Jews, is today a cultural centre dedicated to rediscovering Turkey’s artistic history. The Sanals designed the library in SALT’s central atrium with this mandate in mind. “The patterns of the fabrics on the chairs were based on photographs of the terracotta rooftops of the old bazaar in Karaköy,” Alexis said. Other fabric designs replicated the seams in the domes of Istanbul’s mosques. Institutions like SALT and ARTER, another art space on Istiklal Caddesi, are huge arrivals on the cultural scene, much-needed engines of fresh thinking about modern Turkish life. When they opened, they created something that Beyoglu needed: a social circuit. These days, the boho rich, as recognisable in Fort Greene as in Galata, make their way to SALT or RODEO Gallery or a party in the M?s?r Apartman?, an architectural gem on Istiklal full of galleries and ateliers. Afterward, they grab tables at a handful of restaurants strikingly different from Istanbul’s chic restaurants of yore. For one thing, they are less expensive. For another, they cater to a slightly more bohemian sensibility. Most important, the food is Turkish. Judging by recent additions to Beyoglu’s dining scene, I have sensed a New Turkish Cuisine movement spreading through the borough. A prime example is Datl? Maya, a tiny new restaurant in Cihangir. Housed in a slim blue building, this Anatolian hearth-style establishment has become hugely popular. When I pop in for lunch, there are cakes crowding the counter and crocks of Turkish stews. A man with a wooden shovel is moving vegetarian durum (spinach and Bergama tulum cheese) around inside a huge oven. I head up the stairs into a tiny room with five tables. It is informal, warm, and homespun. Even Turkish hipsters want the real deal. One day, I walked from my apartment in Cihangir to Mesrutiyet Caddesi to meet Didem Senol, the owner of Lokanta Maya, who was hosting the opening of her new lunch spot, Gram. This grand, winding avenue faces the Golden Horn and has become one of Beyoglu’s trendiest streets. Whenever I enter it from the chaos of Istiklal Caddesi, I feel as if I’m in a different city: the Büyük Londra and
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It’s as if now the way to be modern is to find a cultural self by reaching into the past
Pera Palace hotels and Pera Museum look like buildings out of 1920s Paris; at night, the street is thick with SUVs crawling toward nightclubs. Gram looks like a Parisian bakery in the front; in the back, a few tables are squeezed in next to an open food bar. Senol is 34, with pixieish brown hair and a warm, friendly smile, and she is fluent in English. Although she trained in New York and at the rooftop restaurant Mikla—long the epitome of Istanbul power-dining—Senol is a culinary populist. She projected complete confidence as she explained her vision for Turkish cuisine: “I think an ingredient like pomegranate sauce from Hatay, in southern Turkey, instead of balsamic vinegar from Europe, is what makes all the difference.” What sets apart the most modern of Turkish creators is a devotion to craftsmanship. Turkey’s economy still hangs between the First and Second Worlds, where both major corporations and individual artisans thrive. There are two IKEAs in Istanbul, but I can also go down the street to Koçgiri and get a dining table made, and it will be beautiful and reasonably priced. Turkish marble, copper, ceramics, and wood inlaid with pearl are to Turkish designers what pomegranate sauce, white cheese, dill, and quince are to Turkish chefs. It’s as if now the way to be modern is to find an authentic cultural self by reaching into the past. When I look out my window, I am amazed at how happily the conservative and progressive coexist here right now. Where I live, every day and night soap opera stars and leftist intellectuals, fashionistas and just plain ordinary folk pack the tables at an outdoor café, smoking and laughing and drinking tea. This café is attached to a small 500-year-old mosque. How does something so boisterous, even sexy, survive next to something so solemn and austere? When people ask me that question, I am at a loss. I usually say, “Oh, you know, that’s just the way it is here. That’s Turkish.” See overleaf for booking information.