In Istanbul, eating isn’t just about filling your stomach-it’s a rhythm, a ritual, a conversation between generations. The city’s streets hum with the sizzle of kebabs, the steam rising from simits, the clink of tea glasses at midnight. With over 10,000 restaurants scattered across its 1,500-square-kilometer sprawl, finding the ones that truly matter isn’t about Michelin stars or Instagram filters. It’s about where the locals line up at 8 p.m., where the fish still smells like the Bosphorus, and where the baklava is still made by hand before sunrise.
Where the Bosphorus Meets the Plate
Start with Çiya Sofrası in Kadıköy. This isn’t just another restaurant-it’s a living archive of Anatolian flavors. While most Istanbul diners know kebabs from the north, Çiya serves dishes you won’t find in even the fanciest hotels: Urfa kebab with pomegranate molasses, Erzurum-style lamb stew with dried apricots, and Adana-style meatballs wrapped in eggplant. The owner, İsmail Bey, travels twice a year to villages in eastern Turkey to collect recipes from grandmothers. His menu changes weekly, and if you ask for the ‘secret list,’ he’ll bring out a handwritten note with dishes not on the board. Locals come here after work, not for the ambiance, but because they know the food tastes like home their grandparents used to make.
Across the water in Beşiktaş, Asmalı Mescit sits quietly under a plane tree, its wooden shutters open to the breeze. It’s been around since 1974, and the menu hasn’t changed much-not because they’re stuck in the past, but because they got it right. Their İskender kebab is the benchmark: thin slices of lamb draped over toasted bread, smothered in tomato sauce and melted butter, then served with a side of creamy yogurt. The secret? The lamb is ground fresh daily, and the tomato sauce simmers for 12 hours with a single clove of garlic and a pinch of sumac. You’ll see bankers, students, and fishermen all sitting elbow-to-elbow, eating with their hands, no forks needed.
Seafood That Doesn’t Cost a Fortune
For seafood in Istanbul, skip the tourist traps along the Bosphorus cruise route. Head instead to Balıkçı Sabahattin in Ortaköy. This family-run spot has been serving fish since 1952, and the menu is simple: grilled sea bass, mackerel, and squid, all caught that morning from the Black Sea. The trick? Order the ‘fisherman’s basket’-a mix of three grilled fish, a side of stuffed mussels, and a bowl of bulgur pilaf. It costs under 400 TL for two, and the fish is so fresh you can taste the saltwater. The owner, Sabahattin’s grandson, still checks the boats himself at 5 a.m. and picks only the ones with scales still gleaming.
On the Asian side, Çırağan Fish Restaurant in Bebek offers a different kind of experience. It’s set inside a restored Ottoman palace with views of the Bosphorus Bridge. The menu leans upscale-lobster thermidor, turbot with truffle butter-but the real draw is the daily catch board. Ask for the ‘catch of the day’ and they’ll bring you a whole fish, still glistening, to choose from. You pick it, they grill it, and you eat it with a squeeze of lemon and a glass of Raki. It’s not cheap, but it’s the closest you’ll get to dining like a 19th-century Ottoman noble without the velvet curtains.
Street Food That Belongs to Istanbul
Don’t leave Istanbul without eating from a cart. The city’s best street food isn’t in the markets-it’s on the sidewalks. At the corner of İstiklal and Galatasaray, İsmail Usta’s Simit has been selling sesame-crusted bread since 1987. His simits are baked fresh every hour, and he gives you a free slice of white cheese if you ask nicely. In Kadıköy, İnci Çiğ Köfte serves raw meatballs made from finely minced beef, bulgur, and red pepper paste. It’s not for everyone, but locals swear it’s the only way to start a Friday night. Eat it wrapped in lettuce with a dash of pomegranate molasses and a cold Efes beer.
At night, head to the Arnavutköy Fish Market after 10 p.m. The stalls shut by 9, but the food trucks stay open. One vendor, known only as ‘Küçük Mehmet,’ sells grilled sardines on skewers with a side of pickled turnips. He doesn’t have a name on his cart, just a red umbrella and a stack of newspapers for napkins. The fish is small, oily, and perfect. You’ll find students, night-shift workers, and even cops eating here-no plates, no forks, just paper and fingers.
Desserts That Tell a Story
For dessert, skip the chains. In Sultanahmet, Arzu Çikolata makes chocolate baklava with crushed hazelnuts and rosewater syrup. It’s not traditional, but it’s become a local favorite. The owner, Arzu, studied pastry in Paris but came back to Istanbul to use Turkish pistachios from Gaziantep. Her baklava is layered thin, crisp, and not cloyingly sweet. Order the ‘Sultan’s Delight’-a small square with a single pistachio on top-and eat it with a cup of Turkish coffee that’s been brewed with cardamom.
On the other side of the city, in Eyüp, Halil Usta’s Lokma has been frying dough balls since 1947. These aren’t the sticky, syrup-soaked ones you find in tourist areas. His lokma are light, airy, and dusted with cinnamon sugar. He makes them fresh every 20 minutes, and you can watch him through the kitchen window. Locals come here after Friday prayers. He doesn’t take cards. Cash only. And he’ll give you an extra three if you say ‘Allah razı olsun.’
Where to Eat When You Don’t Know What to Order
If you’re lost, go to İmam Çağdaş in Beşiktaş. It’s a small, unmarked place with a sign that just says ‘Ekmek ve Et.’ No menu. No English. Just a man in an apron standing behind a counter with trays of meat, bread, and pickles. Point to what looks good. He’ll give you a sandwich with grilled lamb, a slice of tomato, a spoon of spicy red pepper paste, and a warm flatbread. It costs 120 TL. You’ll eat it standing up. And you’ll come back tomorrow.
The truth is, Istanbul’s best meals aren’t in the guidebooks. They’re in the alleys behind the mosques, in the kitchens where the mothers work before dawn, and in the carts that appear at sunset. You don’t need a reservation. You just need to show up hungry, ask a local where they eat, and follow the smell.
8 Comments
Just got back from Istanbul last month and Çiya Sofrası blew my mind. I asked for the secret list and got this handwritten note with like seven dishes I’d never heard of-some from villages that don’t even have Google Maps pins. The Urfa kebab with pomegranate molasses? Life-changing. I cried a little eating it. No joke.
Also, İsmail Usta’s simit? I bought ten and froze them. They still taste like Istanbul in my toaster.
Don’t sleep on the lokma in Eyüp. That man knows the soul of dough.
Oh please. You call that authentic? I’ve eaten at Çiya Sofrası and it’s just… performative nostalgia. The owner’s ‘village trips’? Probably sponsored by some Turkish culinary NGO. And don’t get me started on that ‘fisherman’s basket’-it’s a tourist trap dressed in rustic chic. Real locals? They eat at the back alley cart where the guy doesn’t speak English and the napkins are newspaper. That’s authenticity. Everything else is just Instagram bait with extra olive oil.
Also, baklava with chocolate? Please. That’s not dessert. That’s a crime against pastry.
Correction: The article says ‘İskender kebab’ is served with ‘melted butter’-but technically it’s clarified butter, or ‘sade yağ,’ not just ‘melted butter.’ That’s a culinary inaccuracy.
Also, ‘Raki’ is spelled with a capital R when referring to the drink, but the article lowercase it. And ‘Efes beer’-that’s a brand, so it should be italicized or capitalized properly. And ‘Allah razı olsun’? That’s Turkish, not Arabic. Why are you mixing languages without context?
And who gave you permission to describe lokma as ‘airy’? That’s not a food term. It’s a weather descriptor. Amateur.
Also, the word ‘simit’ has no plural form in Turkish, but the article uses ‘simit’ as if it’s countable. This is why foreigners ruin food writing.
Let’s deconstruct this. The entire premise is a romanticized neoliberal fetishization of ‘authenticity’ as a marketable aesthetic. The article positions the ‘local’ as a commodity to be consumed, while simultaneously erasing the socioeconomic realities of those who prepare the food-like İsmail Bey, who’s likely underpaid and overworked, yet framed as a ‘living archive’ for tourist consumption.
Also, the ‘secret list’? That’s a performative exclusivity tactic. It’s not a cultural artifact-it’s a psychological hook to drive repeat visits. The same logic applies to ‘Küçük Mehmet’-his anonymity is curated. He’s not a ghost; he’s a brand. The red umbrella? That’s a trademark. The newspaper napkins? A prop.
This isn’t gastronomy. It’s experiential capitalism with extra garlic.
You know… I think about this a lot. Like, not just the food, but the rhythm. The way the city doesn’t just serve meals-it holds space for them. Like, at 3 a.m., when the fishmonger’s still cleaning scales and the guy at the simit cart is dusting flour on his apron like it’s sacred, and someone’s whispering ‘Allah razı olsun’ to a man who’s been frying dough since before they were born… it’s not about taste, it’s about time.
And I keep thinking-how many places still do this? Where the food isn’t a product but a memory that’s been passed down, not in a cookbook, but in the way your hands know how to fold the dough without thinking?
I went to Istanbul once. Ate at İmam Çağdaş. Didn’t know what I was pointing at. Got a sandwich with meat, bread, pickles, and a whole lot of silence. I didn’t speak Turkish. He didn’t speak English. We didn’t need to. I ate it standing up. And for the first time in years, I didn’t check my phone.
That’s the real luxury. Not the truffle butter. Not the baklava. Just… being there. With your stomach full, and your soul quiet.
And yeah, I cried. I don’t care who knows it.
Wow. So many words for ‘go eat some fish.’
Also, ‘dining like a 19th-century Ottoman noble’? Bro, they didn’t have forks. They ate with their hands. You’re not a noble, you’re just hungry with a credit card.
Actually, the article misrepresents the historical context of Asmalı Mescit. It claims the menu hasn’t changed since 1974 because they ‘got it right’-but the real reason is economic stagnation and lack of regulatory pressure on small food establishments in post-1980 Turkey. The persistence of traditional methods isn’t a virtue-it’s a symptom of underinvestment in culinary innovation.
Furthermore, the reference to ‘fish still smells like the Bosphorus’ is misleading. The Bosphorus has been polluted since the 1990s. Freshness is not a function of proximity to water-it’s a function of supply chain integrity, which is rarely transparent in informal markets.
And ‘Küçük Mehmet’? No one is ‘known only as’ that. That’s a romanticized pseudonym created by travel bloggers to avoid naming real individuals who may not consent to being profiled.
Also, ‘Sultan’s Delight’? There is no such thing in Ottoman culinary records. That’s a modern marketing invention. Please stop fabricating heritage.
First of all, ‘İsmail Bey’? That’s not how you address someone in Turkish. It’s ‘İsmail Ağa’ if you’re being respectful, or just ‘İsmail’ if you’re familiar. ‘Bey’ is outdated and condescending.
Also, ‘Raki’ is not ‘a glass of Raki’-it’s ‘a glass of rakı’-lowercase, because it’s not a proper noun. And ‘pomegranate molasses’? That’s not even the right term. It’s ‘nar ekşisi’-don’t Anglicize everything.
And ‘Allah razı olsun’? You can’t just throw Turkish phrases in like confetti without context. That’s cultural appropriation with a side of baklava.
Also, ‘İnci Çiğ Köfte’? Raw meat? That’s a health violation waiting to happen. Who gave you permission to glorify foodborne illness? This article is irresponsible.
And ‘Sultanahmet’? That’s not a place to get chocolate baklava. That’s a tourist zone. Real people eat baklava in Gaziantep. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
Fix your grammar. Fix your culture. Fix your life.