Stories
Turk Kahve
I never drank coffee in my Army days. Now I love it. I only drink one cup a day with my breakfast and the news.
I became a fan of Turk coffee during my first tour there. I fought it. The thick coffee that the Turks drink did not appeal to me at all. But, in Turkey, Tea and Coffee are part of the social culture.
In the fall of 1984, I took the LSE Alternate War Headquarters to Terkidag, on the Sea of Marmara. Once there, my job was done, except for minor administrative details around the headquarters. I took our interpreter, a young soldier from Istanbul, Murat, on recon the Drop Zone that the 82nd would be using during the exercise.
The “recon” took all of two hours one morning. The rest of the trip became a 3-day boondoggle in Istanbul.
Murat had told me, If you get me to our summer house, my family will take care of the rest of the trip.
XI never drank coffee in my Army days. Now I love it. I only drink one cup a day with my breakfast and the news.
I became a fan of Turk coffee during my first tour there. I fought it. The thick coffee the Turks drink did not appeal to me.
In Turkey, tea and coffee are a vital part of the culture.
In the fall of 1984, I took the LSE Alternate War Headquarters to Terkidag on the Sea of Marmara. Once there, my job was done, except for minor administrative details around the headquarters. I took our interpreter, a young soldier from Istanbul, Murat, on recon the Drop Zone that the 82nd would use during the exercise.
Our mission took only two hours on the first morning. The rest of the trip became a 3-day boondoggle in Istanbul. Murat had told me if I got him to their summer house, his family would take care of the rest of the trip.
I had been to Türk “summer homes” before. They were usually small, bare-bones affairs, with little going for them other than their close vicinity to the coast. I was wary.
I paid for the bus tickets into Istanbul, Minibus fare to Beylerbeyi, food on the way, and taxi fare to his mom's house. This summer home was a palace right on the Bosporus. There was a Yacht moored behind the house and two big Mercedes in the drive. As Murat and I walked down the driveway in the dimming light of day, through the well-kept gardens, he pointed out his BMW.
I knew this was going to be fun.
The first of Murat's family I met was his mother, a beautiful lady who carried herself like the queen of her world. Her house was beautifully furnished, with marble floors, large Turkish carpets, and a full-sized grand piano in her music room. She was gracious and hospitable. I was a visitor to her country, city, and home, but she made me feel like family.
After showing me around, showing my room for the next three nights, and making sure I had a bite to eat, she brought Kahve to the Balcony where Murat and I were dining and taking in the beautiful lights of Istanbul, the Bosporus Bridge, the ferries going to and fro, and the minarets climbing above it all.
There was no way I was going to insult this lady by refusing her coffee, so I made up my mind that I would finish it, no matter what.
It was amazing - Hot, Thick, and Sweet.
Why had I deprived myself of such a delicacy?
For the rest of the weekend, we drank Kahve everywhere we went. I drank kahve on the balcony in the mornings at breakfast, in Bebek at their Winter Home with Murat's little sister Eda, on excursions around the city with gal-pals Nil, Funda, and Yesim, and while visiting friends Melek and Sema. We drank it over dinner at the edge of the Black Sea at his uncle's seafood restaurant. We ate there all day long and couldn't spend a dime.
Kahve would be a big part of my Turkish life. My love for Türk Kahve grew to a passion during dinners and appetizers at Nurgul's house with Selin and Pelin, parties at Gulderen's place with Fatuş, Vern, and Ellen, at Gil and Mukarem's wedding, at Carnivale listening to Handan into the wee hours, and across the street from my apartment at Matisse.
Matisse became My Coffee Shop.
When I moved into the neighborhood, I noticed the staff, especially the waitress, watching me as I came home from work or shopping. Their looks were hard to decipher. Perhaps they did not like Americans.
I resolved to go over and make friends, plus I wanted to talk to the beautiful waitress.
On my first visit there, Burçin, the waitress, told me they had been wondering when I would come over. The owner didn't understand why the American never came for her perfect coffee. They thought I had no friends. Until I met Sevda and Berna, they were correct. But I had them. Even if our initial relationship consisted of a mutual staring contest or me watching them from my balcony as I played my guitar, Matisse helped me while away the lonely hours.
I shared coffee at Matisse with all my friends during that magical summer of 2001. Everyone loved their coffee. Steve and Nur met me there as he left the country, handing Nur off as a new friend. Gill met me there often once he returned to Turkey from Kosovo. I even chose Matisse and their kahve for my goodbye lunch with my most faithful and precious Türk friend, Sevda, a sad, tearful moment for both of us.
Matisse is now a Subway.
Besides the taste and the sharing, the next best thing I love about the coffee is Fortune Telling. The enlightened and gifted, it seems, can read coffee grounds at the bottom of a cup. If, when you finish with your coffee, you turn the cup upside down on the saucer, it is a challenge to every self-respecting Turkish lady within sight. I have met some interesting people this way.
There was the Gypsy lady at a cafe in Istanbul who told me, during my first reading, that I would become rich and receive some great news from Ankara. I thanked her and tipped her handsomely for this information.
My life is richly rewarding and now that Sevda is in Ankara, I often get good news from there. Spot On, Gypsy Lady!
Burçin's reading was sweet. She saw a long life, many grandchildren, and happiness in my future. She got it all right.
My best reading was from Şule, one of Jerry's friends, during dinner after I returned from Kosovo. When I turned over my cup, the women at the table began talking to Şule. She seemed hesitant but agreed. Once she picked up my cup, the other ladies circled her, looking over her shoulder.
Her reading was specific. You will go on a trip very soon. While on this trip, you will give a speech. This speech will be very important to someone there. The outcome of your speech will be to your liking. You will help save a life.
Unknown to anyone at that dinner party, I left for Germany the next day to testify at the murder trial of a soldier charged with negligently discharging his weapon, resulting in the death of a 6-year-old boy. On the stand, I pointed out that everyone in his command was responsible for the incident. The jury agreed with me and acquitted the soldier of all charges.
I don't believe in fortune-telling, but these three readings make me wonder.
You must be careful with Türk Kahve; there is a thing as Too Much. I discovered this when visiting my Türk Counterpart, Sergeant Major Şahin, at his home. Come over for lunch, he said. Lunch lasted about ten hours as he paraded a well-orchestrated flow of family and friends through his home to meet Can Baba, his American friend. I have never felt so honored, eaten so much, or been so high on caffeine. I couldn't sleep for forty-eight hours after leaving, and my heart felt like it would leap out of my chest.
These days, I make my own Türk Kahve; I'm getting pretty good at it. I share it with my most trusted friends.
I drink it alone when I want to recall my marvelous days in Türkiye, the lights of Istanbul, our long-awaited honeymoon, the laughter and bright smile of a beautiful waitress, my favorite Türk singer singing me sad songs, seafood by Kara Deniz, long dinners at the Altin Kapi, the beautiful view at Mikos, cold nights in Bursa and Denizli, good friends, and tearful goodbyes.