A Turkish folk hero grazes his way through Turkey
Nasr-ed-Din Hodja placed a fat head of cabbage into his wooden push cart, wiped his brow, and squinted toward his neighbor’s courtyard. The guests were beginning to arrive.
Nasr-ed-Din could smell lovely things in the air. Lifting the handles of his wooden pushcart with cracked, dusty hands, he moved with a creak toward home. Plump green peppers stuffed with rice, mint, and lamb. Rosemary salad. Eggplant in thyme and yogurt sauce.
By the time he scraped open the gate of the courtyard leading into his own earthen home, the Hodja’s face bore a smile. Surely his neighbor would understand if he, Nas-ed-Din, a friend all these years, came straight from his cabbage patch to the banquet. Why change his robe? Nasr-ed-Din saw no need for such formality, not today! His belly had spoken.
But as Nasr-ed-Din emerged from the olive grove separating his property from that of his wealthy neighbor, the merchant Al-Harrajah, nobody seemed to recognize him. They must not realize that I am Nasr-ed Din! the stocky little Hodja decided as he mingled with the visitors.
Nasr-ed-Din trundled through the large iron gate leading into his neighbor’s lavish courtyard. The scent of the morning glories entwining the gate’s great metal bars mingled nicely with that of lamb baked with butter, thyme, marjoram, and parsley.
A merchant from Antioch, a minor stop along the Silk Road which connected such far-flung places as Samarkand and Palmyra to destinations in the Far East and the Mediterranean, Al-Harrajah frequently called upon the wisdom of Nasr-ed-Din in negotiating contracts. In fact, shop keepers and traders all along the Silk Road called upon Nasr-ed-Din to ensure the fair exchange of carpets, spices, olive oils, and other goods, for Nasr-ed-Din was known far and wide as a wise man whose wit and perspicacity could settle almost any dispute. Indeed, his reputation for exhibiting a keen common sense reached eastward as far as China and southward, into Persia. Nasr-ed-Din himself was not particularly wealthy, unless one considered his goodwill and good humor, two assets he possessed in great abundance.
Nevertheless, he was an honored guest in the homes of most wealthy merchants in Antioch, Tyre, Kashgar — and throughout Turkey, where he happily wandered at will and did his best to avoid
insulting his hosts by failing to eat his share of the food. Usually, the Hodja more than earned his keep. Whenever conversation ebbed near a banquet’s end, just before the saz, or Turkish lute began to play and the belly dancers sashayed into the cushion-lined banquet room, and just as the thick Turkish coffee and strong tea were served with moist squares of baklava smothered with walnuts and honey, Nasr-ed-Din would begin telling stories. Sometimes, he told jokes that caused the guests to laugh loudly and marvel at his cleverness. By the time the arak, or licorice flavored liqueur, was passed around, everyone was ready to toast the old age and good health of Nasr-ed-Din Hodja.
Though Nasr-ed-Din was a humble man, he did delight in repaying his host’s hospitality with a funny story or morality tale. So it came as a surprise to the portly little fellow when nobody seemed to notice him this day at Al-Harrajah’s. As Nasr-ed-Din sipped a small glass of tart Turkish wine, his eyes narrowed with displeasure. Quietly, the Hodja slipped from Al-Harrajah’s banquet room.
Returning home, he scrubbed himself from head to toe with jasmine soap, pouring heated jars of water over his body as clouds of steam billowed in the doorway of his Turkish bath. Then, dressing rapidly in his best turban and silk robe, donning his finest gold, the Hodja set out once again for Al-Harrajah’s, stopping only to glimpse himself in the reflecting pool in the courtyard. As quietly as he had departed, Nasr-ed-Din rejoined the party.
But this time, Nasr-ed-Din deliberately seated himself with the most important guests, legs crossed in traditional Ottoman style, on Al-Harrajah’s finest carpet in the center of the banquet room. Suddenly, he was the toast of the party. The Hodja, however, was not pleased. Seated amid the smoky, bustling enclave with its great samovar and hand-woven tapestries, Nasr-ed-Din helped himself to a fat, lemon shaped serving of fried sweet potato. Ceremoniously, the Hodja placed the tasty appetizer into his pocket. “Eat, coat, eat,” said Nasr-ed-Din loudly to his silken pocket. Then, he solemnly removed from one of the circulating servants’ great platters a filo-covered noodle stuffed with buttery potatoes, dipped it in yogurt-cream sauce, and deposited the dripping morsel into the opposite pocket. “Eat, coat, eat,” he instructed the pocket.
By now, of course, Nasr-ed-Din had everybody’s attention — particularly Al-Harrajah’s. “What are you doing, my friend?” his host asked incredulously. “Why, Nasr-ed-Din-din, do you feed your coat and not yourself?”
“If you did not wish for my coat to eat, Al-Harrajah,” Nasr-ed-Din replied, “then why did you and all of these guests fail to notice me when I arrived without it?”
Travelers in Turkey can count on two things: tremendous food and tales of Nasr-ed-Din Hodja, the little folk hero whose thousand-year legacy instructs and inspires adults and children, natives and tourists alike. In a land littered with Hittite pottery fragments; in a place where one stumbles upon ancient pagan tombs carved into rural caves; where one finds intact roads dating from the ancient Roman empire (sewer ducts still lingering beneath them) and the remains of Hellenistic libraries standing side by side with modern cities; in a country where one hikes amid the hillside caves that harbored Peter and Paul as they broke bread surreptitiously in the Church’s earliest days, where one strolls from Byzantine chapel to Cathedral, only to find these buildings now house worshiping Muslims; in the present-day land of imams and minarets, Ottoman artifacts, sultans’ palaces, and harems — in such a land, the Hodja serves as a bridge across the East-West culture gap. In a country where history’s mark is so richly abundant as to boggle the mind, Nasr-ed-Din keeps life’s big lessons both simple and enormously accessible. The Hodja is like most of us. Sometimes Nasr-ed-Din is tricked; other times, he uses trickery to teach a much-needed lesson. Occasionally, he finds himself, humanly, in jams of his own making. In short, Nasr-ed-Din is Turkey’s everyman: He is you, and he is I.
Turkey itself resembles a mountain pass linking two vastly different landscapes. The only country in the world to have its borders touch two continents — Europe in the west and Asia in the east — Turkey hosts a culture of distinctive Arab, Greek, and Chinese implications. Across the miles and customs and language barriers, the Hodja reaches out, offering wit, wisdom, and mirth to bridge the chasm.
There is, for example, the story of the day Al-Harrajah invited Nasr-ed-Din to a great feast, to celebrate an unusually bountiful harvest. Knowing how fond Nasr-ed-Din was of figs, Al-Harrajah had sent his servant to the Hodja’s modest little courtyard with a message: “Be sure to arrive early, my friend,” Al-Harrajah had instructed his servant to say, “for my beer is newly fermented, the lambs are tender and fat! There will be dolmas. For dessert, I promise figs by the bowlful — slow-ripened figs with fresh, sweet cream.”
All day, Nasr-ed-Din struggled to keep his mind on matters at hand. His thoughts kept wandering to the beer, to the dolmas, to the figs, and to the cream. By late afternoon, he sat upon a straw mat in his courtyard and pulled scroll from his robe. Nasr-ed-Din began writing a letter. A caravan was arriving in a few hours, and the Hodja would give the letter to one of the traders at the caravanserai to carry it to an acquaintance farther east along the Silk Road. But even as he wrote, Nasr-ed-Din’s mind wandered to the promised delicacies. Absent-mindedly, he pulled a pistachio from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. But all he could think about was how much he wished his pistachio were a fig in sweet cream.
Finally it was time for Nasr-ed-Din to ready himself for Al-Harrajah’s banquet. Indeed, each splash of water in Nasr-ed-Din’s Turkish bath became a glass of amber beer. His orange silk robe reminded him of smooth kumquat sherbet.
When he could stand it no longer, the Hodja trundled off to the home of his neighbor, Al-Harrajah. On arriving, Nasr-ed-Din glowed with satisfaction on realizing the meze, or appetizers already were being served. The Hodja gave a little bow all around before helping himself to a platter of dolmas, grape leaves and peppers and baby eggplants stuffed with rice, currants, pine nuts, and walnuts. He smacked his lips and popped a wedge of crumbling, sour feta cheese into his mouth. Nasr-ed-Din washed these delightful morsels down his throat with a mouthful of new beer.
As the guests sat to dinner, directly upon cushions spread atop carpets
covering the floor, Al-Harrajah showed the Hodja to a place of honor. Still smiling broadly, Nasr-ed-Din picked up a small pizza that a servant placed on a plate before him. Diced lamb, bits of tomato, pepper, and garlic swam upon the pizza in a butter, olive oil, and rosemary pool. Nasr-ed-Din tore a generous portion from a large flatbread covered with sesame seeds, heaping upon it semiz otu, pickled eggplant salad, salsa, and a bit of paprika. Small bowls of chick peas whipped with hot peppers; chopped salted olives, onions, and tomatoes; fried sweet peppers and mint bobbed around him. Nasr-ed-Din did not know which to try first!
Barely had he tried everything when the main course, shish-kebab, was served. Diced chicken, lamb ribs, lamb sausage steeped in paprika, parsley, mint, garlic, and sweet red pepper sauce were carried forth by the servants on platters so large Nasr-ed-Din doubted he could have held one above his own head with such grace and surety.
The saffron pilaf served with the shish kebab tickled his nose. While he ate, the Hodja sipped sweet yogurt from a tall glass. By the time a cup of red beet chalga, or juice, was offered him, Nasr-ed-Din was wondering whether he would have room in his belly for figs and cream. His fears caused him to pass on a platter of sweet grapes, watermelon, honey dew, and peaches. Indeed, the Hodja allowed himself just a small helping of baklava with honey drizzling its flaking, pistachio-flecked crust.
It had been a grand feast. Now, just one little fig, thought the Hodja, or, perhaps, two little figs and a bit of cream …
Nasr-ed-Din was dragged from his fanciful thoughts by the hearty voice of his host, Al-Harrajah. “Before we commence with the dancing,” Al-Harrajah was saying, “our dear friend Nasr-ed-Din Hodja will read a prayer from the Quoran. We must thank Allah for such a wondrous harvest!”
Nasr-ed-Din could not believe his ears. A prayer? Before the figs? Allah, Allah! he thought. I begrudge not my God for such blessings as these. And yet, in truth, Nasr-ed-Din’s thoughts remained, nevertheless, on the figs.
Yet the ever-gracious Hodja took ornately scripted Quoran that Al-Harrajah’s servant handed him. With reverence, respect, and a bow, Nasr-ed-Din opened the Quoran to a passage that ordinarily reads, in part, “ … by the figs and the olives and Mt. Sinai …”
“In the name of most merciful God,” the Hodja intoned deliberately, “by the olives and Mt. Sinai…”
“Nasr-ed-Din,” cried Al-Harrajah, “you have forgotten ‘the figs’!”
“I did not forget the figs!” exclaimed Nasr-ed-Din to Al-Harrajah. “You have forgotten the figs!”
Food for Every Occasion
Dolmas are the signature of Turkish cuisine. A practice passed down from Ottoman raiders who lived life on the run, dolmas are one of civilization’s earliest fast foods. Peppers, eggplants, tomatoes — you name it, the Turks stuff it. And while traditional cookbooks confirm that the practice is rooted in convenience, the Turks themselves are more matter-of-fact. “Why do we stuff things?” A pause. No matter whom you ask, regardless of where in Turkey you ask the question, the answer likely will be the same. “Why? Because we like it!?”
Just as Turkish custom dictates dolmas on the table, it also requires that every visitor in every home be graciously welcomed. “When you come into a house,” explains Zuhal Karadag, a food writer and presenter for TRT, a Turkish television station in Ankara, “it is not acceptable for the Turkish people to send you away without at least a cup of tea or coffee.” In the countryside, visitors are served yogurt mixed with milk or water, depending on the circumstances of the host.
Indeed, the Turks are a festive people. Each milestone in life is greeted formally, with gifts and gatherings. On each happy occasion, moreover, special foods and gifts are required.
Birth of a baby — Spiced, rose-colored sherbet, lohusa serbeti, is served in the home of those celebrating the happy occasion. The first neighbors to visit the newborn bring an egg, which symbolizes new life.
“The fourteenth day of the baby’s life,” Karadag explains, “is very important. This is the time to discern what kind of character the baby will have. You want the baby in future to be a doctor or a very good person of some sort, you know, and so you dress up the baby and your neighbors and relatives come by, bring a very small gift, and seek a sign of who this baby might become.”
Child’s first tooth — The person who spies the baby’s first tooth must spring for a modest gift of gold, usually a gold coin or jewelry. A sweet dish of bulgur, chick peas, pistachios, walnuts, and sugar is served on the day this gift is presented.
Circumcision — A boy’s circumcision (sometime between age 6 and 12) is 
marked with days of feasting. Preparations include the slaughter of a lamb, dishes of pilaf, sweet yogurt, and other treats. Guests bring gifts of gold to the celebration.
Courtship — Particularly important is the visit to a young woman’s parents by the parents of a hopeful young man. Traditionally, the sign of their intention would be a box of locum, small squares of very sweet chocolate. Lore has it that a young woman uninterested in a match might indicate her feelings by failing to put sugar in the coffee she served to the boy’s father. If she liked the idea of marriage, on the other hand, she made the coffee very sweet.
Marriage — Since the Turks love a good feast, weddings are a great excuse to throw a party. Pilaf, meat dishes, pasta, filo-covered noodles stuffed with cheese: These precede a wide array of sweets, served with abandon to usher in a sweet union. Baklava, cakes, puddings, dried fruits, and nuts are general favorites.
Death — Food is never cooked in a house where someone has just died. Neighbors, friends, and relatives bring meals to sustain a household for a week or longer. In addition, helva is distributed to the immediate relatives on the first, third, seventh, and fourteenth days following a death. Its timing is both symbolic and practical: On the first day after a death, people in the midst of grief are paralyzed by loss; by the third day, the reality is sinking in; on the seventh day, the family is beginning to come to terms with the death; two weeks later, adjustment to the new reality has begun. The sweetness of the helva, it is believed, will ease the sorrow of the mourners. Further, on each of these days, the Imam visits to pray with the family and readings are made from the Qoran. By the fortieth day, or the mevlut, all are ready to gather yet again to pray and this time enjoy the favorite foods of the person who has died — particularly the sweet things. The loss still hurts, of course, but it now is time to celebrate a life well-lived.
A Glimpse of Village Life
Sultan Demir lives with her three children and husband in a village on the outskirts of the Turkish city of Gazientep. They live in a flat-topped, white-washed earthen farm house amid a handful of similar homes inhabited by families much like themselves. The road leading to the village is flanked by grassy hillsides, sprawling fields of cotton, olive and pistachio groves. Livestock, when contained, idles within square walls of neatly stacked stones.
In the village backdrop, unseen, an ancient quarry stands in the hills. The 
Hittites — a conquering people who cemented their empire by striking, with Egypt, the world’s first peace treaty — used the stone of this land to train apprentice cutters after invading the area in 1900 B.C. Consequently, the chickens pecking here and there along the dusty paths leading from the main road to the houses in Demir’s village, lift grubs from the shadows of small sphinxes and other sculptures, the relics of diligent artisans-in-training some 4,000 years ago.
Sultan and her family work hard, providing the agrarian goods that signify almost half of Turkey’s economic output. Unlike most Turks, the Demirs are among the 30% of people who live in a rural setting.
Though Sultan and her family celebrate life’s milestones the way other Turks do, life for them is much simpler most days. Sultan rises with the sun, milks her cow, and sets out a light breakfast of olives and cheese for the family. On a small table-top stove in her kitchen, she makes tea.
For lunch, she prepares meatballs, a vegetable, and bread. They drink ayran, a yogurt drink that Sultan has made from the cow’s milk. During the day, she works in her garden, tending root vegetables and tomatoes, eggplants, peppers. She tend to household chores as well.
As the sun sets, she begins preparing dinner. Tonight, Sultan will steam some rice, cook some chicken or lamb, and make a soup. The family’s favorite dish? Everybody, including the toddler riding on her hip, smiles as she answers: “Yogurt soup, made with homemade yogurt, paprika, and pine nuts.”
After Sultan cooks their meals in the kitchen, the whole family repairs to a dining room where they’ll eat together. Do they eat in traditional Turkish style, sitting on cushions spread upon hand-woven carpets on the floor?
At the question, she laughs. “Yes,” she says. “It’s healthier that way, don’t you think so?”
