Journey back to the heart of the Ottoman Empire, where food was a language of power, faith, and daily survival. In this episode, we explore the vast culinary world of the Ottomans, from the humble, life-giving bread of a common citizen’s breakfast to the secret, poison-tested feasts of the Sultan in the Topkapi Palace.
Discover the vibrant street food of 16th-century Istanbul, the special meals that marked the holy month of Ramadan, the hardy rations that fueled the mighty Janissary armies, and the luxurious sweets that defined a culture of refinement.
This is a story told through flavor and spice, a sensory journey into the kitchens, markets, and palaces of one of history’s most magnificent civilizations. Dim the lights and discover the world behind every bite.
Good evening. Tonight, we journey to the
heart of a vast and powerful Ottoman Empire to discover something fundamental
to its existence, something that connected the sultan in his palace to the fisherman
on the Bosporus. We’re going to explore what food was
actually like in the 16th century Ottoman world. Your day begins not with the sun,
but with the call to prayer echoing from a hundred minarets, a sound that washes
over the sleeping city of Istanbul like a gentle tide. You are a common person,
perhaps a craftsman, a low-level clerk, or the wife of a soldier. You live in a
modest wooden house in a crowded neighborhood, the upper floor jutting out
over a narrow cobblestone street. The air that drifts through your shuttered
window is cool and carries the scent of the sea mixed with the faint ever-present
aroma of wood smoke and roasting chestnuts from a vendor already starting his day.
Your first thought before your feet even touch the cool floorboards is of bread. In
the Ottoman world, bread is not merely a part of the meal, it is the meal itself.
It is life. It is the measure of your wealth, your security, and your connection
to the community. Your family does not bake its own bread. Almost no one in the
city does. To own a private oven is a luxury reserved for the very wealthy, a
fire hazard that the authorities strongly discourage in these tightly packed wooden
neighborhoods. Instead, like everyone else, your life
revolves around the public bakery, the fırın. You grab a few small coins and a cloth to
wrap the loaves in and you head out into the morning twilight. The street is already stirring. A man
drives a donkey laden with fresh vegetables from the farms outside the city
walls. A neighbor is sweeping her doorstep. The air is crisp. The bakery is not far.
You can smell it before you see it. It is a warm, yeasty, almost holy scent that
cuts through the morning chill. The baker, a stout man with flour dusting his
eyebrows and the permanent look of someone who has not slept in a decade, is already
pulling the first batch of the day from his massive brick-lined oven. He works with a long wooden paddle, the
kürek, sliding it into the fiery depths and pulling out perfectly browned round
loaves of flatbread, the pide. The heat that billows out from the oven door is a
physical presence, a wave of warmth that feels like a blessing on a cold morning.
You are not here for the fancy bread, not yet. You are here for the staple, the
dark, hearty whole wheat loaf that will be the foundation of your family’s three
meals. This bread is dense, nutritious, and affordable. Its quality is not a
matter of taste. It is a matter of state security. The sultan and his ministers
know that the mood of the city, the very stability of the empire, can hinge on the
price and weight of a loaf of bread. For this reason, the Bakers’ Guild is one of
the most heavily regulated in the city. Inspectors known as muhtasibs can appear
at any moment to check the scales to ensure the flour is not being adulterated
with cheaper grains, or worse, sawdust. A baker caught cheating his customers faces
severe punishment, a heavy fine, a public flogging, or the ultimate humiliation of
being paraded through the streets with his own undersized loaf hung around his neck.
The baker knows this, and he guards his reputation as fiercely as he guards his
sourdough starter. You purchase your loaves, their warmth
seeping through the cloth into your hands. On the way home, you might stop at a
small neighborhood shop for the other essential components of your first meal.
There is no grand breakfast in your world, no elaborate spread. The morning meal is
simple, quick, and designed to provide energy for a long day of labor. You buy a small piece of salty white
cheese, beyaz peynir, similar to feta, which has been stored in brine. You buy a
handful of black olives cured in salt and oil. And perhaps, if the season is right,
a fresh tomato or a cucumber to slice. Back in your home, the family gathers.
The meal is laid out on a low, round table or a large copper tray, the sofra. There
are no individual plates. Everyone tears off a piece of the warm bread and
uses it as a utensil. You dip the bread into a shared bowl of olive oil. You use
it to scoop up a piece of cheese to chase an olive. The bread is the plate, the
fork, and the substance of the meal all in one. To drink, there is water or perhaps
a small glass of yogurt drink called ayran, which is salty, sour, and
incredibly refreshing. The flavors are clean, strong, and simple. The salt of the
cheese and olives, the slight bitterness of the olive oil, the fresh crunch of the
cucumber, all of it held together by the nutty satisfying taste of the whole wheat
bread. It is a meal that has been eaten in this part of the world for a thousand
years, a timeless combination that speaks of the earth, the sun, and the sea. As you eat, you might think about the
other kinds of bread being sold across the city. The wealthy, the high-ranking
officials and rich merchants, they do not eat your dark, coarse bread.Their servants
are sent to the bakery for frankhala, a fine white bread made from meticulously
sifted flour, a sign of immense status. To afford to strip the bran and the germ
from the wheat, to eat for pure texture and lightness rather than for sustenance,
is the ultimate luxury. It is a bread that is pale, soft, and nutritionally
inferior, but it is a powerful symbol. Then there is the bread of the soldiers,
particularly the Janissaries, the sultan’s elite corps. Their bread is a source of
immense pride and a tool of political expression. When the Janissaries are
pleased with the sultan, they will accept their pay and their bread rations with
discipline. But when they are displeased, when they feel their privileges are
threatened, they will overturn the massive cauldrons of pilaf in their barracks and
refuse their bread, a gesture that sends a wave of terror through the palace. A
bread strike by the Janissaries is the first sign of a coming rebellion, a
warning that the swords may soon be drawn. And then, of course, there is the bread
of the street, the most famous of which is the simit. This is a ring of bread,
similar to a bagel, but thinner and crisper, encrusted with toasted sesame
seeds. All day long, vendors walk the streets of Istanbul carrying massive
stacks of simit on trays balanced on their heads. Their cry is a familiar part of the city’s
soundscape. For a single coin, you can buy a warm simit, its crunchy, nutty
exterior giving way to a soft, chewy inside. It is the perfect snack, the food
of the people, eaten by everyone from the boatmen on the Golden Horn to the merchant
in the Grand Bazaar. It is a small affordable moment of pleasure in a long
and difficult day. Your midday meal, like breakfast, is a
simple affair, often eaten on the go or during a short break from work. But this
is when the concept of the cooked dish, the hot meal, truly enters your day. The
centerpiece of this is often a soup, or çorba. Ottoman cuisine is built on a
foundation of soups, and they are not the thin, watery broths you might imagine.
They are thick, hearty, and intensely flavorful, a complete meal in a bowl. One
of the most common is a lentil soup, mercimek çorbası, made from red lentils
cooked down with onions, perhaps a little tomato paste, and seasoned with dried mint
and a sprinkle of red pepper flakes. It is served with a wedge of lemon to
squeeze over the top, the bright acidity cutting through the earthy richness of the
lentils. Another staple is tarhana çorbası, a soup with ancient roots. Tarhana is a
dried mixture of fermented yogurt, flour, and vegetables, which is crumbled and then
reconstituted with hot water or broth. It has a unique tangy, savory flavor and is
incredibly nutritious, a way of preserving the goodness of the summer harvest to be
eaten during the long, cold winter months. These soups are not eaten from a can. They
are made fresh daily in small cook shops called aşevı, which are found in every
neighborhood. The proprietor, the aşçı, is a master of his craft, often making just
one or two types of soup, but making them to perfection in a massive copper cauldron
that has been simmering for generations. For a few coins, you can get a steaming
bowl of çorba served with another piece of fresh bread for dipping. It is the
original fast food, a quick, cheap, and deeply satisfying meal that fuels the
city’s workforce. Alongside soup, there are the grain
dishes, the foundation of sustenance. While the very wealthy might eat rice
pilaf, for you, the more common grain is bulgur. Made from cracked wheat that has
been parboiled and dried, bulgur is a wonderfully versatile ingredient. It can
be cooked into a pilaf of its own, simmered with onions, tomatoes, and
peppers, creating a dish that is both filling and flavorful. Or it can be used to make kisir, a salad
of fine bulgur mixed with chopped herbs, tomatoes, and onions, dressed with olive
oil and pomegranate molasses, a perfect refreshing dish for a hot summer day.
These grain dishes represent the heart of Anatolian cooking, a tradition stretching
back millennia. They are a way of taking the humble harvest of the fields and
turning it into something delicious and sustaining. They are often vegetarian, not
out of any particular philosophy, but out of simple economics. Meat is a luxury, a
food reserved for feast days or for those with more disposable income. For the
majority of the population, the daily diet is a rich and varied tapestry of grains,
legumes, and vegetables. And what of the vegetables? The markets of Istanbul are a
riot of color and abundance, a testament to the empire’s vast agricultural wealth.
In the spring, you will find tender artichokes, fava beans, and an incredible
array of fresh greens. In the summer, the stalls are piled high
with ripe red tomatoes, glossy purple eggplants, sweet peppers, and slender
green beans. Autumn brings pumpkins, leeks, and a dozen varieties of squash. The Ottomans are masters of vegetable
cookery. They do not simply boil them into submission,They stuff them. They grill
them. They stew them. They preserve them. The art of the dolma, or stuffed
vegetable, is central to the cuisine. Grape leaves, peppers, eggplants,
zucchinis, even onions and artichokes are hollowed out and filled with a fragrant
mixture of rice, onions, herbs like parsley and dill, and sometimes a little
ground meat or currants and pine nuts. These are then simmered slowly in olive
oil until they are meltingly tender. A plate of mixed dolmas served at room
temperature is a common and beloved midday meal. The eggplant, or patlican, is held
in particularly high esteem. It is said that there are a hundred different ways to
cook eggplant in the Ottoman kitchen, and this is probably an understatement. It
can be fried and served with yogurt, grilled over charcoal until it is smoky
and soft and then mashed into a salad, layered with
meat in a rich casserole, or even turned into a sweet jam. Its versatility and its
ability to absorb flavors make it the undisputed king of the Ottoman vegetable
patch. So your midday meal, while simple, is far
from boring. It is a reflection of the seasons, the land, and a deep culinary
tradition. A bowl of hearty soup, a plate of bulgur
pilaf, a few tender stuffed vegetables, all of it eaten with that essential piece
of bread. It is a meal that is healthy, satisfying, and deeply connected to the
world around you. It is a meal that gives you the strength to face the second half
of your day, a day of hard work in a city that is always moving, always hungry,
always alive. As the afternoon wears on, the rhythms of the city change. The
intense work of the morning gives way to a slightly slower pace. This is the time for a different kind of
sustenance, a moment of rest and social connection, and this moment is often found
in a cup. But it is not a cup of tea. Tea will not become a dominant drink in this
land for another 300 years. No, the drink that is beginning to conquer the city, to
create new social spaces and to worry the authorities, is coffee. The coffee house,
or kahvehane, is a relatively new invention in your 16th-century world, but
it has spread like wildfire. The first one opened in Istanbul only a few decades
ago, and now they are everywhere, in every neighborhood, on every major
thoroughfare. They are the domain of men. Inside, the air is thick with the rich
aromatic smoke of roasting coffee beans and the sweet scent of tobacco from the
long-stemmed water pipes, the nargile. The room is dimly lit, the walls lined with
low benches covered in carpets and cushions. Men from all walks of life are
here: merchants discussing the price of silk, scholars debating points of
theology, Janissaries off duty, their swords resting by their side, and
storytellers, the meta, holding a rapt audience with tales of ancient heroes and
courtly intrigue. You might enter such a place after your
day’s work is done. You pay a small coin to the proprietor who
presides over a large brazier where the coffee is brewed. The process is a ritual. The green coffee beans brought from Yemen
are roasted in a pan until they are dark and fragrant. They are then ground into a
super-fine powder using a brass mill. The powder, along with sugar, is then
boiled with water in a small, long-handled copper pot called a cezve. The resulting
brew is thick, dark, and strong, served in a tiny handleless cup. It is a jolt to
the senses, a drink that sharpens the mind and fuels conversation. You sit on a
cushioned bench, sipping the hot, sweet, slightly gritty liquid, and you listen.
This is the city’s living room, its newspaper, its internet. It is here that
news is exchanged, that business deals are made, that political rumors are born. The
authorities are deeply suspicious of these places. They see them as dens of sedition, places
where men gather to gossip, to gamble, and to plot. More than one sultan has tried
to ban them, to shut them down, declaring coffee an unhealthy and disruptive
influence. But the people’s love for the drink and for the social life it enables
is too strong. The coffee houses always reappear. They are an essential part of
the city’s fabric. If coffee is the drink of intellectual and
political life, then the drink of simple refreshment, of the home in the street, is
sherbet or shurbet. This is not the frozen dessert you might
imagine. It is a sweet, aromatic drink made from
fruit juices or flower petals that have been cooked with sugar and diluted with
water or snow brought down from the mountains. The flavors are a poetic catalog of the
Ottoman garden: rose, lemon, tamarind, pomegranate, cherry, and violet. On a hot day, there is nothing more
refreshing. Sherbet sellers are a common sight on the streets, especially in the
summer. They are walking works of art, carrying enormous ornate brass flasks on
their backs with long curved spouts.They clink small cups together to attract
customers, and for a coin, they will pour you a stream of ice-cold jewel-toned
liquid that tastes like a garden in a glass. It is a sweet, innocent pleasure, a
world away from the bitter, smoky intrigue of the coffee house. And then
there is boza, another ancient drink particularly popular in the winter. It is
a thick, slightly fermented beverage made from millet or bulgur, with a sweet and
tangy taste. It is served in bowls and eaten with a spoon, often sprinkled with
cinnamon or roasted chickpeas. It is hearty, warming, and mildly alcoholic, a
comforting drink for a cold night. These drinks are as much a part of the
culinary landscape as the food. They are a reflection of the Ottoman
palate, a love for flavors that are strong, sweet, sour, and complex. They are
the liquid punctuation marks in a day of hard work and simple meals, small moments
of pleasure that make the struggles of life in a vast and unforgiving city just a
little more bearable. As evening descends upon Istanbul, the city prepares for its
final meal of the day. This is the most substantial meal, a time for the family to
gather and share the fruits of their labor. The dishes are more complex than
the simple fare of breakfast or lunch. This is when meat, the ultimate status
symbol, is most likely to make an appearance on your table, but it will not
be a large, plain roast. Ottoman cooks are masters of making a small amount of meat
go a long way, of stretching its flavor and substance through the clever use of
grains and vegetables. The most iconic of these dishes, of course, is the kebab. But
the kebab of your world is not a simple skewer of grilled meat. It is an entire
universe of culinary technique. The word itself simply means roasted, and it can
refer to a dozen different preparations. There is shish kebab, cubes of lamb
marinated in olive oil, yogurt, and spices, threaded onto a skewer with
peppers and onions and grilled over charcoal. There is doner kebab, a giant
stack of seasoned compressed meat cooked on a vertical rotisserie, the outer layers
shaved off as they become crisp and delicious. The meat is tender, succulent,
and deeply flavorful, a far cry from its modern street food descendants. The
most common way you would eat it is not in a sandwich, but as part of a larger dish,
perhaps served over a bed of fluffy rice pilaf or wrapped in warm, soft flatbread
with a side of grilled tomatoes and yogurt. But kebabs are just one part of the
evening meal. The table might also feature a casserole,
a guvec, named for the earthenware pot it is cooked in. This is a slow-cooked stew
of meat, often lamb or beef, with a variety of seasonal vegetables, eggplants,
tomatoes, okra, or green beans. It is cooked for hours over a low heat until
the meat is so tender it falls apart and the vegetables have melted into a rich,
savory sauce. It is a dish of deep, comforting flavors, perfect for a cool
evening. Another staple of the evening meal is
kofte, meatballs made from ground lamb or beef mixed with breadcrumbs, onions, and
spices like cumin and parsley. They can be grilled, fried, or stewed in a
tomato sauce. Every family, every neighborhood has its own secret recipe for
kofte, a source of pride and friendly competition. These meat dishes are always
served with accompaniments. There is always a pilaf, either the simple bulgur
of the midday meal or for a more special occasion, a fluffy, aromatic rice pilaf,
perhaps studded with chickpeas or currants. There is always a bowl of fresh, thick
yogurt, a cooling counterpoint to the richness of the meat. And there is always
a simple salad, a coban salata ci or shepherd’s salad made from finely chopped
tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and parsley, dressed simply with olive oil and lemon
juice. The flavors of the evening meal are a perfect balance of savory and sour,
rich and fresh. The meal is eaten slowly, communally. It is a time for conversation,
for sharing the stories of the day. It is a time of quiet gratitude for the food on
the table, for the family gathered around it, for the simple fact of having
survived another day in the magnificent, chaotic, and often brutal city that you
call home. And when the meal is done, there might be a small sweet treat to
finish. Not a heavy, elaborate dessert, but something simple, a plate of fresh
fruit in the summer, figs, melons, or cherries, or in the winter, a small bowl
of dried apricots and nuts, or perhaps a taste of helva, a dense sweet confection
made from sesame paste or flour and sugar. It is a quiet, satisfying end to the day,
a final note of sweetness before the city once again settles into the silence of
the night, ready to begin the timeless rhythm of work
and food all over again at the first call to prayer. This is the food of the common
person, a diet that is healthy, seasonal, and deeply flavorful, but it is only one
small part of the vast and complex culinary universe of the Ottoman
Empire.For in the heart of the city, behind the high walls of the Topkapı
Palace, another world of food exists, a world of unimaginable luxury, of
scientific precision, and of imperial power, a world where the sultan’s dinner
could decide the fate of nations. Behind the formidable high walls of the
Topkapi Palace, a city within the city lies a world that operates on a completely
different set of principles. Here, food is not simply about sustenance
or community. It is an expression of absolute power, a
tool of diplomacy, a science, and a closely guarded secret. This is the realm of the sultan, the
shadow of God on Earth, and his kitchen is as vast, complex, and hierarchical as the
empire itself. Welcome to the Matbah-i Amira, the imperial kitchens. It is not one kitchen, but a sprawling
complex of 10 specialized kitchens, their great domed roofs and tall slender
chimneys forming a unique skyline within the palace’s second courtyard. This is the largest kitchen in the entire
world, an institution with a staff of over 1,000 people all dedicated to the
singular monumental task of feeding the palace. The noise from this place is a
constant low roar, the clatter of 1,000 copper pots and pans, the rhythmic
chopping of countless knives, the sizzle of meat on grills, the shouting of orders
in a dozen different dialects, and the hiss of steam from massive cauldrons. The air is heavy with a dizzying symphony
of smells, the sharp tang of spices from the farthest corners of the empire, the
sweet scent of baking bread and pastries, the savory aroma of roasting lamb, the
delicate perfume of rosewater, and the underlying clean scent of charcoal fires.
At the head of this culinary army is the aşçıbaşı, the head chef. He is one of the
most important officials in the palace, a man who has worked his way up through the
ranks over decades of service. He is a master of logistics, a brilliant
artist, and a man who understands that a poorly cooked pheasant could be
interpreted as a political insult. He oversees a rigid hierarchy. Beneath him
are the masters of various disciplines, the helvacıbaşı, the master of sweets and
halva, the pilavcıbaşı, the master of pilafs, the kebapçıbaşı, the master of
kebabs. Each of these masters has their own team of skilled cooks, who in turn
command dozens of apprentices, the çagirds, young boys who have entered the
palace service and will spend their lives learning this demanding craft. And below
them are the hundreds of scullions, water carriers, wood choppers, and storekeepers
who keep the great machine running. The kitchens are a marvel of specialization. There is a kitchen dedicated solely to the
sultan himself. Another serves the powerful Valide Sultan,
the sultan’s mother. A third massive kitchen caters to the hundreds of women of
the imperial harem. Another prepares food for the Divan, the imperial council, and
for the thousands of officials and servants who live and work within the
palace walls. There is a separate kitchen just for
desserts, jams, and pickles. There is even a dairy producing fresh yogurt, cheese,
and kaymak, a rich clotted cream from the palace’s own herds. The scale of the operation is difficult to
comprehend. On an ordinary day, the kitchens might prepare food for 5,000
people. On a festival day or during a state banquet, that number could swell to
15,000. The logistics are staggering. Every day, caravans of mules and carts
arrive at the palace gates laden with supplies sourced from every corner of the
empire. Sheep and cattle are driven in from the plains of Thrace. Rice comes from
Egypt, spices from India and the Spice Islands, honey from the mountains of
Anatolia, olive oil from the Aegean Coast, and fresh fruits and vegetables from the
palace’s own extensive gardens, the Boston. Everything is recorded
meticulously in the kitchen ledgers, every onion, every peppercorn accounted for.
This is not just cooking. It is imperial administration. The ultimate expression of this culinary
power is the meal prepared for the sultan himself. This is an event shrouded in
secrecy and governed by a rigid protocol born of a single overriding fear, poison.
The sultan in the 16th century almost always eats alone. It is a lonely
expression of his supreme status and his supreme vulnerability. His food is prepared in his own private
kitchen, the Küşhane, or Aviary Kitchen, a name whose origins are lost to time. The
cooks who work here are the most trusted in the entire empire, men who have been
vetted for their loyalty, their skill, and their family background. They work under
the constant supervision of the kilir kabası, the head of the royal pantry. But
the most important figure in the sultan’s dining ritual is the çeşnigirbaşı, the
chief taster. This high-ranking official is the sultan’s final line of defense
against assassination by food. Before a single dish is presented to the
sultan, the chief taster must sample it.He does not take a small, polite bite. He
eats a proper portion of every single dish, from the soup to the dessert. He
then waits for a period of time. If he does not fall ill, if he does not show any
signs of distress, only then is the food deemed safe for the sovereign. It is a job
of immense prestige and unimaginable stress, where a single meal could be your
last. The sultan’s meal itself is a masterpiece
of culinary art. It is not a single plate, but a succession of dozens of small
dishes served on precious wares. In the 16th century, the palace has a vast
and priceless collection of Chinese porcelain, particularly celadon and
blue-and-white ceramics from the Ming Dynasty. There is a belief, a superstition
perhaps, that celadon will change color or crack if it comes into contact with
poison. Another layer of magical security for the paranoid monarch. The dishes
arrive from the kitchen in a solemn procession, carried by a team of servants
on large trays, their contents covered by embroidered cloths. The dishes showcase
the full range of the empire’s culinary repertoire, a map of the world presented
on a plate. There might be a light soup to start, perhaps a delicate almond soup, a
favorite of the palace. Then would come the meat dishes, a whole roasted lamb
stuffed with rice, currants, and pine nuts, quails grilled and served with a
pomegranate glaze, elaborate kebabs made from the finest cuts of meat seasoned with
a secret blend of spices known only to the palace cooks. There would be birds
cooked inside other birds, a technique of culinary showmanship. And there would be
fish brought fresh from the Bosporus, perhaps a sea bass baked in a crust of
salt. Alongside the meats would be the pilafs, masterpieces of the Pilavci Başı.
Not just simple rice, but rice cooked in savory broths, layered with vegetables,
meats, or dried fruits, each grain separate and perfect. And the vegetables
would be prepared with an artist’s touch. Artichoke hearts cooked in olive oil and
dill, eggplant stuffed with minced lamb and herbs, delicate dolmas wrapped in the
tenderest grape leaves. The flavors are complex, a delicate
balance of sweet, sour, and savory that is the hallmark of palace cuisine. Sugar is used liberally, not just in
desserts, but in meat dishes as well. A stew of lamb with apricots and almonds
is a common dish. The use of fruit in savory cooking is a legacy of Persian
culinary influence, and it gives the food a unique aromatic richness. Spices are used with a subtle hand.
Cinnamon, cloves, saffron, cardamom, and black pepper are present not to overwhelm,
but to create layers of flavor, a gentle warmth that complements the main
ingredients. After the main dishes, a procession of desserts would arrive from
the helva kitchen. This is the domain of the Helvacıbaşı, a
master confectioner of the highest order. He and his team produce an incredible
array of sweets. There is baklava, dozens of paper-thin layers of pastry brushed
with butter, filled with pistachios or walnuts and drenched in a honey or sugar
syrup. There is helva of a dozen varieties made from semolina, tahini, or starch,
often flavored with nuts or spices. There are milk puddings like muhallabi,
delicately scented with rose water or orange blossom water. And there are fruit
compotes, hushaf, made from dried fruits like apricots, figs, and raisins, simmered
with spices, a light and refreshing end to a heavy meal. To drink, the sultan
would have water, fresh fruit juices, and of course sherbet. The sherbets of the
palace are even more elaborate than those on the street, flavored with exotic
ingredients like ambergris, musk, and rare flowers. The sultan takes a small bite of this, a
small sip of that. The rest of the food is not thrown away.
It is a great honor to receive food from the sultan’s table. The leftovers are
distributed among the high-ranking officials and favored servants of the
palace, a tangible sign of the sultan’s generosity and favor. The meal is eaten in silence, a solitary
performance of power and sustenance. And through it, the sultan does more than just
eat. He tastes his empire. He consumes its wealth, its diversity, and its
devotion, one perfectly crafted and carefully tested bite at a time. While the
sultan dines in solitary splendor, another complex culinary world thrives
just a few hundred feet away within the walls of the imperial harem. This is the home of the sultan’s mother,
the Valide Sultan, his wives, the kadins, his favorite concubines, the gozdes, and
the hundreds of other women, children, and eunuchs who make up the sultan’s extended
household. The harem has its own kitchen, a massive operation in its own right, and
the food here is a direct reflection of the rigid hierarchy and the subtle
politics of this enclosed female world. At the top of the pyramid is the Valide
Sultan. She is the most powerful woman in the empire, and her daily menu reflects
her status. She has her own set of cooks, her own
budget, and her own special dishes.Her food is nearly as elaborate and as fine as
the sultan’s own. To be invited to dine with the Valide Sultan is a great honor
and a clear sign of one’s standing within the harem’s intricate power structure.
Below her are the sultan’s wives and the mothers of his children. They too eat extremely well, receiving
generous daily rations of the finest meats, fruits, and pastries. But their
menus are determined by their rank and their current level of favor with the
sultan. A woman who has recently pleased the sultan might find her dinner includes
a rare and expensive delicacy. A woman who has fallen out of favor might
find her menu suddenly and pointedly simplified. Food is a language, a constant
silent commentary on the shifting tides of imperial affection. The hundreds of ordinary concubines and
servant girls, the kariyeler, eat a much simpler though still plentiful and
high-quality diet. Their meals are served communally. They receive daily rations of bread, meat,
rice, vegetables, and honey. Their food is a far cry from the
near-starvation diets of the European poor. The Ottoman state understands that a
well-fed household is a stable one. However, the quality and variety of their
food still depends on their station. A young girl newly arrived in the harem,
just beginning her training in music, dance, and courtly etiquette, will eat a
standard nutritious diet. A woman who has caught the sultan’s eye,
who has become a güzde, or one in the eye of the sultan, will see her daily rations
improve dramatically. She will receive special sweets, exotic fruits, and finer
cuts of meat. The entire harem is watching. The quality
of the food on a woman’s tray is a public announcement of her rising or falling
fortunes. The harem kitchen is also a place of intense learning. The young women are not just taught to be
companions, they are taught the art of cooking. To be able to prepare a dish that
pleases the sultan is a powerful skill, a way to gain his attention and his favor.
Many of the recipes of the palace are born from this competitive creative
environment, with women from different parts of the
empire, Circassians, Georgians, Greeks, and Slavs, bringing their own native
culinary traditions and adapting them to the sophisticated palate of the court. And
then there are the sweets. The harem has a legendary sweet tooth. Desserts are an
essential part of daily life. The helva kitchen works tirelessly to supply the
harem with a constant stream of baklava, lokum, Turkish delight, and other
confections. Sugar is not a rare luxury here. It is a
staple. It is a symbol of the sweetness of life within this gilded cage. Special
occasions within the harem, the birth of a prince or princess, a religious holiday,
a wedding, are marked with incredible feasts. Trays laden with food are carried
through the harem’s corridors. Special elaborate desserts are created, sometimes
in the shape of animals or flowers, masterpieces of sugar artistry. These
feasts are a time of celebration, a rare break from the strict routine, a moment
for the women to share in the generosity and wealth of the dynasty they serve. The
food of the harem is a microcosm of the harem itself. It is a world of hierarchy,
of subtle competition, of immense luxury, and of deep tradition. It is a language of
favor and status, a way of marking time and celebrating life in a beautiful,
isolated, and fiercely political world. The culinary influence of the palace
extends even to the highest echelons of government. The Divan, the imperial
council, is where the great affairs of state are conducted. It is here that the grand vizier and the
other leading ministers of the empire meet to advise the sultan, to pass judgment in
legal cases, and to receive foreign ambassadors. And every meeting of the
Divan is concluded with a meal, a meal that is both a symbol of imperial
hospitality and a carefully calculated political tool. The food for the Divan is
prepared in its own dedicated kitchen within the Matbaa Miya. The quality is
exceptional, second only to the sultan’s own. After the serious business of the
council is concluded, large trays of food are brought in. The ministers, including
the grand vizier himself, dine together. The meal is a demonstration of the
sultan’s generosity and a way of fostering a sense of unity and shared purpose among
the empire’s ruling elite. But it is also a performance for a wider audience. The
gates of the palace courtyard are open during these meals, and ordinary citizens
can gather to watch the great men of the empire eat. To see the viziers being fed
by the sultan is to see the state in action, a visible display of the order and
prosperity of the empire. For foreign ambassadors, an invitation to dine after a
meeting with the Divan is a matter of great significance, and they would analyze
every detail of the meal for hidden meanings. The quality of the food, the number of
dishes, the richness of the ingredients, all of it is a signal of the Ottoman
state’s disposition.A lavish multi-course meal indicates favor and a willingness to
negotiate. A simple perfunctory meal is a clear sign of displeasure, a diplomatic
cold shoulder served on a silver platter. The ambassador’s letters back to their
home courts are filled with detailed descriptions of these meals as they try to
decipher the political tea leaves from the choice of sherbet. But perhaps the
most dramatic use of food as a political symbol involves the Janissaries. Three
times a year on the Festival of Eid, the sultan hosts a grand banquet for his elite
troops in the palace courtyard. Thousands of Janissaries dressed in their
ceremonial uniforms file into the palace and are served a massive feast of pilaf,
lamb, and sweets. It is a spectacle of imperial might and munificence, a public
reaffirmation of the bond between the sultan and his loyal soldiers. The meal
served to the Divan and the banquets held for ambassadors and Janissaries are a
clear demonstration that in the Ottoman world, food is never just food. It is a
language of power, a tool of diplomacy, and a form of political theater where the
fate of empires can be decided over a bowl of soup and the destiny of a treaty can
be sealed with a piece of baklava. Every dish that leaves the palace kitchens
carries with it the weight and authority of the sultan himself, a message to be
consumed, digested, and understood by all who sit at the imperial table. While the
palace kitchens were busy crafting meals fit for a monarch, an entirely different
and equally vibrant food culture thrived in the bustling chaotic streets of
Istanbul. This was the food of the people, accessible, affordable, and incredibly
diverse. The streets of the city were, in essence,
one enormous open-air restaurant, a place where you could find a satisfying meal at
any hour of the day or night. Street food was not a novelty. It was a necessity.
Most common people lived in small wooden houses with either no kitchen at all or
only the most rudimentary facilities for cooking. The risk of fire made cooking at home a
dangerous and often prohibited activity. As a result, the city’s population relied
heavily on the thousands of vendors and small cook shops that lined the streets, a
system that kept the populace fed and the city from burning down. The variety of
food available on the street was staggering. In the morning, as we have
seen, the air would be filled with the cries of the simit sellers, but alongside
them were the sellers of burek, a savory pastry made from paper-thin layers of
dough; the yufka, which were either filled with
cheese, minced meat, or spinach, and then baked until golden and flaky. A warm piece
of burek bought from a street cart was a perfect portable breakfast. As the day
wore on, the aromas would change. Carts selling grilled köfte, those delicious
meatballs of ground lamb, would appear, the smoke from their charcoal braziers
rising in fragrant plumes. You could buy a few köfte still sizzling
from the grill, served simply with a piece of bread and a sprinkle of raw onion and
parsley. Nearby, a vendor might be selling roasted chestnuts, kestane kabap,
especially in the autumn and winter. They were roasted in a pan over hot coals,
their shells bursting open to reveal a sweet, tender interior. The smell is one
of the most iconic and comforting in the city. For a more substantial meal, you could
find vendors selling skewers of grilled lamb or chicken, the original shish kabab
cooked to perfection over charcoal and served with a piece of warm flatbread to
soak up the juices. Or you might find a man selling kokorec, a
dish not for the faint of heart, made from seasoned lamb intestines wrapped
around a long skewer and roasted horizontally over a fire, sliced and
served with herbs and a piece of bread. It was a salty, fatty, and deeply beloved
delicacy. The sea also provided its bounty to the streets. Along the shores of the
Golden Horn and the Bosphorus, fishermen would grill their catch of the day right
on their boats or on small braziers on the docks. You could buy a freshly grilled
mackerel, a balık ekmek, served in a half loaf of bread with a simple salad. It was
a cheap, healthy, and incredibly fresh meal, the taste of the sea in every bite.
And then there were the often sellers. In a world where no part of the animal was
wasted, the liver, heart, and kidneys were prized ingredients. Carts selling grilled
liver kebabs, ciğer kebab, were common, the rich irony flavor of the meat balanced
by the smoky char of the grill. These vendors were not just cooks. They were an
essential part of the city’s metabolism, turning the empire’s agricultural wealth
into quick, affordable calories for the teeming masses. They were a testament to the Ottoman
genius for practical, delicious, and deeply communal living. The food of the
street was the food of necessity, but it was also the food of joy, a vibrant and
ever-changing culinary tapestry woven into the very fabric of Istanbul’s daily life.
The sacred month of Ramadan brings a profound and beautiful transformation to
the culinary rhythms of the city.For thirty days, the faithful abstain from all
food and drink from the first light of dawn until the setting of the sun. The
bustling, food-filled streets of the day fall quiet. The cook shops are closed, the
street vendors have vanished, and a sense of calm, contemplative quiet descends
upon the city. But this daytime stillness is merely a prelude. As the sun begins to
dip below the horizon, a new energy, a palpable sense of anticipation, begins to
build. This is the time of Iftar, the breaking of the fast, and it is a moment
that transforms the entire city into a communal dining hall. The signal for the
end of the fast is dramatic and unmistakable. The boom of a cannon, fired
from one of the city’s high hills, its report echoing through the valleys and
across the Bosporus. The moment the cannon sounds, the city
comes alive. In homes across Istanbul, families gather around the sofra, which
has been laden with special foods prepared just for this occasion. The fast is
traditionally broken in the manner of the prophet, with a simple date and a sip of
water. This is followed by a light first course, the iftariya, a platter of small
savory bites designed to gently awaken the digestive system after a day of
abstinence. There will be olives, cheese, slices of pastırma, a type of cured beef,
and most importantly, a special round, soft flatbread called Ramazan pidesi,
which is baked only during this month, and is often topped with sesame and nigella
seeds. After this gentle start and the evening prayer, the main meal is served.
The food of Ramadan is richer and more elaborate than the daily fare. It is a
time of celebration, of generosity, of sharing one’s blessings. Families will
prepare special dishes, dishes that might only be made once a year. A favorite is
gulach, a unique and ethereal dessert made only during Ramadan. It consists of thin,
brittle sheets of cornstarch pastry, which are soaked in sweetened
rosewater-scented milk and layered with walnuts or pomegranate seeds. The result
is a light, delicate, and beautifully fragrant pudding, the perfect gentle end
to the Iftar meal. The spirit of generosity is everywhere. The wealthy, as
an act of piety, will set up huge tents in public squares and offer free Iftar meals
to the poor. Mosques will do the same, their courtyards filled with people from
all walks of life, breaking bread together as a single community. The streets, which
were silent during the day, are now filled with light and life. The markets
reopen, the coffee houses are packed, and a festive atmosphere continues late into
the night. People visit friends and family, sharing
sweets and drinking sherbet. Special entertainments are held, with storytellers
and shadow puppet theaters performing for crowds of children and adults. And then,
in the small hours before dawn, another meal is eaten, the Sahoor. This is the
meal that must sustain the faithful through the long day of fasting ahead. It
is a smaller, simpler meal than Iftar, consisting of light, nutritious foods,
bread, cheese, yogurt, eggs, and fruit compotes. A drummer, the devalkul, walks the streets
in the darkness, beating a rhythmic pattern on his drum to wake the people for
their pre-dawn meal, a timeless and beloved tradition. The month of Ramadan is
a testament to the deep connection between food, faith, and community in the
Ottoman world. It is a time when the simple act of eating is elevated to a
sacred ritual, a time of discipline and a time of joyous celebration, a month that
starves the body in order to feed the soul. The Ottoman Empire was first and
foremost a military machine. Its vast armies were the foundation of its power,
the engine of its expansion, and the guarantee of its survival. And like any great army, it marched on its
stomach. The feeding of hundreds of thousands of soldiers, whether in their
barracks, in the capital, or on campaign in the distant fields of Hungary or
Persia, was a logistical challenge of epic proportions, and the Ottomans mastered it
with a remarkable degree of efficiency and organization. The diet of the Ottoman
soldier was designed for maximum energy and portability. It was not fancy, but it
was nutritious and reliable. The absolute staple of the soldier’s diet was a type of
hardtack biscuit called peksimet. Made from flour, water, and salt, it was baked
twice until it was bone-dry and incredibly hard. This process removed all moisture,
making it resistant to mold and spoilage. It could last for months, even years,
making it the perfect campaign food. It was, by all accounts, almost inedible on
its own. Soldiers would have to soak it in water,
soup, or broth to soften it enough to be chewed. It was not a food of pleasure, but
it was a food of survival, a guaranteed source of calories in the most hostile of
environments. When in garrison or during a long siege, the diet was more varied.
The
Janissaries, as we have seen, were particularly proud of their pilaf, and
their massive cauldrons were a symbol of their core. But all soldiers received regular rations
of bulgur, rice, and bread, along with a portion of meat. The meat was often lamb,
either stewed or grilled. A common campaign dish was a simple stew of meat
and onions cooked in a cauldron over an open fire. It was easy to make, required
few ingredients, and provided the warm protein-rich meal a soldier needed after a
long day’s march. Another key component of the military diet was preserved meat.
Pastirma, a form of air-dried, salt-cured beef, was a staple. The meat was pressed
to remove all moisture and then coated in a thick, pungent paste of cumin,
fenugreek, garlic, and hot pepper called çemen. This paste not only added a huge
amount of flavor, but also acted as a protective barrier, further preserving the
meat. Slices of pastirma could be eaten as they were or fried with eggs, providing
a quick and intensely savory source of protein. Cheese and yogurt preserved in
brine or dried into a hard cake called qurut were also essential. They provided
calcium and protein and were easily transportable. And for energy, soldiers
relied on dried fruits and a special high-energy confection called pestil, a
type of fruit leather made by drying fruit puree into thin sheets. Apricot pestil
was a particular favorite, a sweet, chewy, and lightweight source of sugar
and vitamins. The logistics of supplying this food were
handled by a dedicated branch of the army. A vast network of supply depots was
established along major campaign routes. Huge herds of sheep and cattle would be
driven along with the army to provide fresh meat. And a corps of bakers with
mobile ovens would be tasked with baking fresh bread whenever the army made camp
for an extended period. The Ottoman state understood a simple timeless truth of
warfare: A hungry soldier is an unreliable soldier. By ensuring their troops were
consistently and adequately fed, they maintained morale, discipline, and the
physical strength needed to build and defend one of the most powerful empires
the world had ever seen. The astonishing variety of food found in
Istanbul, from the humble Simit on the street to the exotic delicacies of the
sultan’s table, was all made possible by one thing, the empire’s vast and complex
network of supply chains. The City of Istanbul was a ravenous beast, its
population of over half a million people in the 16th century requiring a constant
massive influx of food from across the empire and beyond. To manage this, the
Ottoman state created one of the most sophisticated and heavily regulated food
supply systems of the early modern world. The principle that guided this system was
called iallashe, or provisionism. The state saw it as its primary duty to ensure
that the capital was always well-stocked with essential foodstuffs at stable and
affordable prices. This was not a free market. It was a
command economy, meticulously planned and ruthlessly enforced. The most important
commodity, of course, was grain. The fertile lands of Thrace, the Balkans, and
the Black Sea coast were the breadbaskets of the empire. The state would set quotas
requiring these regions to sell a certain amount of their wheat, barley, and millet
to the state at a fixed price. This grain was then transported to Istanbul on a
fleet of state-owned or chartered ships. A special official, the Un Kapani Emeni, or
master of the flour depot, was responsible for overseeing the massive
granaries along the Golden Horn, from where the flour was distributed to the
city’s bakers. The supply of meat was managed with similar precision. Herds of
sheep and cattle were driven overland from as far away as the plains of Wallachia
and Moldavia. These massive livestock drives were epic journeys, taking months
to complete. Special officials were tasked with managing the herds and ensuring they
arrived in the capital in good condition. Once in Istanbul, the animals were taken
to state-controlled slaughterhouses, and the meat was distributed to the city’s
butchers, again, at a fixed price. Fruits and vegetables came from the city’s
immediate hinterland, the lush farms and market gardens that surrounded the
capital. But more exotic produce came from further afield. Lemons and oranges from
the Aegean Coast, dates from Egypt, and pistachios from Syria were all brought to
the city by a constant stream of ships and caravans. The spice trade was the most
glamorous and lucrative part of this system. Spices like black pepper, cloves,
and nutmeg, which originated in the distant Spice Islands of Indonesia, made
their way to Istanbul via the ancient trade routes that ran through the Indian
Ocean, the Red Sea, and Egypt. The Ottoman Empire controlled the final crucial leg
of this journey, and the taxes it levied on the spice trade were a major source of
its wealth. Cairo was the great hub where spices were gathered, and from there, they
were transported by caravan to the Mediterranean, and then by ship to
Istanbul’s famous Spice Bazaar.This entire system was overseen by a complex
bureaucracy of officials, inspectors, and judges. They set prices, checked weights
and measures, punished hoarders and profiteers, and did everything in their
power to prevent food shortages. They knew that a failure in the food supply would
not just lead to hunger, it would lead to riots, to political instability, and to a
direct challenge to the sultan’s authority. The food on your plate in 16th
century Istanbul was, therefore, much more than a simple meal. It was the end
product of a vast continent-spanning logistical miracle, a testament to the
organizational genius and the immense power of an empire at the very height of
its glory. Every bite was a taste of the state itself, a reminder that your daily
bread was a direct gift and a direct command from the sultan. The culinary world of the Ottoman Empire
was not static. It was a dynamic, ever-evolving landscape constantly being
reshaped by the expansion of the empire and the discovery of new ingredients from
far away lands. The 16th and 17th centuries, in particular, were a time of
tremendous culinary change as new foods from the recently discovered Americas
began to make their slow but steady journey across the Atlantic and into the
kitchens of Istanbul. These new ingredients would, over time,
fundamentally transform the taste of Ottoman food, adding new colors, new
flavors, and new possibilities to a cuisine that was already rich and complex.
One of the most important of these newcomers was the tomato. It is difficult
to imagine Ottoman cuisine today without the rich, savory flavor of tomatoes. But
for the first 200 years of the empire’s existence, they were completely unknown.
The tomato arrived in the Ottoman world sometime in the late 16th or early 17th
century, likely brought by European merchants or Jewish refugees from Spain. At first, it was regarded with suspicion.
It was a member of the nightshade family, and like its cousins, the potato and the
eggplant, it was initially thought by some to be ornamental or even poisonous. It
was grown in gardens as a curiosity, a strange, bright red fruit called Frink
Patlicana or Frankish eggplant. But slowly, adventurous cooks began to
experiment with it. They discovered that when cooked, its acidity and sweetness
added a wonderful depth to stews and vegetable dishes. By the 18th century, the tomato had been
fully embraced, and it began to appear in the very dishes that are now considered
classics. The rich tomato-based sauces for kebabs, the hearty stews, and of course,
the indispensable ingredient for a shepherd’s salad. Another transformative
arrival was the pepper. Both sweet bell peppers and hot chili
peppers made their way from the New World and found a welcoming home in the Ottoman
palate. The sweet peppers were perfect for
stuffing, joining the ranks of the beloved dolmas, and the hot peppers ground into a
dried powder or a paste added a new kind of heat to cuisine, a fiery kick that
complimented the warm aromatic spices of the East. Corn or misir was another import. While it
never replaced wheat as the primary staple, it was adopted in the Black Sea
region where it was ground into flour and used to make a dense, delicious cornbread,
misir ekmei. And the humble potato, though a much later arrival and slower to
be adopted, would eventually find its place in the hearty stews and casseroles
of Anatolian home cooking. The arrival of these New World ingredients sparked a
quiet revolution in the Ottoman kitchen. They did not replace the existing culinary
traditions, but rather they were integrated into them, adding new layers of
complexity and flavor. The cooks of the empire, from the anonymous housewife to
the sultan’s master chef, were not rigid traditionalists. They were innovators,
constantly experimenting, constantly absorbing new influences, and constantly
refining their craft. This ability to adapt, to absorb new ingredients and new
ideas while retaining its own unique identity is the true genius of Ottoman
cuisine. It is the story of an empire that was not a closed fortress, but a vibrant
crossroads, a place where the flavors of Asia, Africa, Europe, and the newly
discovered Americas all met, mingled, and were transformed into something new,
something delicious, and something uniquely Ottoman. No exploration of
Ottoman food would be complete without a journey into the world of sweets, a realm
where sugar was not an ingredient, but an art form. The Ottomans had a profound and
sophisticated love for desserts, confections, and all things sweet. In the
palace, as we have seen, the master of this world was the helvacıbaşı, a
confectioner of immense skill and prestige. But the love for sweets extended
far beyond the palace walls into every corner of the city where specialized shops
known as helvacı dedicated themselves to this sugary craft. The variety of desserts
was astonishing. At the heart of it all was helva. This was not a single dish, but
an entire category of sweets. There was tahin helvacı…. the most famous, a dense
crumbly confection made from tahini sesame paste and sugar, often studded with
pistachios. There was irmik helvasi, a simpler, more rustic version made from
semolina cooked with butter, sugar, and milk, and often served warm, especially at
funerals or to celebrate good news. It was a food of mourning and of joy, and
there were dozens of other varieties made with flour, starch, nuts, and honey. To be
a master of helva was to be a respected artist. Beyond helva, there was the universe of
milk puddings. The Ottoman palate favored delicate, fragrant, and creamy desserts.
Muhallebi, a simple pudding of milk, rice flour, and sugar, scented with rose water
or mastic, was a beloved classic. Sütlaç, a baked rice pudding with a creamy
interior and a golden caramelized top was another staple. And then there was
tavuk göğsü, the most surprising of them all, a thick, smooth milk pudding made
with chicken breast. The chicken was boiled and pounded until it was reduced to
flavorless microscopic fibers, which were then cooked with milk and sugar to create
a uniquely thick and slightly chewy texture. To a foreign palate, the idea
might seem bizarre, but to the Ottomans it was a refined delicacy, a testament to
the transformative power of their culinary art. The art of the pastry chef, or
pastici, was also held in the highest esteem. We have already met baklava with
its countless paper-thin layers, but there were many other pastries as well. Kunefe,
a dessert from the southern regions of the empire, was made from shredded
wheat-like pastry, filled with a soft unsalted cheese, baked until crisp, and
then drenched in sweet syrup. Served hot, the melting cheese and the sweet crunchy
pastry created an unforgettable contrast of textures and temperatures. And of course, there was lokum, known to
the West as Turkish delight. This was a confection of pure genius, a simple
mixture of starch and sugar boiled together and then flavored with rosewater,
lemon, or bergamot, often with pistachios or walnuts suspended within its soft
gelatinous cubes. It was sold in shops called șecherii, or
sugar cellars, which were like jewel boxes, their windows filled with colorful
glistening piles of lokum, rock candy, and sugared almonds, the badem şecherii. The
Ottomans also mastered the art of fruit preservation. Jams, or reçel, were made
from every conceivable fruit, and even from some vegetables and flowers. There
was rose jam, quince jam, fig jam, and even a strange and delicious jam made from
tiny eggplants. These jams were not just a way to preserve the harvest. They were
an essential part of the breakfast table and a common offering to guests, served in
a small ornate dish with a tiny spoon, accompanied by a glass of water, a gesture
of welcome and hospitality known as ikram. This world of sweets was a reflection of
the Ottoman love for beauty, for refinement, and for the sweet pleasures of
life. It was a world where a simple ingredient like sugar could be transformed
into a thousand different forms, each one a small edible masterpiece, a testament
to a culture that believed that a meal and a life without a touch of sweetness was a
life that was incomplete. The city of Istanbul was not a monolith.
It was a vibrant cosmopolitan metropolis, home not only to the Muslim majority, but
also to large and ancient communities of Orthodox Greeks, Armenian Christians, and
Sephardic Jews. These communities, while living under Ottoman rule, maintain their
own distinct cultures, their own languages, their own faiths, and of course
their own unique culinary traditions. The food of these non-Muslim minorities, or
dhimmis, was an essential and delicious part of the city’s culinary fabric,
influencing and being influenced by the dominant Ottoman Turkish cuisine. The
Greek community, known as the Rum, had lived in this city since it was
Constantinople, the capital of the Byzantine Empire. They brought with them a
deep connection to the sea and a love for olive oil, fresh herbs, and seafood. The
Greek taverns, or meyhanes, located in neighborhoods like Galata, were famous
throughout the city. Here one could find an incredible array of small dishes, or
mezze, to be shared and savored slowly over a glass of raki, a potent
anise-flavored spirit. There would be octopus grilled with oregano, fried
calamari, taramosalata, a dip made from cured fish roe, and a variety of vegetable
dishes cooked in olive oil, the zeytinyağlılar. The food of the meyhane
was the food of lively conversation, of music, of a joyful and boisterous approach
to life. The Armenian community also had a rich
culinary heritage, with dishes that spoke of the mountains and plains of their
Anatolian homeland. They were masters of preserving food. They
made basturma, a version of pastırma, and sucuk, a spicy dried sausage.They were
also famous for their pilafs, their use of fragrant herbs, and a special lenten dish
called topik, a type of savory pudding made from chickpeas and tahini, stuffed
with onions and currants. Armenian cooks were highly sought after in the homes of
the wealthy, their skill and precision legendary. The Sephardic Jewish community,
who had been welcomed into the empire after their expulsion from Spain in 1492,
brought with them the flavors of medieval Andalusia. Their cuisine was a unique
fusion of Spanish, North African, and Middle Eastern traditions. They introduced
new dishes and new techniques. A famous dish was kureyda koftesi, lake patties,
which were a beloved part of the Istanbul meze table. They were also masters of
cooking with eggplant and were known for their delicate pastries and biscuits. These communities, while distinct, did not
cook in isolation. There was a constant and delicious exchange of ideas. The
Ottoman Turks adopted the love of meze from the Greeks. The Armenians’ skill with preserved meats
became part of the city’s shared heritage. The Jewish community’s pastries found
their way into bakeries across the city. The market stalls were a shared space
where a Turkish housewife might buy her vegetables next to a Greek fisherman, an
Armenian butcher, and a Jewish spice merchant. The culinary landscape of
Istanbul was a testament to the empire’s cosmopolitan nature. It was a cuisine
built not on purity, but on fusion, a delicious conversation between different
faiths and different cultures, a shared language of food that spoke of centuries
of coexistence, of a city that was truly a melting pot in every sense of the word.
For two centuries, the culinary world of the Ottoman Empire, particularly in its
capital, had been a story of expansion, refinement, and abundance. But by the 18th
century, a slow and irreversible decline began to set in, a change that was reflected not just on
the battlefield, but on the dinner table as well. The empire, which had once seemed
invincible, was now facing a series of military defeats at the hands of the
rising powers of Europe. It was losing territory, and with that territory, it was
losing valuable sources of revenue and agricultural land. The vast, efficient
supply chains that had kept Istanbul fed for centuries began to fray. The state’s
ability to control prices and to provision the city with the same clockwork
precision began to falter. This decline was mirrored by a gradual shift in the
palace itself. The lavish theatrical feasts and the obsessive culinary
innovation of the classical age began to give way to a more conservative, and
eventually a more Europeanized, style of dining. The sultans of the 18th and 19th
centuries were more outward-looking. They began to adopt European customs, from
furniture and clothing to military technology and court etiquette. This
included the way they ate. The ancient tradition of the sultan dining alone began
to be replaced by formal banquets where he would dine with guests using
European-style tables, chairs, and cutlery. Forks, once seen as a strange and
slightly effeminate foreign affectation, now became a symbol of modernity. The
menus also began to change. While the classic Ottoman dishes remained, French
cuisine, which was now seen as the pinnacle of sophistication in Europe,
began to make its way onto the palace table. French chefs were hired, and dishes
like roasts, consommes, and cream-based sauces began to appear alongside the
traditional pilafs and kebabs. This shift in the palace had a ripple
effect throughout the upper echelons of society. The wealthy elite, eager to show
off their modern cosmopolitan tastes, also began to adopt French dining habits. The
traditional sofra, the low communal table, was replaced by the high European dining
table. The art of the elaborate multi-course meal served in a specific
sequence replaced the old style of bringing many dishes to the table at once.
In the streets and in the homes of the common people, the old ways continued for
much longer. The cookshops still served their hearty
soups. The bakeries still produced their life-giving bread. But the grand culinary
engine of the empire was sputtering. The quality and availability of ingredients
declined. The immense wealth that had funded the palace’s culinary extravagances
was dwindling. The era of the great chef artists, of the massive, perfectly
organized imperial kitchens, was drawing to a close. The food of the empire did not vanish, of
course. It simply changed. It became less a symbol of overwhelming power and more a
reflection of a culture grappling with its own identity in a rapidly changing world.
It was the end of a golden age, a slow, quiet fading of a culinary brilliance that
had once astonished the world. And yet the legacy of that brilliance would prove
to be far more enduring than the empire that had created it. The Ottoman Empire is gone. The sultans
are dust. The Janissaries are a memory. But the food, the magnificent, complex,
and deeply human culinary heritage of that great empire is very much alive,It has
outlived the cannons and the crowns, the treaties and the betrayals. It endures not
in museums or in history books, but on the dinner tables of millions of people, a
living, breathing, and delicious legacy. The cuisine of modern Turkey is the most
direct heir to this legacy. The dishes that were perfected in the palace kitchens
and the cook shops of Istanbul, the kebabs, the pilafs, the böreks, the
dolmas, the baklavas are now the national dishes of a modern republic. They have been simplified, adapted, but
their soul remains the same. The love for fresh vegetables, for grilled meats, for
the balancing act of yogurt and olive oil, for the sweet perfume of spices and the
delicate scent of rosewater, all of this is a direct inheritance from the Ottoman
past. But the empire’s culinary influence spread far beyond the borders of modern
Turkey. As the empire expanded, it carried its
food with it. And as it receded, it left its flavors behind. In the Balkans, in
countries like Greece, Bulgaria, Serbia, and Bosnia, the culinary landscape is
profoundly shaped by centuries of Ottoman rule. The shared love for grilled meats,
for savory pastries like budurak, known as burek or börek, for stuffed vegetables,
for yogurt, and for syrupy nut-filled desserts is a testament to this shared
history. The coffee, thick and unfiltered, served in a small cup, is a daily ritual
that is a direct echo of the Ottoman coffee house. In the Middle East, in countries like
Syria, Lebanon, and Egypt, which were all once provinces of the empire, the
connection is even deeper. The cuisines of these lands are part of a shared culinary
family with local variations on a common Ottoman theme. The language of food is the
same. The meze, the kebabs, the kibbeh, the use of tahini and pomegranate
molasses. This is not the legacy of a conqueror, but the legacy of a shared
culture, a vast and interconnected world that was united for a time under a single
banner. And the influence has traveled even further. Through the migration of
people, Ottoman flavors have spread across the globe. The doner kebab has become one
of the most popular street foods in the world, from Berlin to London to New York.
Baklava is sold in Greek bakeries in Australia, and Turkish coffee is brewed in
cafes in Brazil. The food of the empire has become a truly global cuisine, a quiet
and delicious ambassador for a world that has long since vanished. It is a reminder that what we eat is a
form of history. Every dish tells a story, and the story of Ottoman food is a story
of a great and complex civilization, of its power, its diversity, its faith, and
its profound understanding of the simple life-affirming joy of a good meal. It is a
legacy that you can still taste today, a history that is not just remembered, but
savored one delicious bite at a time.