...and busier evenings

The restaurant is maybe the only place where I would say I really “work.” I’m there from about 6-11 every evening (it turns out that when you’re a restaurant you’re open every day, and that means no days off), and I have to admit, it’s pretty exhausting. The physical set-up at this particular restaurant doesn’t help. The main seating area is on a little terrace that looks out over Rose Valley. For any given table my first little workout is the drinks order—drinks are stored in a the “wine cellar,” a little room through a hall and down some stairs. The kitchen, on the other hand, is UP some stairs, so every time a table’s food is ready (or God forbid someone asks for extra bread or maybe a little bowl of yogurt dipping sauce or extra ice for their Coke) it means dashing up the steps and then navigating back down with a full tray. Then, all the cash transactions take place up TWO flights of stairs, in the hotel reception area, so if someone wants change I’m more than likely to be glowing slightly by the time I get it to them.

(View from the restaurant terrace of the ridiculous stairs.)












(And a view in the other direction, of the dining area from above. Isn't it pretty?)












All that aside, the waitressing is actually pretty fun. I lied yesterday when I said that all I can say in Turkish is “yes,” “no,” and “one, two, three.” I can also say “roasted eggplant salad” and “grilled chicken with rice pilaf,” because while most of the ordering is done in English, I have to write out all the tickets in Turkish for the cooks. I spent the first two days at work memorizing the menu. (Here was a puzzler: roasted eggplant salad in Turkish is patlican salatasi. Sure. But then stuffed eggplant is imam bayıldı. What? How can they both be eggplant-y and share NONE of the same words? It turns out that imam bayıldı literally translates to “passed out imam”—that is, this eggplant is so delicious that when the imam ate it he just dropped cold to the ground. Apparently you can get imam bayıldı all over Turkey; it’s very popular among those with stronger constitutions than that poor imam.) There are some things, though, that I think I will just never get. I’m still terrified any time anyone asks for a recommendation from or a point of clarification about the wine list. The one that I’m supposed to recommend is IMPOSSIBLE to remember and to pronounce: Öküzgözü. It’s made from a locally grown grape that is particularly large and round; the name translates to “cow’s eye wine.”

(Bulent, one of the chefs)














The two waiters, Erkan and Metin, are pretty much my inverse when it comes to speaking English. They’re very adept at describing each dish and saying things like, “I recommend our house red” and “Would you care for any dessert?” but beyond that opinions are usually expressed using either the phrase “very nice” or “kaput.” (No, that’s not fair...they speak a lot more English than that. But a disproportionate number of things are deemed “kaput” or “very nice.”) Ramazan, one of the “stewards,” is a little bulldog of a guy who acts very tough but has taken to making me dishes of ice cream or aside (a fruity pudding with chickpeas, coconut and peanuts) after the restaurant closes, so I know he’s very sweet. Thank goodness for Ali, the other steward, who is studying tourism in Ankara and is able to act as an all-around translator.

(Ramazan, the bulldog, Erkan, Metin and Ali hanging out at the restaurant before any guests have arrived, playing telephone.)











Ooh, the other exciting thing about the restaurant is the house specialty—a sort of giant kebab of either lamb or chicken with eggplant, spicy green peppers, a tomato and an entire head of garlic, all served between two mammoth slices of pita-like bread. I’ve yet to see even the heartiest customer finish one off by himself. It’s all cooked together in a special wood-fired oven, overseen by the owner’s father-in-law, a chain-smoking, wine-nipping, fez-wearing gentleman named Ibrahim.
Every evening Ibrahim brings wood over from the giant pile behind the restaurant and spends his first half hour at work getting the fire going inside the oven. I like how he keeps smoking even as he is sticking his head into the billowing, smoke-filled, woodfire stove.

















The vegetables and meat are cooked hanging from thick iron skewers.




















Ibrahim has the kebab assembly line down to a science...