Man’oushe in Beirut

Wednesday, 25th June 2014

Man'oushe stall in Beirut

Beirut is a city of contrasts, the most striking being that of new wealth against a backdrop of quite obviously recent civil war. People parade barely healed plastic surgery around bullet pucked buidings. I was sad to read yesterday about a suicide bombing – the conflict in Syria is shaking the city once again. We spent a peaceful few days there in April, thankfully, which wasn’t nearly long enough. It’s hard to get to grips with as a city. I think my partner in travel, crime, eating etc. has captured the place extremely well in a post he wrote on his blog and so I shall quote him here.

I’m looking at ‘happy cookies’, imported New Zealand lamb, organic salmon fillets (neatly vacuum packed) and I’m pretty certain I saw at least one person selling cup cakes. There were definitely chocolate brownies. Souk el Tayeb, the Beirut farmer’s market is an oddity. There’s something a bit wrong about the way that the small-scale agricultural produce of a country that still has a large amount of said small-scale agriculture is being packaged up and sold back to itself (at a hefty premium of course).

We’re in the main Beirut souk, where marble walls glisten; well-groomed Arab men partake of oversized cigars whilst strolling with their families. On display are luxury watches, expensive fashion, and now, labneh balls preserved in oil, bright turnip pickles, and cheery Lebanese women rolling out balls of dough to slap on their dome shaped grills; applying oil and za’atar, pre-sliced white cheese and the occasional dollop of chilli before rolling up their man‘oushes. As with so many a sandwich glimpsed in the wild, the restraint is what first catches the eye; really no more than a couple of ingredients, the pungent tang of wild oregano providing more than enough flavour to interest.

A gaggle of children are painting plaster casts of Easter bunnies. Over the road stand soldiers, their rifles lazily slung over their shoulders, chatting disinterestedly with some members of the city police.

This is Beirut. It’s pretty fucking odd.

You can’t go anywhere unless you’re in a taxi, though none of the taxi drivers have the faintest clue where anything is. The constant switching between Arabic, French and English spellings renders street names next to useless. Drivers will stop two to three times to shout questions at passers by for even the shortest of journeys. I’m left baffled as to what anything costs by the need to try and work out parallel exchange rates between Sterling, Lebanese Pounds and Dollars. Change regularly arrives in mixed currency format. A $50 note and 14000LP thank you very much.

Dusk turns pleasant roads derelict and less inviting corners terrifying. Cars careen about with little thought to their own safety. Eight hours in the city and we’d already seen two accidents. It’s as if the collective memory of civil war has rendered the concept of automotive safety null and void. Who needs seat belts when everyone can remember the acrid smoke of suicide bombs? There’s a Ferrari stopped at the lights on our left, next to it pulls up a battered Honda motorbike. The Greek Orthodox Christians are streaming out of their churches candles held votive before them. Chanting echoes out of the ornate facades, mingling with the amplified wail of the Muezzin call to prayer and the omnipresent chorus of car horns.

Three hours later and midnight has transformed the louche atmosphere of the bars from lazy afternoon drinking to a frenzied Faliraki street sprawl; bad cocktails and bottles of beer, aggressive posing and pounding Euro pop. I argue with a lingering taxi driver over the cost of the return to our hotel. Curse that the bar is closed and go instead to corner shop next door. The owner, smoking at the counter sorts me a quarter bottle of Arak and some ice. I retreat to my room for bed. Exhausted.”

Man'oushe lady

Za'atar Smear

Man'oushe in Beirut

So yeah, that’s Beirut. At times a confusing and complicated place. The food however, is really something, and I came back to London significantly fatter. First up, these man’oushe, a Lebanese speciality. Yes, I am counting a rolled up flatbread as a sandwich, because it’s my blog and I’ll do what I bloody well like. I spotted the lady making these in the market and swooped in on her with the steely determination of a hawk hunting a mouse. She was perched next to a blistering hot dome, on a scorching day, slapping and scraping flat breads. They came painted green with za’atar, heavy with thyme and oregano and speckled with sesame. Superbly chewy, intense and rich with cheese. As ever though, there is more than one way to fill a flatbread, and I like to top my za’atar smear with pickles, labneh and herbs. The recipe below is from my sandwich book, 101 Sandwiches.

Man’oushe (from 101 Sandwiches, Dog n Bone Books, 2013)

Makes 8–10

For the flatbread:

500g plain flour
7g sachet easy-blend dried yeast
1.5 tsp sea salt
1 tsp caster sugar
Generous 250ml warm water
1.5 tbsp olive oil

To assemble the sandwiches:

Za’atar (recipe here or use a ready made blend)
Olive oil
Fresh mint leaves, roughly chopped
Fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves, roughly chopped
Tomatoes, seeded and finely chopped
Red onion, finely chopped
Pickled turnips or other pickled vegetables, drained and sliced
Labneh or plain yoghurt (it is easy to make your own labneh – see below)
Ground sumac

To make the flatbread, in a large mixing bowl, combine the flour, yeast, salt and sugar. Gradually add the warm water, mixing until you have a soft dough. Knead for about 5 minutes on a lightly floured surface, gradually adding the olive oil as you do so.

Rub a bowl with a little oil and place the dough in it. Cover with a clean tea towel and leave to rise in a warm place for about 3 hours, until doubled in size. Once risen, gently knock back the dough and knead again for a few minutes. Divide the dough into 8–10 pieces, then roll out into flatbreads, each about 1/4 inch (5mm) thick. Cook the flatbreads, 1 or 2 at a time, in a hot, dry large skillet for about 3 minutes on each side, until brown spots appear in places. The cooked flatbreads can be kept warm in a low oven while you cook the remainder.

To assemble the sandwiches, mix some za’atar with a little olive oil to make it easier to spread and brush it onto each flatbread while still warm. Top with mint and parsley leaves, some chopped tomato and red onion and some sliced pickles, then dollop with labneh. Sprinkle with sumac, wrap and eat immediately.

Labneh Recipe:

To make your own labneh, just mix a good pinch of sea salt with a 500g tub of full-fat natural yoghurt, then wrap it in a piece of muslin, tie the top with string, hang it over a bowl and leave in a cool place for about 8 hours or overnight. Use the strained yoghurt or labneh as required. Any leftover labneh will keep in an airtight container in the fridge for up to 3 days.

Shop in Beirut

7 comments | 101 Sandwiches, Beirut, Bread, Markets, Sandwiches

19th Century Curry Sandwiches

Wednesday, 18th June 2014

18th Century Indian Sandwich Recipe

It’s hard to resist making a recipe that looks really weird on paper. This is from ‘The Road to Vindaloo, Curry Cooks and Curry Books‘ by David Burnett and Helen Saberi, which is a charming little book crammed with recipes collected from various sources, spanning several centuries. There are two sandwich recipes in it, both equally as baffling. I hope you will understand that I simply had to know what the combination of hard-boiled egg yolk, butter, curry powder, anchovy and tarragon vinegar tasted like as a sandwich spread. You don’t? Weird. I’ll tell you anyway. I just need to think about how to say it. Um. Okay so I can see what they were trying to do here, which was make something with a hella shitload of umami. It is definitely not lacking in that respect. I’d even go so far as to say that it was rather nice, once I got over the whole bright orange mush thing. I was going to bust out that almost-cliché about not being able to taste the anchovies and them just being a seasoning but to be honest they’re fairly obvious. The egg and curry powder works as you’d expect and so does the tarragon; just think of fennel seeds in a curry and you’ll get the idea. It’s remarkably balanced, actually. Crikey, I’m talking myself round. The cucumber slices are my addition; the crisp freshness is very welcome. I also decided to cut them into dainty fingers due to the erm, intensity of the paste.

I want you to make these sandwiches, and it annoys me that you probably won’t. No-one has the cahoonas to make a sandwich spread like this any more. It deserves to be served.

Curry Sandwiches by someone called Theodore Francis Garrett (from The Road to Vindaloo, by David Burnett and Helen Saberi, Prospect Books, 2008)

3 hard boiled eggs
1 oz butter, plus extra for spreading if desired
1 teaspoon curry powder
Anchovy (no quantity specified so I used 2 fillets)
Tarragon vinegar (again no quantity specified so use those buds)
Salt to taste
White bread, thinly sliced
Cucumber slices (my addition)

In a pestle and mortar, mush up the egg yolks only with the butter, curry powder, anchovy and salt if desired. Gradually work in a little tarragon vinegar. Butter some bread (I think this was perhaps overkill considering the butter in the paste but knock yourself out) and spread this delightful concoction over it. Layer with cucumber slices. Sandwich with the other slice of bread, remove the crusts, cut into fingers and serve.

15 comments | Sandwiches, Sauces, Condiments and Spreads

Liver and Onions, Turkish Style

Wednesday, 4th June 2014

Turkish Style Liver and Onions

This is a nifty wee dish to bash out on the  BBQ. What? No it’s not raining, you’re imagining things. Okay it is, but this is Britain; stick a brolly over it. The flavours here aren’t for the faint-hearted anyway; there’s liver, which some people are against, and a large amount of onions. Oh and an extremely spicy dressing. I have warned you about the last bit.

In case you hadn’t noticed, I recently went to Istanbul. The Turkish absolutely love their liver, and I’ve been hankering after some of those deftly cooked cubes, hot off the grill, charred without and softly offaly within. This is similar to many preparations we ate in that glorious city and it’s very easy to make as the liver is grilled simply and the spices dusted on afterwards. The onions are dressed in fierce Turkish chilli paste and pomegranate molasses, the latter giving a sort of curious perfumed back note against the HARDCORE FIRE of the biber. Addictive stuff.

Liver and Onions, Turkish Style

For the onions

2 onions, cut into half moons
2 tablespoons Turkish chilli paste
2 tablespoons pomegranate molasses
1 tablespoon black urfa Turkish chilli flakes
2 teaspoons hot chilli flakes
1 tablespoon lemon juice

Soak your onions in iced water for 30 minutes. Mix together the dressing ingredients. Dry the onions on kitchen paper and mix with the dressing. Leave for 1 hour before serving. They’re even better the next day.

For the liver

Lamb’s liver (this works with any amount as you’re just dusting it with spices)
Oil
Ground chilli
Ground coriander
Flaky salt

Give the liver a rub with a little oil and whack it on a BBQ for a couple of minutes each side, or until charred on the outside and still a little pink within. Once cooked, transfer to a warm plate and dust lightly with ground coriander, chilli and plenty of flaky salt. Serve immediately with the onions.

13 comments | Barbecue, Istanbul, Meat

Singapore Chilli Crab

Tuesday, 27th May 2014

Singapore Chilli Crab

“I don’t understand why everyone is so cynical about ‘Padstein‘” says the lady I’m sat with at lunch, “before Rick (Stein) opened restaurants here, Padstow was a bit of a dive”. We’re eating Singapore chilli crab, and our mouths, hands and aprons are  covered with intense, spicy sauce and crab meat. We’ve cooked the crabs ourselves, at Stein’s seafood school. I think about what she’s said, and it’s true; I’ve seen people sneer at the mention of Padstow, arguing that Rick (and his ex-wife and business partner Jill) have ruined this picturesque fishing village by drawing in tourists. They’ve brought a lot of money with them, though. Be reassured that there are other chefs cooking in Padstow, and what’s more, people know about them.

At the seafood school we’re given a demo of the dish we’re about to make, by a guy called Mark Puckey, who has been with the Steins for years. He plucks each hulking crab from an ice bed; they’re males, 1.2 kgs if memory serves, fresh as you like and importantly, very much alive. For some reason, I’ve never shown crabs the same courtesy as lobsters when it comes to cooking, the latter always taking a nap in the freezer first. The crabs though, straight into the pot every time. I am ashamed to learn that the most humane way to kill a crab is quite different, and it is done by using what is – let’s not beat around the bush here – a big metal spike with a handle on it. The way to do it is to turn the crab over onto its back and lift up its tail flap; there you will find a hole. I think you know what’s going into that hole. You ram the spike in, then rapidly wiggle it around in a circular motion. This disables the crab’s nervous system. Then you turn the poor bastard over, find the natural depression right on top of its head and again, straight in with the spike. Hungry? Mmm. To be honest, this is a lot easier and less traumatic (from my end at least), than it sounds. In fact, I was worryingly efficient at it.

Crab

The best way to cook your newly passed crab is in seawater, but in the absence of that on your doorstep, chuck a shed load of salt in the pan. Oh and do make sure the pan is big enough; if they don’t fit it’s a nightmare, as I discovered once when cooking lobsters. Once the crabs are simmering, we spend a leisurely 40 minutes or so chopping bits and bobs for the sauce, and drinking a crisp glass of white. It’s just like being at home, except in a really beautifully designed kitchen with a professional chef on hand to hold down your crab while you ram a big spike…well you know.

As we sit down to eat with yet more wine, a million napkins, finger bowls and crab-eating paraphernalia we marvel at the dishes in front of us; a whole crab each in the most incredible sauce, rammed with chilli and ginger, made super rich with the brown meat; so decadent. Half an hour is spent working over the beasts. Satisfied faces are stained orange. This is Rick’s signature dish, apparently, and I have to say it was spot on. I’ll admit that I was a tiny, weeny bit worried that I’d hate the seafood school, that it would be an attempt to squeeze as much money as possible from people at every turn, and yes of course there are books and Stein branded plates for sale but I can honestly say, I enjoyed every minute of it, I learned a lot and was as smug as anything when I sat down to that crab at the end. It just goes to show that, like the Padstein critics, it’s easy to be cynical about something you haven’t experienced.

Singapore Chilli Crab

Singapore Chilli Crab (© Rick Stein’s Seafood courtesy of BBC Books)

This is obviously re-produced from the book and as such does not include the instructions for killing and portioning up the crab. Tim Hayward’s guide here is good. 

Serves 4 (we ate a 1.2kg crab each, though)

2 x 900 g (2 lb) live or cooked crabs
4 tablespoons groundnut or sunflower oil
4 fat garlic cloves, finely chopped
2.5 cm (1 inch) fresh root ginger, finely chopped
4 tablespoons tomato ketchup
3 medium-hot, red, Dutch chillies, finely chopped
2 tablespoons dark soy sauce 150 ml (5 fl oz) water
A few turns of the black pepper mill
2 spring onions, cut into 5 cm (2 inch) pieces and finely shredded lengthways

If using live crabs, kill them as described on page 80 and prepare them for stir-frying (again, Hayward’s guide here).

Heat the oil in a large wok. Add the crab pieces and stir-fry for 3 minutes, adding the garlic and the ginger after 1 minute. Add the juices from the back shell, the tomato ketchup, red chillies, soy sauce, water and black pepper.
Cover and simmer over a medium heat for 5 minutes if the crab is fresh or 2 – 3 minutes if using cooked crab. Spoon the crab on to 1 large plate or 4 soup plates, sprinkle over the shredded spring onions and serve straight away.

I was invited to Padstow Seafood School 

11 comments | Cookery Classes, Fish and Seafood

Turkish Lamb Meatballs with Rhubarb

Monday, 12th May 2014

Turkish Lamb Meatballs with Rhubarb

Istanbul spans two continents, separated by the blustery Bosphorus. I’m sure you knew that already. Apparently tourists are often reluctant to cross over from the European to the Asian side, which is weird, because you can do it on a boat, and boat rides are fun. Also, why on earth would you miss an opportunity to travel between continents in the space of half an hour-ish? I think I possibly liked the Asian side even more than the European, actually. Or maybe I liked them the same. Or perhaps I liked the European more. Argh! It’s such an exciting city.

Anyway this recipe was inspired by a restaurant on the Asian side called Çiya which, like Çukur Meyhane, had a few dishes on the menu that jumped out at me as being things I absolutely had to eat or else something terrible would happen. There are three branches of Çiya, and to quote Rebecca Seal who kindly gave me lots of excellent recommendations, including this one, “you want the one that does more than just kebabs”. We sat outside, blinking in the high, bright sunshine on a wobbly table set on a steep cobbled street. Service is rapid and brusque; before we knew it silver dishes clattered onto the table, edges glinting like knives. The mezze appear to be self served from a buffet inside the restaurant, which I didn’t realise until we’d eaten our main courses. No booze either but it was worth the visit for this dish alone – rich, sweet meatballs, cooked with soft, gently acidic plums.

Ciya Meatballs with Plums

Original dish with plums at Çiya, Istanbul

I wanted to re-create the dish and rhubarb seemed like an interesting seasonal variation. It was awesome. Yes, I say so myself.  The meatballs are rich with Turkish chilli paste, which turns the oil bright amber as they cook, and those Turkish chilli flakes so small and dark they look like slate chippings. The sauce is heady, sweet and sour with pomegranate molasses and of course, the rhubarb.

Turkish Lamb Meatballs with Rhubarb

Meatballs

This was perfect served with saffron rice and a dollop of yoghurt. The only thing missing was the sun (pissing rain outside, naturally) and the opportunity to amble over to the bar opposite for a cheeky raki and a tooth-achingly sweet noodle dish with cheese in the middle.

Turkish Lamb Meatballs with Rhubarb (makes 25 meatballs)

500g minced lamb (not too lean)
1 smallish onion, very finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, crushed
Generous tablespoon Turkish pepper paste, plus a bit for luck
2 teaspoons Turkish chilli (dark)
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 slice bread soaked with water until completely wet, then excess water squeezed out

Oil and butter, for frying

For the sauce

2 sticks rhubarb (approx 300g)
1 tablespoon pomegranate molasses
2 cardamom pods
Generous splash white wine
1 tablespoon golden caster sugar
Pistachios, to garnish (optional)

Greek yoghurt, to serve

Make the meatballs by combining the lamb mince, onion, garlic, Turkish pepper paste, Turkish chilli, cinnamon, bread and some salt and pepper in a bowl. Mix really well using your hands, then shape into 25 balls. In a frying pan, heat a splash of oil and knob of butter. Fry the balls in batches, about 5 or 6 at a time, until browned, then set aside. Drain the fat off into a bowl but keep it set aside.

De-glaze the pan with a good glug of the wine. Add the rhubarb, cardamom pods (crush them a bit), pomegranate molasses, sugar and some salt. Add a generous splash of water, bring to a simmer, put the lid on and cook for 10 minutes. Return the meatballs to the pan with some of the drained fat, and cook for a further 10 minutes with the lid on. Serve with bread or rice and yoghurt.

Istanbul Cat

Istanbul cat picture…seems to have become standard practice

18 comments | Fruit, Istanbul, Main Dishes, Meat

Two Cornish Blue Cheese Recipes

Wednesday, 7th May 2014

Cornish Blue Cheese Ageing

I recently went to Cornwall, where I met a man called Philip Stansfield, who makes Cornish Blue cheese. I’ll be completely honest from the off and say I’d never even heard of it and so, it was a huge relief to find that the cheese tasted good (really excellent, actually), considering I’d spent the half  hour prior to tasting it getting all enthused about the production process and the man himself. I know you’ll have no sympathy whatsoever when I say this, but it can be damn awkward to find oneself at a tasting when the product turns out to be a bit shit.

So we had toured the dairy, roaming like cattle through pasteurising rooms, curd cutting areas (technical term) and ageing rooms (shipping containers) where the air was so thick with ammonia and flora I found it tricky to breathe. Whoever is responsible for turning every one of those cheeses must have lungs of steel. Or full of cheese mould. “Is it a hernia, doctor?” “No I’m afraid it’s a truckle.” Each room contained row upon row of cheeses at different stages of maturity, some sporting impressive furry tufts on the rind, “just like my cat!” I commented, wittily, more than once. I know.

Cornwall

Cornwall

Despite appearances, production is relatively small scale, and that’s the way Philip wants to keep it. He’s a smart man who knows his product is excellent, and he knows that other people know it too. He has just a few other people working with him, particularly at busy times of the year, and one of them is salting cheese when we arrive. “This is very physical work” Philip tells us, and I can see. The woman is lifting, salting and re-stacking cheeses at some speed, and we work out (well, someone else works out), that she must be shifting about 200kg all told. Who would’ve thought that cheese could keep you slim?

What really pleases me about Philip’s story is that he turned to cheese-making because he honestly didn’t know what else to do. Dairy farming wasn’t a good place and he basically needed to survive any way that he could. “I thought right, I’ve got cows, I’ll make some cheese.” Of course many failed attempts followed, but when he got things right, he scooped the prestigious ‘Champion Cheese’ title at The World British Cheese Awards. Amazing. He recalls the event “The judges were down to the final three, and I could see a cheese that looked a bit like mine in front of them… “So what does a winning cheese taste like? Well, it’s a mild blue, and deliberately so, because Philip likes the creamy base flavour to show through; many blues are dominated by the mould, and can taste what I like to refer to as (again, technical term, so brace yourself), ‘a bit bitey’. There’s the familiar salty twang of a blue though, and boy has it got some length.

Cornwall

A young cheese

So Philip asked if I would do a couple of recipes for his website in return for this little tour and of course I said yes, GIMME THE CHEESE! Ahem. I’ve done one for summer, which is so simple a calf could put it together and I’ve pointed you to another suitable for winter, which you can actually eat at any time of year should you wish. I will allow it.

Watermelon and Cornish Blue Cheese 

I refuse to insult your intelligence by giving you quantities here.

Watermelon, seeds removed and cubed
Cornish Blue cheese
Good flaky sea salt, preferably Cornish
Good olive oil

Arrange watermelon on plate. Crumble on cheese. Sprinkle salt. Swirl with small amount of olive oil.

If you fancy something a bit more hearty, perhaps after a bracing Cornish coastal walk, then this baked gnocchi recipe is for you. Just swap the Gorgonzola for Cornish Blue, obviously.

Untitled

11 comments | Cheese, Salads

Favourite Istanbul Meze: Yoghurt with Celeriac

Monday, 5th May 2014

Yoghurt with Celeriac

Like every other cook, I plan my holidays around what I can put into my gob, and where. Neither I, nor the majority of my friends would consider going away without having made The List, a document on which is collated restaurant and other food oriented recommendations extracted from mates, Twitter and Google in the weeks running up to the trip. As useful as these lists can be however, I also find them an albatross. There’s a lot to be said for exploring a city simply by arseing about with no particular plans or direction, and it can often lead to the best discoveries. I stumbled across Has Urfa Lahmacun for example on a morning when we were slightly lost, and desperately hungry; we just pitched up there out of necessity and had one of our favourite meals of the trip. Being too tied to The List can mean one ends up ping ponging from place to place, frantically trying to tick off experiences without stopping to actually enjoy just being somewhere new. I’ve definitely been guilty of that.

What I try to do now is just mark out a few places that really MUST be visited, and keep the rest in reserve. Çukur Meyhane, a ‘Turkish pub’, was in the former category; I’d heard good things about the food, but also I knew that (DANGER! DANGER!) they specialise in raki. If you’re not familiar, raki is an anise flavoured spirit, like pastis, Pernod, or arak, but with the ability to induce next-level drunken irritability. Unfortunately we have quite a taste for it. Or should I say ‘had’. The fridges at Çukur Meyhane are rammed with bottles distilled in different areas of Turkey (some labelled with people’s names – for their use only), but I have to admit, they all tasted the same to me.

What I really enjoyed was the food. We gorged (and I do mean gorged; I rolled around afterwards like a fatted seal pup) on aubergine and yoghurt salads, pastries, stuffed vine leaves (not sure I’ll ever really come round to liking vine leaves that much), and a seriously good grilled liver flecked with ground coriander and chilli, which I’ve since tried and failed to re-create on the BBQ. This yoghurt dish was my absolute favourite. You’ll find a yoghurt meze dish on every menu in Istanbul, but this was different. At first I thought it contained grated celery which had been allowed to drain its water, but then I recognised the earthiness of that weird knobbly root. I’m not the  biggest fan of celeriac in soup, or even just cooked, to be honest; baked in ash at The Ledbury is one thing, but at home? Meh. Remoulade all the way, for me, and now of course, in this yoghurt. It spoke to me, basically. Give it a whirl.

Kartalsk

Raki pictures line the walls at Çukur Meyhane

Yoghurt with Celeriac

The original: yoghurt with celeriac at Çukur Meyhane

IMG_4049

Hazy Raki days

Istanbul Cats

Sunbathing cats

Yoghurt with Celeriac (we ate this as a meze between 4)

500g full fat Greek style yoghurt. I used Total, but you could also use a strained yoghurt. Don’t use low fat if you can help it and don’t use one that is too thin (hence my suggesting strained if you can’t find the Total brand).
Juice 1/2-1 whole lemon
Small handful parsley leaves, finely chopped
80g celeriac, grated
1 large clove garlic

Cook the garlic clove in boiling water for 3 minutes, then drain and set aside. Put the yoghurt in a large mixing bowl, then beat it with a fork until smooth. Grate in the celeriac and squeeze in about half the juice from half the lemon. Crush the garlic clove and add it, then stir in the parsley, add a good pinch of salt, and set aside to sit for an hour or so at room temperature. After this time, stir again, taste, and add more lemon juice and salt if needed. Eat with warmed or toasted bread.

Çukur Meyhane, Kartal Sokak 1/A, Beyoglu, Istanbul 
Telephone: 212-244-5575
Quite a few tables were reserved on the evening we went, so get there early or call ahead.

17 comments | Barbecue, Dips, Istanbul, Nibbles, Sauces, Condiments and Spreads, Starters, Turkey

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