An evening sipping rakı with Istanbul's roving meyhane maven
Behzat Şahin has spent months traveling to every corner of Istanbul to discover the city's overlooked meyhanes, where he revels in the stories of their employees and diners alike.
Behzat Şahin is a veteran journalist and meyhane owner, so it was fitting that late last year he started writing a weekly series of richly vivid columns for the Diken news portal focusing on meyhanes located off the beaten path in Istanbul. It has become my favorite weekly read and I highly recommend it to those who read Turkish.
Behzat opened Cibalikapı Balıkçısı on the shores of the Golden Horn in 2001 after being laid off from his last full time job in journalism. It quickly became renowned as one of the best meyhanes in Istanbul (or Turkey, for that matter) due to their delicious meze, many of which are seafood-based and always made with the most quality seasonal ingredients. It’s the kind of place I’ve been coming for for years, but only for special occasions. The view over the water is opulent, and it’s somewhere I would only take family, dear friends and loved ones.
The kind of meyhanes that Behzat has been visiting and writing about tend to be the polar opposite of his own restaurant. These spots usually lack views, the quality of the food can be hit or miss, and some of the locations are at the far edges of this massive city. These are places generally frequented by regulars who live nearby, so Behzat usually stands out when he takes a seat, but is quick to strike up a chat with the owners, employees, and müdavimler (regulars). His journeys have taken him from outer suburb of Gaziosmanpaşa on Istanbul’s European side all the way to the far-flung neighborhood of Sarıgazi on the Asian side. After reading his columns for several months, I messaged Behzat and said that if he was up for it I’d like to accompany him on one of these excursions, and when he asked if I was free to join him last Wednesday, I was pleased to accept the invitation.
When I roll up to İnegöl Birahanesi in the Seyrantepe district, located amid a vast stretch of auto repair shops, Behzat has already arrived and nearly finished a cold beer. His routine is to start with pint of suds and and a small bowl of peanuts, and scope out the vibe of the place before he orders rakı and meze. Behzat may have not worked in journalism full-time for the better part of this century, but his sharp reflexes remain. One thing we share in common is that when we write about restaurants, it’s not the food that is the most important subject, but rather the people, places, and stories behind it. Located nearby the Galatasaray Football Stadium, İnegöl Birahanesi is crowded on match days, but today it’s just us, an adjacent table of four friends, and a few lone drinkers scattered around the one-room restaurant. There are handsome wooden tables and barstools, on the walls are bombastic, life-sized photos of young, exuberant drinkers that add lovable kitsch to the otherwise barebones restaurant.
I order a beer and talk about the pitfalls of journalism with Behzat, who has a lot of stories. We then switch to rakı, and I’ve already been informed that there is no meze today. İnegöl Birahanesi is reeling from the sudden passing of its previous owner Kemal, who was known for his skills behind the kitchen. It becomes quickly clear that the absence of Kemal has drastically changed the restaurant, and it might not be around in a few months. Despite the formidable grill encased in a wall of bricks, there’s no one manning it. Running the floor solo is the friendly Ali, an elderly retired policeman who doesn’t make enough from his pension to enjoy his retirement. To Behzat’s delight, he discovers that he and Ali grew up in the same neighborhood in theh southeastern city of Malatya and attended the same school, though Ali is several years Behzat’s senior.
This connection is what perhaps stopped Behzat from leaving after learning there wasn’t going to be any meze. But this isn’t a problem. We order what they have, a plate of yogurt, chunks of watermelon, and sliced tomatoes and cucumbers. It’s a light, refreshing repast that pairs wonderfully with rakı on an impressively hot day. We ask for white cheese, which is also not available, but one of the regulars at the adjacent overheard this and got some for us from a nearby market. We were touched by this kind gesture, and Behzat wasted no time in chatting up the generous man and his friends.
After several glasses of rakı, the buzz sets in and peaks like a triumphant sunset. Our new friends leave first, and İslam, the man who brought us the cheese, even offered to pay our bill. Behzat wholeheartedly refused. We had another round of rakı and then bid our farewell to Ali, who still had to close the place down. It was shortly after 11, so we made our way to the metro. Sauntering thorough the Sanayi neighborhood, which has an even denser array of body shops, parts stores and mechanics than Seyrantepe—not to mention a handful of sketchy nightclubs that open late and where men pay exorbitant prices to have women sit at their table—we pop into a shop to grab a night cap. Behzat buys us two cold cans of Tuborg beer, and grabs two empty plastic beer boxes, flips them over and we plunk down to sip our final drink of the evening, before catching one of the last trains home. It won’t be long before Behzat is roaming some random neighborhood of Istanbul in search of where its residents like to drink, no matter how divey the place might be. I look forward to his future columns and to joining him again soon.
