Istanbul

What country is always in a hurry to eat? Russia. What country eats the scales, skeleton and everything else of a fish? Finland. These horrible nationalistic puns could continue, but I don’t want to scare away any of my readers. On with the review.

My Dutch friend who visited last weekend decided we both wanted to eat while out walking through Tartu’s Old Town. We were very Hungary, with a craving for Chile, but we didn’t want too much Greece, so we opted for Turkey. He asked if I’d ever had a Turkish pizza, and when I answered no, he insisted we grab a quick bite at Istanbul, on Rüütli Street. It was a good choice.

The downtown area was fairly crowded for a Sunday afternoon, and most of the tables on Town Hall Square reeked of Finnish breath. Yet Istanbul was empty. We were the only two customers. I got the distinct impression we were the first people to eat there all day. Hell, maybe even that week! And I think I know why.

Estonians seem to be largely afraid of Middle Eastern cultures. They love to go there on package tours because it’s warm and they’re suddenly rich, instead of counting their senti in Stockholm, but otherwise they want to stick to fatty pork and boiled potatoes. And if a couple of Estonians do happen to walk in to Istanbul, the interior décor might be a bit off-putting. It’s wall-to-wall pink. Estonians don’t want to feel like they’re eating in their bedrooms.

The other problem is the owner. According to our waitress—Kristiina—he is Turkish, but lived in Georgia for several years. That’s why I heard him conversing with some would-be customers in fluent Russian. But the problem is his skin color. He’s too dark for Tartu.

I remember about six years ago when La Dolce Vita opened up (a local pizzeria), the review given in the Postimees newspaper made a big deal about "dark-skinned" people cooking and serving food. They were talking about Italians. Another, recent article in the same paper made a big deal about "dark-skinned" doctors (from India it turned out) treating patients in the local hospital. I can only imagine the phobia of this guy at Istanbul. And he stands by the door, visible through the window from the street. From my point of view, if a restauranteur in Estonia is not pasty white, he probably knows what he’s doing in the kitchen. But an Estonian in Estonia judges not by his taste buds but by what is least offensive to what he considers normal.

There are also some Estonians who walk around the city claiming to want something “fresh” or “real,” whatever that might mean. They’re eager to try new things because it is cool to be seen trying new things. I didn’t see those people in Istanbul.

Anyhow, we both ordered Turkish pizzas. Basically kebab-style meat with sauce and veggies rolled up, it was only sixty-five kroons or so. Not entirely filling, but completely satisfying. I’d eat it again. But for just thirty kroons, I wanted to try one of their appetizers.

I don’t remember what it was called because I was so hungry I forgot to take a lot of photos (I ate most of my pizza before I remembered to take a photo), but it was essentially a tomato sauce with herbs and garlic and so on, served with bread. We asked Kristiina if it was big enough for two, and she said yes. In reality, while delicious, it was a plate of sauce with two tiny pieces of Turkish bread (I assume it was homemade and Turkish, because I’ve not seen it in local shops on sale—keep in mind I know nothing about Turkish cuisine). After we’d both been careful not to exceed the bread-to-sauce ratio, over half the sauce was left after the bread was gone.

We asked for more bread if possible, but Kristiina said she’d have to ask the owner, and I suddenly felt like the slovenly Yankee who wanted a free refill for his liter a cola.

Kristiina was suspiciously nice. She was also rather voluptuous. Not two minutes went by between her visits to the table. She would exude a broad, genuine smile—not the faked up American mask—and it was all I could do to not look down her shirt. And I didn’t—not a single time. But my Hollandish friend claimed to be able to see her thingies. See, she was tall, and had to bend way down and over the table to place our orders before us.

For all her extreme and authentic courtesy, it still took her almost ten minutes to open a bottle of water and pour it into a glass. The appetizer also arrived thirty seconds before the Turkish pizza. That’s somewhat of a problem here in Estonia. Whether you call it an appetizer, starter or hors d’œuvres, the idea is that you get it fast and before your main dish, so you can enjoy both separately. Estonians don’t seem to understand this concept. It’s more of a side dish here. I’ve even had appetizers delivered after having paid the bill. Why is that?

I also ate here on my birthday last year. I think it must have just opened, because a week before I hadn’t noticed it while walking by. It’s a very good restaurant. Certainly healthy. It goes far beyond grilled meat and red bell peppers sliced up and branded Armenian or Georgian. I think they had some good vodkas at the bar, too, but I can’t remember.

Just don’t expect something amazing like what you’d see on the Travel Channel. You can’t get those kinds of ingredients in Tartu anyhow. Maybe in Pärnu, Tallinn, Võru or Viljandi, but not Tartu. Tartu for some reason seems to be the furthest behind in Estonia in many ways. It’s surprising, I thought. “Usually the people who claim to be the most open-minded and progressive are in fact the least so, because they think they already are, and so stop trying,” Dutch told me when walking out. And that’s not surprising, I think.