Sinanation

One thing I dreaded the most while in New York was the breakfast at the office. There was no place to diversify and no room to be creative. It was either oatmeal made somewhat tasty with maple syrup, honey and walnuts or cereal. And if it was ever a hangover morning at the office, the guilty solution would be a lunch sandwich from Subway topped with extra mozzarella, turkey and mustard (yeah at 9 a.m. in the morning) or a 2,000 calorie-croissant from the City Bakery.

Now that I am back in Istanbul, the ultimate breakfast heaven, my cries for quality, variety and healthy (with a few fattening delicious “junk” exceptions) were heard. Here is a snapshot of what I am having for breakfast at the office today: green olives, salted cherry tomatoes and cucumbers meet the croissant sandwich with a thick slice of kaşar cheese. No to tea, but a big yes to fresh orange juice with ice.

I promised myself in traffic last night that I would write about the “animal kingdom” we call traffic in Istanbul. It is a total nightmare. Here is why:

• Minibüs. In Istanbul, we have these tiny buses called the “minibus”. I have been to numerous countries, but haven’t seen them anywhere else around the world. These ugly looking grasshopper-like transportation boxes are everywhere and take on the narrower streets of the city. They ease the job of their big brother, the bus. From the outside they look like multi-floored pimped-up trucks with the front of the vehicle higher than the back (the height difference gets bigger as more passengers flock the bus). They are all painted in a somber yellow/grey. Let me tell you now that the minibüs drivers are insane. After all these years in the crazy Istanbul traffic, they all went a little cuckoo with an ugly-as-hell ride that can’t go above 70 km/hr and has no air conditioning. These guys will run your car over and they will like it. And to make it better: Minibuses do not rely on stations. They can practically stop anywhere, anytime to pick up or drop passengers. God forbid if you are stuck behind them on the coastal one-lane route.

• Signaling. I think only 10% of the drivers in Istanbul signal: no indication of a left or a right turn. The driver can just happen to turn the wheel left at the last minute and you, following on the back, need to have a strong 6th sense to manage your speed.
• Honking. Insane. The male drivers honk as if they are caressing the voluptuous breasts of an incredibly hot model. The women drivers honk as if they are reaching for that handbag they have been dreaming about and now see the last one standing on a 50% sale. God forbid you are the helpless pedestrian with unclogged ears ready to take in all the noise.
• Diversity of the Cars. It is a huge pool. On your left you can see a 2011 Maserati Granturismo re-paving the road and on the right you can glance at a 1987 Tofaş Doğan pimped-up on the outside with fake xenon lights, but ready to fall apart inside. And believe me when I say, the sound coming off the Doğan (not the Maserati) will be loud enough to quiver your car.

And no it wasn’t any better in New York (but for different reasons).

I have seen some crazy shit during my time in the Big Apple, but I guess I must have missed this one. It all started with a status update by a friend:

Nyc subway…only place in the world you can see an overweight girl wearing nothing but green panties underneath when its 30 degrees outside :/

I should have guessed that Burak’s (who almost never rides the NYC metro like me) decision to ride the subway on a Sunday must have had a great reason behind it.

Here it is:

the 9th Annual No Pants! Subway Ride. Yes you read correctly! 9 years ago some whacked up person/organization woke up from their warm bed and said “hey let’s be lazy and head out pantless! let our legs enjoy the crisp insanely cold New York winter.” Other New Yorker’s saw their boxers/panties with urine stains on them and said “hey what a great idea!” They all jotted down the date and anxiously waited for next year when their bare butts, thongs, g’s, briefs, boxers and all the precious stuff they are meant to hold together could join in the frozen fun.

Less daring folks like me and Burak heard about the fleshy day and headed underground with the hope of glancing at some delicate Elite Model legs. I am afraid to think that the harmless hunt ends not according to plan with uglier, chubbier and saggier catches. Here are a few picks from the ever so crazy/wild Union Square:

“Istanbulers” can you imagine a similar day in the city of 7 hills and its consequences? If I remember correctly we had a “If you don’t have a swimsuit wear your underwear (white preferred) to the beach” movement for a few summers until it was officially prohibited by the government. The sights are mostly as disturbing as they are in NYC. Let’s pick the nastiest ones:

And we call it Chateau Melange. The Part 2 to A day at Kutman Vineyards

Time to filter the grapes and rest the wine a few more weeks…

It all started in New York with Yasmin‘s obsession for tasteless coffee from Le Pain Qutidien on Union Square. Whenever she dragged me there I would irritate her with this nickname I picked for her cup of coffee. Her Cappuccino was definitely a Kakachino.

Months have gone by. We both left New York, but Kakachino is still stuck in my mind. And now I don’t use it only for tasteless coffee, but for anything that I could relate it to.

• An Italian way of saying “restroom break”: I will be back after a quick Kakachino
• A unique way of saying “I hate your soup/drink”:  Oow this sure is a Kakachino
• Confirming that something you think that is bad is actually bad: Kakachino?

Do you dare add Kakachino to your own vocabulary list?

On a lightly pressed warm wrap, you would pour in a scoop of snowy white steamed rice (of course without cilantro) and then toss chunks of spicy beef tenderloin accompanied by chilled sour cream, chopped lettuce and a splash of cheese ready to melt away.

You would tuck all that mouth-watering Mexican into a toddler shaped burrito and wrap it with your special sparkling aluminum foil.

Yes Chipotle. I miss you a lot. These cold winter lunch hours and my empty stomach are longing for you.

As I mentioned in previous posts Chop’t was my favorite irreplacable salad bar in New York.  Finding a match for it in Istanbul wasn’t an easy task. Aşşk Kahve came to rescue although unlike Chop’t's fast service, this one is a full service  restaurant. My favorites are the Bombay with sliced chicken and the Bonfile salad with sliced meat (and extra tulum cheese on top). I recommend the homemade iced lemonade on the side.

Fuat sent this over and I had to share it with you. It is a photo from 2007 but is still worth a thousand laughs. Elişi means handcraft in English. Yet when you attempt to make a direct translation (like the people below did), you get an out-of-context result. Shall we say “lost in translation”?

It was all so easy when I was a little kid. I could address anyone the way I wanted. Yet, now it is all a big mystery!

I used to address cab drivers in Turkey with the title “ağabey” or in short “abi” in written Turkish slang (big brother), but now that I am older it all seems wrong. Why would I call someone “big brother” when we are both the same age and have no family affiliations?  It is also a slang word that does not go well with the way I talk. Using “şoför bey” is another option but sounds way too proper and stuck-up.

I now believe that there will never be a right or wrong in the world of Turkish titles. I feel like the best will be to avoid any title (if I can manage to do it). I have been observing other friends in this area and saw that they are also clueless. Aydın insists on using “şef” (chef) to address any employee he would like to call on (which I think is completely absurd). Görkem struggles to stick with “pardon”.

The same dilemma is apparent in the area of friends’ mothers. Some like “(first name) abla”  or “(first name) teyze” combination and others consider it a big humiliation. Mothers happily married for years are usually happy to hear such titles. Yet there are unexpected cases that can slap your hypothesis in the face like the divorced still-hot-bar-hopping energized socialite mum with cool kids. How dare you address her who spent a fortune on plastic surgery to disguise her age with “abla” or “teyze”! It is only logical to yell out “hey beautiful how you doin?”

How about for an acquaintance/friend/buddy 10-12 years older than you? Do you then use “abi” or “abla”? It seems so wrong, but there has been times when I couldn’t avoid using the terms and I drown in regret. For example a few years back I went to an interview for an internship position and I met with the owner of the company who was a family friend (whom I never met before). I used “abi”. Since then we became friends and he married a girl my age. What the heck do I do? I can’t use “abi” when the wife addresses him with the first name. Yet, I can’t just get rid of the bloody title as I have used it several times before. Total disaster of a dilemma!

It is not any better at work. I try to use “(first name) bey” (Mr. (first name)) or “(first name) hanım” (Miss (first name)) with clients, but I face a problem in that area too. Some request I use “abla” or “abi” although I believe such titles are too unprofessional for the work environment.

Maybe some of you have better terms to save a man in distress. If so please do not hesitate to share! Looking forward to comments…

I was glad to finally have the longer lasting milk here, but now I realize nothing is as it seems. These rectangle Pinar milk boxes (I use Pinar’s but all the other brands also have the same box) have been a nightmare when I try to pour them after opening the seal. The milk always spurts out the box, missing the bowl or the glass. It might last much longer than the 2-week milk in New York (which always tragically went bad by the time I needed it), but 9 am is honestly too early for any table cleaning!