This morning a concerned Brazilian gentleman approached the drinks counter upstairs to let us know that there was a dead bird on the little terrace off of the main lobby. Bulent was quick to react, though I was surprised that he didn’t grab a plastic bag or even any paper towels on his way out the door. Nope, he just picked that bird right up and brought it inside. With his BARE HANDS. Am I silly to be squeamish about that? How about when that same Brazilian gentleman asked for a brunch-time beer and Bulent casually set the bird down on the tip box so he could fill the order? From now on, I am slipping coins into that box with great caution.
(Bulent and his questionable bird behavior.)



So, there are big things happening at the restaurant. It already seems like a pretty classy operation to me, but apparently Mehmet thinks there’s room for improvement, so he’s hired an outside consultant to come in and whip everything into shape. On the day I met her, she immediately beckoned me into her office with a heavily bejeweled index finger. (Office? Where did that come from? A formerly unnoticed empty room was suddenly outfitted with a large, intimidating desk.) In addition to all the rings she was sporting silver finger and toenails, silver sandals, glittering purple earrings, and a rhinestone encrusted clip clutching her violently highlighted hair. I was immediately cowed. Her first order of business was to set up an appointment for me to be measured for my new uniform. Up until now I’ve been wearing to the restaurant pretty much whatever I want—usually at least moderately nice dresses and skirts. No more. After arranging for my measurements to be taken she pulled a piece of paper from her notebook (the same one she proceded to use to take notes on our performance all evening) and made a quick sketch for the tailor of my new outfit: a long-sleeved shirt buttoned to the neck and a shapeless smock to be worn over it that will “go to here, below the knees.” When I asked her what color it would be she replied, “The shirt is brown, and the smock…maybe brown. Or dark brown.” Lovely. Throughout the evening she sat in the waiting area, which has an excellent view of the dining terrace, occasionally swooping in to issue her correctives. Metin and Erkan are exchanging small talk? No! They must stay segregated. Janaki delivered a basket of bread by carrying it in her hands? No, she must use an ashtray, always. “A tray?” I suggested. “Yes, always, an ashtray! Even for one drink!” She's like the Turkish incarnation of Professor Umbridge, that pink-clad Hogwarts professor with her constant “Hem hem”ing interruptions. You know, the evil one.

Hm, speaking of the restaurant, there was a bit of action last night when the tax man (tax men, rather) came to visit. There I was, trying to communicate to the non-Engish speaking Ramazan that I needed an order of grilled chicken HOLD THE EGGPLANT (Americans, of course, so picky) when Mustafa, another “unofficial” employee at the hotel, came by. “Janaki,” he said, “walk with me.” (I swear, those were his actual words.) The two of us fled to a patio just adjacent to the restaurant, from which we had an excellent view of the terrace as well as the reception area above. Watching the small figures moving in and out of rooms, pulling papers out of briefcases and exchanging vague but grave-looking gestures, I felt just like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, aware that something serious was going on but not quite sure what. Later, when Mehmet was wining and dining his unexpected guests at the restaurant, I had to dispatch Ramazan to collect my sweater and phone from inside, afraid to go in lest my identity be suspected. I felt so Bond.