Ode to the oltu

I am compelled to write this story. Apparently it is a good one. In Ankara, there is an old fort or citadel a little ways off the city center. As you get up to it and walk around - people still live there, sort of like the Jaisalmer fort - it is a sea of quiet; of shy childlren evincing incredulous smiles from parents and neighbors by virtue of some no-doubt pedestrian (to us observers) act; of families, nay hordes, of multi-generational women selling trinkets as you approach the fort; of tiny little convenience stores run out the front of someone's home, you can peek in through the doors on the side and get a glimpse of the courtyard. Life was approaching the idyllic.

Anyway walking around the ramparts was a lark, and there were some great views of the city. A bunch of kids was playing around; one got picked on and started crying (separately, at Beyazit mosque I think, I saw a gang of boys bully and browbeat a little girl to tears and her came and scolded her); a frantic woman rushed from somewhere as her kid (presumably) was caught climbing up some stairs and he started crying.

Two schoolgirls came to enjoy the sunny morning. They pulled up their socks, perhaps noticing me. I have that effect on women. I should have been a highschool headmaster: if I couldn't get them to pull up their socks metaphorically, at least I'd have created lots of character (the same way bankers create value). A solitary man who looked like he had been there for a while asked me for the time (in Turkish of course). I wonder what rendezvous he had set up of all the places at this one. Hopefully not suicide.

Anyway after an amble around, I left and went left (no reason). I came upon a kebap shop. Not a customer, which is usually a bad sign. Nevertheless, I was cheerfully greeted and seated. Then a chef-looking man came and started on the spit, the meat being grilled horizontally - the oltu. Yes, I know, the trivial things of life that I find exciting.

But wait, that is not the full story. As I await, in walk a couple of ladies and sit on the table to my right. Chef serves me up a skewer, and then another, meanwhile slipping in theirs as well. Then catching me mid-bite, he walks over to me and grabs a piece of my bread in his bare hands. As I continue staring, he goes to his grill, scoops up all the crispy and greasy bits and brings it back with a triumphant smile. The establishment's coup de grace, no doubt. (Btw, can someone explain coup de grace, d'etat and all these annoying latin bits?). In the meantime, as we hit noon, customers - several regulars no doubt - started pouring in.

Best meal I'd had in Turkey.