Days of Menemens Past
Days of Menemens Past
Menemen in Istanbul
There is a stool. Less than a meter off the ground, its four uneven legs do not help your hangover.
There is a tupperware bin full of french bread loaves. Wonderbread, Inc. would be in awe of their uniformity. This will be your appetizer, side dish, and dessert.
And then, there is menemen. A simple skillet with fried tomatoes, a lone thin pepper, and runny eggs. A combo that brings balance to your head, stomach, that rickety stool, and the sun peeking over Asia.
The Anatolian sun hasn’t changed, but the Istanbul it looks out on has. That’s what cities do, and you realize this, but the changes take you by surprise when you only make it out there every year or two. Your own little Istanbul has been taken over or renovated by the folks who were paying more attention and who loved the city a little more than you.
The eggs used to be a sop to the sugary Efes you spent 20 lira lining your stomach with the night before, but now the pepper seems spicy enough on its own to wake you up. The luscious tomatoes may have once felt like a kiss, but now they’re probably just unripe fruit. It’s no longer the noon call to prayer that interrupts your breakfast.
It will be another 7 months before I can get back to my favorite menemenci on the shore road where I can get the good stuff for four lira. But I smuggled the right kind of pepper seeds into the states in order to make my own menemen in California. The sun in Turkey has already set by the time I set down this morning to eat eggs, but I still instinctually put my elbows on the table to stabilize my chair. I’m looking forward to squinting into the sun to see you there this summer, dunking bread into eggs and laughing conspiratorially about the menemens past.