During our previous trips to Istanbul’s “Little Gaziantep” – where we enjoyed the special techniques of Turkey’s culinary nerve center at the excellent Hizmet Kardeşler – we were tempted by what lay across the street. It was an alluring sight scarcely seen in Istanbul: the simple yet scrumptious nohut dürüm. The wrap of chickpeas, parsley and spices nestled within a formidable section of tırnaklı ekmek flatbread is the specialty at Hamo’nun Yeri (Hamo’s Place). Run by a family with roots in the Gaziantep district of Nizip, the restaurant’s name comes from the family patriarch.

The T1 tramway route passes by virtually all of Istanbul’s most well-known sights. Crossing the Galata Bridge and weaving through the Old City, the T1 practically rubs up against the Hagia Sophia, Topkapı Palace, the Grand Bazaar and other famous attractions, ensuring that most foreign visitors to the city will ride this tram within a five-stop radius. But after the T1 rumbles past the old city walls, it snakes its way northeast through a dense patch of working-class districts usually ignored by tourists. Dreary on the outside though they may look, many of these neighborhoods are laced with off-the-beaten-path charm and culinary delights hidden in plain view.

Don’t people just love to fight about food? Punch-ups over which city makes the best pizza, brawls about what’s the right way to barbecue. Louis and Ella nearly called the whole thing off over the pronunciation of the word “tomato.” In this pugilistic spirit, we took our place at a couple of stools at our favorite back of the fish market corner bar, Asmaaltı, from which to call one of the great barroom debates of these parts: Is a sheep’s head, or kelle, more tasty when boiled and served chilled or roasted and served hot?

Along the southwestern coast of Turkey, the vibrant blue waters of the Mediterranean crash against dry, rocky mountains jutting from the water’s edge. For centuries, pilgrims and adventurers alike have scrabbled over the unforgiving terrain between Fethiye and Antalya known as the Lycian Way. Ruins dating back to Greek and Roman times nestle between the scrubby trees and undergrowth, melding with the landscape and painting a picture of the life that has always dotted the shore. The Turquoise Coast is a popular place to visit in the summer, with massive sand beaches and countless pansiyons catering to every type of tourist. While most people visit this region for its stunning vistas and beaches, it has exceptional food if you know where to look.

Standing behind the counter at his small bici bici shop in Gökalp Mahallesi, a neighborhood in the Zeytinburnu district of Istanbul, Cuma Usta recalls the first time he headed up into the mountains with his uncles in search of wild ice, one of the key ingredients in this Turkish snow cone treat sold from street carts throughout southern Turkey. His uncles had gone up in the winter and cut large slabs of ice from the mountaintop, wrapped it in old blankets and hauled it off with a donkey to a nearby cave. In July, with young Cuma – just being introduced to the ways of bici bici – in tow, they headed back to the cave to collect the ice. It took a couple of hours by car, as he recalled, and the ride back to Adana, vehicle loaded with the frozen bounty, was nice and chilly. Then they’d use that ice to make the summertime street food favorite bici bici (pronounced like the disco-era band of brothers from Australia) and sell it from pushcarts. According to tradition, a bici bici master is, firstly, a harvester of ice.

Ali Bey, the owner of a cubby-sized restaurant in Küçük Pazarı called Kısmet, sounded a bit like Bubba Gump listing the items on his menu: “We've got chicken soup, fried chicken gizzards, shredded chicken breast, dark chicken meat too, chicken and rice, chicken with onions and peppers, and chicken breast pudding for something sweet.”

The roaring '20s: Flappers in the Pera Palas Hotel were dancing the can-can, Art Deco was all the rage, the Turkish Republic was born. Hope, progress and newness double-stepped to the beat of Kemal Atatürk’s drum. This was the backdrop to which two Istanbul bakers, Filip and Yorgi, opened a whimsical chapter in the culinary story of the city

Every year, for one month only, bakeries across Istanbul churn out round, flat, yeasty loaves of Ramazan pide bread. Before Muslims break their fast at sundown, they hurry to buy these addictively chewy pides, which are essential to the iftar meal here. Some bakeries rely on machines to shape the pide and stamp the traditional checkerboard pattern on top; others do it the old-fashioned way, by hand in wood-fired ovens.

Think of Ramadan, which just began in many parts of the world, as a kind of monthlong biathlon that consists of an all-day race to beat back the hunger and thirst of fasting, followed by an all-night marathon of eating and drinking in order to fortify the body for the next day’s fast. In recent years in Turkey, iftar, the traditional break fast meal that used to mostly consist of some dates and a freshly baked round of Ramadan pide, has started to become an increasingly trendy affair, with ministers, businessmen and regular people trying to make an impression by hosting ever more lavish meals.

Edirne has more meat to offer beyond the glistening liver that bears its name. Deniz Börek Salonu has crowned the top of Saraçlar Caddesi since 1986. Every morning, lines of salivating citizens hurry to work with crunchy poğaças or sit down to enjoy steaming heaps of stuffed pastry. While there are many börek places in Edirne, few are able to produce the consistently delicious product that Deniz is known for. Imagine, if you will, savory labyrinthine baklava sheets of golden-brown pastry, stuffed like sausages. The bready tubes are baked, set on a hot table in a window, then viciously chopped into strips with a knife that looks like it should belong to a 19th-century werewolf hunter. Common fare at börek places are kıymalı (minced meat), peynirli (salty white cheese), patatesli (potatoes) and ıspanaklı (spinach).

For the past 24 years, Cemil Tuncay has wheeled his small metal cart to the biweekly produce pazar in Edirne. He sets up shop around noon, lighting coals under what can be described as massive, torpedo-shaped sausages. Kokoreç is a simple fast food made from bits of sheep left over from butchering, stuffed into intestines to the bursting point. It is a one-man operation. With the exception of his wife (who sometimes helps him clean and prepare the meat), Tuncay goes it alone. His mustachioed face is often grizzled with a little bit of stubble and worn by years’ worth of fragrant grill smoke. He is tall and stoops over a bit to prepare each order, doing so with a jaunty smile and a twinkle in his eyes.

The only positive thing about the torturous annual visit we used to make to Istanbul’s main police station in order to renew our residence permit was the chance to drive through the low-rent Aksaray neighborhood. It's home to dozens of intriguing off-the-beaten-path restaurants, most of them opened by migrants from other parts of Turkey. On one trip through the area, we noticed a large, newish-looking sign belonging to a restaurant called Akdeniz Hatay Sofrası. Hatay is the name of Turkey’s southernmost province, an area bounded by the Mediterranean and the border with Syria.

In Turkey’s predominantly Kurdish eastern provinces, breakfast is not just for breakfast anymore. Particularly in the city of Van, not far from Turkey’s border with Iran, the morning repast has been turned into serious business: The town is filled with dozens of kahvaltı salonları – breakfast salons – that serve a dizzying assortment of farm-fresh breakfast items day and night.

If Istanbul had a city museum, in the 20th-century exhibition we’d expect to walk into a life-sized recreation of Kenan Usta Ocakbaşı, a seminal grill joint in the Beyoğlu district. As visitors descended a few steps into the exhibition, sensors would trigger the harsh light of fluorescent bulbs overhead, illuminating a room covered in photographs of husky men with mustaches posing with a stout man in an apron, grill master Kenan Usta. The somber, groaning warble of the great Arabesque singer Müslüm Gürses would cue up in the visitors’ rented headsets and ducts inside the replica grill would belch out smoke scented authentically by grilled meat. Arrows on the floor would encourage visitors to sit down at one of the seats surrounding the large grill in the center of the room, across from a skewer-wielding rendering of Kenan Usta himself. As the earphones filled with Kenan’s voice telling his own story of migrating from an Anatolian village to Istanbul as a boy and the hard-won modest success of this outsider – one that is as significant to contemporary Istanbul as the Hagia Sophia is to the skyline – the visitor to this exhibition would start to feel a mixture of pleasure and pain, amplified by an anise-scented sedative chemical released from the ducts.

As we’ve written here before, if you do a little rooting around, the Grand Bazaar can be as much about the food as it is about the shopping. Case in point: Aynen Dürüm, a microscopic kebab shack at the edge of the sprawling bazaar that serves exceptionally good wraps (or, as they’re called in Turkish, dürüm).