Turkey

Coffee and tea at Sark Kahvesi. Photo by David Lansing.

Not all of us had tea at Sark Kahvesi, the coffee house in Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar. Delia, the other Romanian, ordered Turkish coffee, or kahve. Not because she particularly wanted it (muddy and bitter, it’s definitely an acquired taste) but because Sidar had promised to read her fortune if she did.

Coffee fortune tellers are as common as children in Turkey. Nobody takes it too seriously; it’s just something to do while you’re sitting with friends. But there’s a certain ritualistic way you tell someone’s fortune in Turkey, as Sidar explained to me.

When you’ve finished your coffee, you swirl the sludge around a bit and then quickly turn the cup upside down on the saucer. Wet your finger with your tongue and place it on the bottom of the cup and make a wish. Now wait several minutes for the grounds to cool and settle.

When the cup is cool, the person doing the reading should turn the cup over (it is said to be bad luck to read your own fortune), examining the grounds in the cup. Starting from the cup’s handle, imagine a horizontal line and a vertical line so you have four different imaginary areas in the cup from which to read the signs. Then it’s sort of like seeing specific images in clouds—a dog, a bird, a river, an angel.

Sidar says that there are some general interpretations of the symbols but each fortune teller has his own little variation. For instance, a dog could mean you have good, reliable friends. Or it could mean your partner is faithful. Or that one of your friends needs help. It all depends on who is doing the reading.

A bird might mean that you’re about to get news (good or bad). Or it could be an omen of something that is about to happen to you (good or bad).

Anyway, after the coffee fortune teller finishes reading your signs in the coffee cup, they can, for extra illumination, examine the grounds on the saucer. Once you’ve gleaned all you can, dip your finger in the grounds and suck it to seal your fate!

Here’s a very short video of Sidar telling Delia her fortune.

Gimina Maxim, a Romanian film director, helps herself to my cup of tea at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. Photo by David Lansing.

I should have taken a look at my Lonely Planet guide before letting Sidar drag me and the Romanians to the Grand Bazaar this weekend. If I had, I might have heeded Rule One: “Make sure you’re in a good mood and ready to swap friendly banter with the hundreds of shopkeepers who will attempt to lure you into their establishments. There’s no use getting tetchy with the touts here….”

Well, I wasn’t in a good mood. And I got “tetchy” with the touts. Fortunately, Sidar noticed and quickly suggested we sit down and have some tea. He took me to Sark Kahvesi (Orient Coffee House), a fine little hole-in-the-wall with lots of old black-and-white photos of Turkish pashas on the walls and murals of flying dervishes.

Pashas and dervishes and tea—what could be better?

I’ve become quite addicted to Turkish tea (or cay as it’s generally called). Not because it’s good. It’s not. It’s black and tannic (like a cup of Lipton that has been brewed for way too long) and needs to be cut with a cube of sugar (or two or even three) to make it palatable, but it’s an important part of social etiquette here, and I rather like that. They drink tea all day long here in Istanbul. In fact, many businesses in Istanbul employ a cayci, often a boy, who spends the day delivering tea around the neighborhood. There are dozens of them in the Grand Bazaar. You see them rushing about through the crowds, carrying three or four tulip-shaped glasses of tea on trays or in a wire basket, never spilling a drop. It’s quite something.

Anyway, Sidar and I sat down at a table next to the antique semaver used to make tea, and shortly after we’d ordered, the Romanians, Delia and Gimina showed up.

“How did you know we were here?” I asked Gimina.

She shrugged. “Where else would you be?” And with that, she helped herself to my cup of cay.

You can get anything you want at Istanbul's Grand Bazaar. Photo by David Lansing.

Sidar took the Romanians and me to the Grand Bazaar this weekend. Maybe it was because it was hot or I just didn’t like being jostled by the crowds, but for whatever reason, I just wasn’t in to it. The Romanians wanted to look for cheap bracelets and evil eyes. I just wanted to sit down with a cup of cay and mindlessly watch the world go by.

We entered through the Carsikapi Gate and walked past dozens of gold and silver jewelry stores. There were so many of them, all selling basically the same stuff. I asked Sidar how you would pick out a vendor if you wanted to buy, for instance, a gold bracelet. He shrugged. “It’s hard,” he admitted. “If you live here, maybe you know the family that owns one of the shops or maybe you’ve just always gone to the same place and have a relationship with the owner. But if you are just a tourist, you just have to get lucky.”

All the touts begging me to “Come in, please…have a look” were giving me a headache. There were shops selling silk slippers and leather jackets, hand-painted ceramic plates and copper pots, purses, wallets, belts, luggage, leather jackets, amber prayer beads, icons of the Virgin Mary, mother-of-pearl hairbrushes, old coins, soccer jerseys, red fezes, turbans, kilim bags, purple chandeliers, wool sweaters, socks, and lots and lots of “genuine fake items,” from handbag knock-offs to fake silk pashminas. My favorite: the store selling “one size fits all” belly-dancing outfits.

By now Sidar and I had lost the Romanians in some jewelry store. “So, what do you think?” Sidar asked me.

“I think I need some tea.”

“Follow me, please. I know a place.”

Sidar always knows a place. Thank god.