Wishing to investigate for myself the Turkish manner of cooking, I got
my good friends of Pera to take me to a restaurant _ad hoc_ where every
kind of Turkish dish is to be had, from the most delicious delicacies
of the Seraglio to camel’s meat prepared as the Arabians eat it,
and horseflesh dressed according to the Turkoman fashion. Santoro
ordered the breakfast, severely Turkish from the opening course to the
fruit, and I, invoking the names of all those intrepid spirits who
have faced death in the cause of science, conscientiously swallowed a
part of each without so much as a groan. There were upward of twenty
dishes, the Turks being a good deal like children in their liking to
peck at a quantity of different kinds of food, rather than satisfy
their appetite with a few solid dishes. Shepherds of the day before
yesterday, they seem to disdain a simple table as though it were a
trait of rustic niggardliness. I cannot give a clear account of each
dish, many of them being now no more than a vague and sinister memory.
I do, however, remember the _kibab_, which consisted of little scraps
of mutton roasted on the coals, seasoned with a great deal of pepper
and cloves, and served on two soft, greasy biscuits--a dish not to be
named among the lesser sins. I can also recall vividly the odor of
the _pilav_, the _sine quâ non_ of a Turkish meal, consisting of rice
and mutton, meaning to the Turk what maccaroni does to the Neapolitan
or _cuscussu_ to the Arab or _puchero_ to the Spaniard. I have not
forgotten either--and it is the sole pleasant memory connected with
that repast--the _rosh’ab_, which is sipped with a spoon at the end of
the meal: it is composed of raisins, plums, apples, cherries, and other
fruits, cooked in water with a great deal of sugar, and flavored with
essence of musk, citron, and rose-water. Then there were numberless
other preparations of mutton and lamb, cut in small pieces and boiled
until no flavor remained; fish swimming in oil; rice-balls wrapped
in grape-leaves; sugar syrups; salads served in pastry; compôtes;
conserves; sauces, flavored with every sort of aromatic herb--a list
as long as the articles of the penal code for relapsed criminals; and
finally the masterpiece of some Arabian pastry-cook, a huge dish of
sweetmeats, among which were conspicuous a steamboat, a fierce-looking
lion, and a sugar house with grated windows. When all was over I felt a
good deal as though I had swallowed the contents of a pharmacist’s shop
or assisted at one of those feasts which children prepare with powdered
brickdust, chopped grass, and stale fruit--not unattractive-looking
when seen at a distance. All the dishes are served rapidly, four or
five at a time. The Turks dive into each with their fingers, the knife
and spoon only, being in common use among them, and one drinking-goblet
serves for the whole company, the waiter keeping it constantly filled
with flavored water.
These customs, however, were not followed by the party who were
breakfasting at the table adjoining ours. They were evidently Turks
who valued their ease, even to the extent of poising their slippers
upon the table: each had a plate to himself, and they plied their
forks very skilfully, drinking liquors freely in despite of Mahomet. I
observed, moreover, that they failed to kiss the bread before beginning
to eat, as every good Mussulman should, and that more than one longing
glance was sent in the direction of our bottles, although the muftis
pronounce it a sin to so much as cast the eye upon a bottle of wine.
There is, indeed, no doubt that this “father of abominations,” one
drop of which is sufficient to bring down upon the head of the sinning
Mussulman the “curses of every angel in heaven and earth,” gains new
disciples among the Turks every day, and that nothing but the fear of
public opinion prevents its open use. Were a thick cloud to descend
upon Constantinople some day, and after an hour suddenly be lifted, I
have little doubt that the sun would surprise fifty thousand Turks,
each one in the act of lifting the bottle to his lips. In this, as in
almost every other shortcoming of the Turks, it was the sultans who
were the stone of stumbling and rock of offence. Singular to relate,
it is that very dynasty which rules over a people among whom it is
considered a sin in the sight of God to drink wine at all, which has
produced more drunkards than any other line of rulers in Europe; so
sweet is forbidden fruit even in the estimation of the “shadow of God
upon earth.” It was, we are told, Bayezid I. who headed the long list
of imperial tipplers, and here, as in the case of the first sin, woman
was the temptress, the wife of this Bayezid, a daughter of the king of
Servia, offering her husband his first glass of Tokay. Next Bayezid
II. got intoxicated on Cypress and Schiraz wines; then the selfsame
Suleiman I. who fired every ship in the port of Constantinople that
was laden with wine, and poured molten lead down the throats of those
who drank the forbidden liquor, himself died when drunk, shot by one
of his own archers. Then comes Selim II., surnamed the _messth_ (sot),
whose debauches lasted three days, and during whose reign men of the
law and men of religion drank openly. In vain did Muhammad III. thunder
against this “abomination devised by Satan;” in vain did Ahmed I. close
all the taverns and destroy every wine-press in Stambul; in vain did
Murad IV. patrol the city accompanied by an executioner, who beheaded
in his presence every unfortunate whose breath witnessed against him,
while he himself, ferocious hypocrite that he was, staggered about the
apartments of the seraglio like any common frequenter of the pothouse.
Since his day the bottle, like some gay little black imp, has crept
into the seraglio, lurks in the bazâr, hides beneath the pillow of the
soldier, thrusts its little silver or purple neck from beneath the
divan of the beauty, and, crossing the threshold of the very mosques
themselves, has stained the yellow pages of the Koran with sacrilegious
drops.
[Illustration: Turbeh of Sultan Selim II in St. Sophia.]