal instead. They came out with a plate of various salads and plenty of bread. It was all so delicious. The rice was oily and nutty and chickeny-rich, to which the salads were a perfect match, the acidity cutting right through. One of the things I love about salads here is the quantity of parsley. Really it should be called Turkish parsley, not Italian parsley. Here it is really used as an ingredient, there just as a garnish. Finn's plate had meat, roast tomatoes, grilled jalapeno peppers, and a spicy barley-type concoction.Yum yum yum yum. On the wall by our table there was a big article about Bourdain's visit there, which is what made us think to look up his programme. 

The next night we headed back to the same street, feeling compelled to find the Guardian place. And we did. But it was much less fun. Better to just follow our noses. 

Yes, as well as eat we did also see some sights.

Domes and lighting wires inside the Blue Mosque.

Wash block outside the Blue Mosque

Hagia Sophia.

Sideways Medusa in the city cistern.

And we went over to Istanbul Modern on the other side of the Galata, and explored a bit around there, and took a ferry ride to test our toes on the Asian continent and drink a glass of mouth puckeringly delicious freshly squeezed pink grapefruit juice. And we did some successful (ie. both sides come out feeling pleased with themselves) bargaining around the edges of the Grand Bazaar. All up, Istanbul was wonderful fun. Cheap and choice, compared with other stops on this trip.

View from our hotel's front door.

Istanbul has, at a guess, upwards of 90% retail coverage at ground level, and above, and below. Streets and streets and streets and streets of shops + roadside stalls + malls through all the subway underpasses + the bazaars + street sellers. The touristy areas are a constant cry of people trying to sell you something, anything, to get a piece of your cash. But one street back and it's supply shops and repair outlets and retail not aimed at the foreign market so you're left quietly alone. 

Otherwise it's like the title quotes. And also - "Where are you from, Germany?" No.

                                                                      "Netherlands?" No.

                                                                      "Bangladesh! Ha ha ha ha ha..."

Italian was the most common assumption, hilariously. Then Spanish. And once, Icelandic. Crazy.

On the way to the airpot there was a cat riding our train. Curled up on a warm seat on a cold day. Riding backwards and forwards between the city and the airport. It had it good and it wasn't going to budge for anyone. Three men in business suits spent some good time cooing over it. The cats in Istanbul are well looked after. They are slinky and chic, clean and well-fed looking, some are super friendly. And they are in millions and millions of travellers holiday snapshots. But not ours.

12 January 2012