The first few blocks of Baruthane are lined with a smattering of restaurants, barbers, television repair shops and dry cleaners, though in recent years a flurry of third-wave coffee shops and bars has arrived on the street. While this is a positive development for the young adults that patronize these establishments, there is the inevitable concern that their proliferation will cause a spike in rents and tarnish the quaint character of this beloved neighborhood. It is for this reason that we were thrilled to see a new establishment open up on Baruthane that reflects the classic small-business character that makes this area so special. Köy Börek is run by Abdullah Kral, a cheerful 53-year-old teddy bear of a man who makes some of the most delicious börek we’ve ever had – and we’ve had a lot. (Kral means king in Turkish, and we are prepared to crown Abdullah bey the king of börek.)

It's just shy of 4 p.m. on a gray Sunday afternoon in Istanbul, and there is a line out the door at Bayramoğlu, considered by many to be the best döner restaurant in Turkey. A sign on the corner of the building proudly proclaims the establishment to be the “pioneer of döner” and in the middle of the roof there is a human-sized model of a rotating döner, just in case it wasn't clear what the star of the show is around here. Inside are two huge dining rooms, hundreds of guests, and dozens of employees, who are running a tight ship across a sea of controlled chaos. There is nothing subtle about Bayramoğlu. This place is a juggernaut, spread across 1,000 square meters with four hulking döners cooking with the flames of high-quality oak charcoal, and two tandoori ovens (also wood-burning) where slices of fresh tandır ekmeği flatbread are cooked in seconds. When a guest leaves, their table is swiftly cleaned, and the next diner in line is quickly escorted in and their order taken: a single portion, one and a half, or a double?

Call ahead by a couple days and Serdil will arrange a deep dive on Diyarbakır dishes you can't experience anywhere else, not in the city, not in the region, not anywhere else in the country. On our last visit in September, he started the meal with a local caprese made from lavaş peyniri (a flat, mild sheep's milk cheese), reyhan (purple basil, which grows all over the countryside), and tırnak ekmek (handmade bread from a local baker, first popularized in nearby Gaziantep). He presents his dish, and those after, with a story of how it came to be and where the ingredients are from. More bread was served with a bright green salt Serdil had made from a rare Kurdish herb he called "zuzak," explaining just how difficult it has become to track down. It was tangy and slightly sweet, and no one from either of our dining groups (eight in total, we were at capacity), had ever heard of it before.