Of course, many images pop up when I think of Istanbul. It is one of those cities where it was love at first sight and its fascination and attractiveness still captivate me today. The foreign was there in every color, in every scent, in every look an inviting enrichment: The tempting spices in the bazaar, the splendor of the blue mosque, the vastness of the Hagia Sophia and countless pubs with a view of the Sea of Marmara.
However, one image in particular remains in my memory: a small, inconspicuous bakery in the hustle and bustle of this dazzling city.We were out with friends in the evening, somewhere in the old quarter of Istanbul-Sultanahmet. When the sun sets, the alleys of the peninsula between the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus are transformed into a backdrop for a lively party. Every available space is used to set up another table or put a chair outside. Everything is filled with the smell of tempting food, street musicians accompany the scenery and intoxicated by the atmosphere and the abundantly flowing raki, people dance here and there. Our group was immersed with locals and tourists in this fun-loving world that makes life a celebration for a few hours. As the glasses were emptied and gradually the musicians packed away their oriental instruments, we made our way back to our small hotel near the Süleymaniye Mosque.
While strolling alongin a winey mood, I suddenly spotted the open entrance to a bakery where several people were currently plying their trade. As the baker was bringing the first baked goods to the front of the store, our eyes met and I waved at him, indicating that we would like to come in. He nodded in a friendly manner and shortly after, we were standing in his bakery.
At that moment, I felt like a teenager again, coming into my father’s bakery late at night after a damp Friday night and lending a hand. It was just that smell of yeast and flour and the heavy warmth that filled the room starting from the oven. It was even the same equipment, like the wood-framed flour sifter and the heavy black trays on which croissants were placed. Like the rolls then, I was now allowed to use the bread pusher to get the fresh sesame curls out of the oven. We had no common language that night except mutual goodwill and trusting gestures. And yet I felt connected to the man in the eastern metropolis of a Muslim as currently authoritarian-patriarchal country and his world was so incredibly familiar to me.
As a farewell, I was allowed to take photos.Today, the pictures of a nameless baker, his journeymen and his baked goods are on an equal footing with the pictures of the Europe Bridge, the Galater Tower, the Hagia Sophia in my memories of Istanbul.
© Siegfried Grillmeyer 2023-01-03