The evening I’m scheduled to dine at TURK doesn’t start well.
After a day of guided sightseeing, I’ve returned to my hotel later than planned, with minutes to prepare for a meal that many in the local food scene consider to be the ultimate fine-dining experience in Istanbul. My anxiety peaks when I struggle to hail an Uber, drivers cancelling on me when discovering they’d be venturing into a traffic hotspot. My hotel’s concierge intercedes, hailing a cab on my behalf and sweet-talking the driver into not extorting the agitated foreigner. Next, traffic is what you’d expect in a city of 20 million people – gridlocked, noisy, chaotic. So, when I’m eventually welcomed through the doors of TURK, the serenity before me is a welcome relief, and unlike the Istanbul I’ve come to know until then.
I’m seated at the “chef ’s table”, a long counter separating restaurant from open kitchen. My view into the kitchen is cinematic – widescreen and technicolour. I’m so close to the action that a mere movement on my part might see me, like Mike Teavee in Roald Dahl’s , transported from my reality into
