When walking around the Akatlar neighborhood, it’s easy to forget that we’re just a stone’s throw from the glassy skyscrapers that tower over Istanbul’s financial district, Levent. The quiet residential area features a curious number of stand-alone villas. Even the apartment blocks seem to have fewer floors and more space in between buildings. The familiar sounds of gridlocked traffic are conspicuously absent. Like in many Istanbul neighborhoods, the ground floors of most apartment buildings are below street level. Walking along Haydar Aliyev Caddesi, it’s easy to walk right past Santé Wine & More. This would be a shame, since that would mean missing out on a carefully curated selection of Turkish artisan wines.

Ask anyone from the Eastern Turkish city of Bitlis where büryan kebabı comes from, and they’ll proudly tell you that the slow-cooked meat dish hails from none other than their hometown, near Lake Van. Pose the same question to folks from Siirt, just 100 km south, and they’ll insist anyone making it from a city other than theirs is doing it all wrong. Büryan kebabı refers to lamb (or mutton) slow cooked in an underground tandır oven until pull-apart tender. The meat, crackling with skin and fat, is sliced or cut into chunks and served atop fluffy, warm bread. The fat from the meat soaks into the bread below, making it glisten.

Despite the bitter January cold, surging cases of Omicron and roaring inflation, Istanbul seemed its usual vibrant self on a recent Friday night: Our first choice restaurant was fully booked, even in its expanded space, and the new neighborhood ocakbaşı where we ended up bustled pleasantly, with every seat taken at the large counter encircling the grill. But appearances can be deceiving. “Meyhanes are still full, but people are eating less, drinking less; they can’t afford to consume like they did before,” says chef Aliye Gündüzalp, one of the owners of Müşterek meyhane in Beyoğlu.

“I don't want to die, because I just can't get enough of Istanbul,” proclaims Mari Esgici, chef and owner of Marinee Kaburga, a small, cozy restaurant specializing in kaburga (beef ribs) and brisket that is a delightful addition to the Kurtuluş neighborhood's culinary patchwork. Hailing from an Armenian family with roots in the southeastern city of Diyarbakır, Mari came to Istanbul in 1980 as a child and has seen a great deal of the City. In the process, she has become a vital part of its culinary scene, in no small part due to her larger-than-life personality. It would be an understatement to say that Mari is a character, her intense vibes radiate from the kitchen and you know exactly where you stand with the chef.

This was a topsy turvy year for Istanbul's restaurant scene, as the first six months of 2021 were marked by a series of pandemic restrictions and lockdowns that made for slow business, while a grand reopening of sorts on July 1 resulted in thousands of people flocking back to their favorite restaurants and bars, some of which had been fully closed since March 2020. During the second half of the year, a pulsating energy hummed throughout the city, establishments were packed to the gills, and it became impossible to catch a taxi home on a Saturday night. Istanbulites seemed to be going out and enjoying themselves as much as possible in the event that they might not be allowed to the next week. For our Best Bites of 2021, we each chose an Istanbul classic, a modern favorite, and an exciting new addition to the city’s culinary scene, all of which have rolled with the pandemic punches.

It's nearing the end of 2021 and Turkey is bracing stormy weather. The economy is struggling, the Turkish lira has lost a quarter of its value this year, rental prices are soaring nationwide and purchasing power has been compromised. On top of it all, already sky-high taxes on alcohol were hiked again earlier this month, making it increasingly more difficult for people to drown their problems in a drink or four. The country's liquor sector has been hampered by a full-blown advertising ban since 2013 that even prevents companies from opening an Instagram account. All things considered, one might think it a bad time to produce what is essentially Turkey's first boutique rakı.

Istanbul's dessert culture mirrors the richness of its broader culinary diversity and depth, and the city is home to numerous classic establishments that have essentially perfected favorite Turkish sweets. There’s Özkonak’s tavuk göğsü, a dense, thick pudding made with shredded chicken breast and topped with cinnamon, and Mahir Lokantası’s irmik helvası, a subtly sweet mound of semolina paired excellently with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. Despite these and numerous other beloved desserts having firmly established their places on Istanbul's menus, the city also has a penchant for being consumed with the latest trends, often hybrids of local staples or imports from afar. In 2012, we remember lots of folks going berserk over trileçe, a version of Latin America’s tres leches cake, which one can guess from the name is traditionally made with three types of milk.

Editor's note: We're celebrating Mushroom Week at Culinary Backstreets, and today's installment takes us to Istanbul's Belgrade Forest, where Turkey's leading wild mushroom expert has found some remarkable fungus specimens. “This would be front-page news in France!” Jilber raved, darting off between tall chestnut trees and oaks, obscured by a hazy steam that seemed to hang in the forest like a gauzy Halloween decoration. He looked over each shoulder and all around him where it seemed he was surrounded by golf balls, shanked off and forgotten in the rough.

Fall often crashes down like a ton of bricks over Istanbul, but it’s a welcome blow. Crisp evenings replace sticky, humid ones overnight. During the day it’s warm enough to walk around in a T-shirt if it’s sunny, though you may need to have a sweater on hand if the sun dips behind a cloud. It was a late afternoon in early October that cemented our deep love for Istanbul. We boarded a ferry from the Anatolian side before the sun set. It was still warm enough to sit outside without a jacket, and the energy of the changing season, both invigorating and soothing, coursed through the air and then our veins.

On our way to the supermarket during Istanbul’s partial lockdowns in late 2020, we were surprised to see a new shop in our favorite building on Rıza Paşa Sokak – the street where the “nostalgic Moda tramway” makes it way down toward the sea. The bottom section of the decadent stone facade is now painted with a bright mural of lemons and leaves, and it stands proud between a modern building and a car park. In a meat-lovers’ paradise like Turkey, the sign on the door reads like a joke: “Limonita vegan kasap” – a vegan butcher. “The oxymoron is real!” laughs Deniz Yoldaç Yalçın, the blue-eyed girl who makes the sucuk (sausage), burgers and other delicacies lined up in the fridges and at the counter.

On the fringes of the Caucasus in Turkey's easternmost corner, Kars may be the most architecturally unique city in the country. This is primarily due to the austere yet awe-inspiring Baltic-style black stone buildings built by the Russian empire more than a century ago, when it ruled the region. With a mixed population of Turks, Kurds and Azerbaijanis, and the stark visual influence of its Russian and Armenian past, may it be no surprise that this small city presents more than the sum of its parts when it comes to cuisine, and has more to offer than the cheese and honey it is noted for nationwide. Well-known as the last stop on the iconic day-long Eastern Express train route, and for the nearby majestic ruins of the ancient Armenian city of Ani, Kars is blanketed by snow in the winter and features unpredictably chaotic weather in the summer.

In these days of viral Instagram videos and WhatsApp chainmail, Turkish ice cream has become synonymous with fez-clad pranksters swooping and slinging a mound of sticky Kahramanmaraş dondurma (ice cream) out of the hands of questionably amused tourists. But Turkey’s dondurma tradition goes far beyond these attention-seeking tricks. Beloved institutions offering more than simple (though delicious) chocolate or pistachio – like Kadıköy’s Dondurmacı Ali Usta, the countless Mado operations, Dondurmacı Yaşar Usta and Bebek’s Mini Dondurma – will never lose their loyal customer base. With such a wealth of frozen creams, it’s no surprise that gelato only arrived on the scene in Turkey in the mid-2000s, when the first Cremeria Milano opened its doors at the Tünel terminus of Istiklal Avenue (it now has some 18 locations throughout the country).

Outside of Kristal Ocakbaşı, a small grill joint tucked away on a side street in the Pangaltı neighborhood, Obama sat greeting the regulars who streamed in to watch a soccer game while feasting on kebab. “What’s the news, Obama?” asked one man with shoulder-length white hair. “Selam aleykum, Obama,” said another. One woman patted him on the head and baby talked to him, calling him by the affectionate nickname “Obiş.” Though we’d never heard such fond regard for the American president, Obama – the tanker-sized street dog of Eşref Efendi Sokak – took it in stride, yawning lazily. It was just another Monday night among his adoring constituents.

Before we cross the Bosphorus Strait to Asia, this story starts on Istanbul’s European side, at a small stand that has been operating in Beyoğlu since the mid-1970s. There, Muammer usta serves up expertly-cooked and sliced cuts of kelle söğüş (chilled lamb's head meat), perched in a strategic location across from the local fish market and a stone's throw from the Nevizade strip of meyhanes and bars. Over the decades, Muammer usta has become one of the most recognizable characters in the area. The usta’s influence cannot be overstated. His stand is beloved by locals, foreign tourists from across the globe and food critics alike.

In Turkey, talk of çiğ börek, invariably leads to a mention of Eskişehir. A small Anatolian city famous for its vibrant student life and the historic Ottoman-style houses in the old town of Odunpazarı, Eskişehir is famous for these fried half-moon meat-filled pastries. They came to the city along with the Crimean Tatar community who migrated to Anatolia by way of the Caucasus from the 18th to 20th centuries, fleeing the expansion of the Russian Empire and anti-Muslim persecution. Today you can munch on these fried treats alongside a glass of homemade ayran in historic Odunpazari, though few other trappings of the Tatar community remain visible.