Recently my friends and I have created a rule. We are not allowed to have more than 3 cocktails when we’re out. Whoever is driving should have just one, followed by food, water and dessert. The main reason is our age… but not the only one.
Ten years ago when I arrived in Cappadocia, all I knew about drinking was based in Brazilian beer. I’d never had a glass of wine in my life and to be honest, the thought of sour fermented grapes used to give me the nausea. Living in Cappadocia and having access to good wine everywhere changed my perception, of course.
Unfortunately my idea of “good wine” back in the day was literally “wine I can pay for”, AKA cheap wine, but somehow I could have several bottles of it and wake up the next day at 07:00 AM, feeling just fine, go for a walk, work and enjoy my day without a single moment of headache.
Nowadays I need to sleep early the night before, have a great week of dieting and workout, choose a great wine from a great brand, eat before, pair the wine with something appropriate and have a pain killer before bed. Even though it seems like a long process, it is literally a protocol to MAYBE be able to wake up the next day without looking like a disoriented lazy cat who just got back from neutering and still feels the effects of anesthesia.
To my absolute luck, last June I took a decision: I moved from Nevşehir to Ürgüp and yes, for those who are not familiar with life in Cappadocia; this might seem like a silly detail but for a local it means a huge change.
Nevşehir is a grandma. A sweet grandma, the grandma you love and would protect at all costs, but still a grandma. You can’t have that much fun when your grandma is sleeping next door. Since I moved to Türkiye, Nevşehir was always the place I called home — except for the tragic year I lived in Aksaray due to bad romance but that’s another story.
Living in Nevşehir meant a lot of driving, a lot of time spent going up and down the valleys and a lot of thought every time we went out for a bar or a party because everything always happens in Ürgüp.
The best hotels, restaurants, cafes and parties are always in Ürgüp. People love Ürgüp and so did I. In fact I loved it so much that I gave up a perfect furnished apartment at one of the best residential buildings of Nevşehir to live in a “not so prestigious” neighborhood in Ürgüp. But again, it was just 5 minutes away from my social life and the best part of every night: the çorbacı! A personal love affair — with soup of course.
I grew up as any Brazilian does: believing soup is food for the ill and should never be prepared unless somebody in your household is holding hands with death, ready to departure, all prepared to be called by Jesus himself. Yes, I loved soup, but at the end of the night my thoughts on yummy food were always related to hot dogs, pizza or anything you could get from a drive thru or a food truck at 03:00 AM.
The idea of soup being the closing act of the night just sounded weird the first time I heard of it but hey, in my experience in Türkiye I never said no to stuff that sounded weird. Ninety percent of the time it ended up being amazing… the other ten percent was usually made of regrets. In both cases I got great stories to tell which is fair enough. Every main character needs some side quests.
It was the end of an “underground cave afro beats house music” kinda gathering at one of our friend’s restaurant and after the third glass of Gin & Tonic, I desperately needed something to eat but as I always say: my past self is my present’s self worst enemy.
I decided to go on a diet, went grocery shopping the same day, bought everything that’s healthy, a bunch of green juices, tea, detox stuff, non dairy, lactose and gluten free. Thanks to fitness past.
Andy, the current drunk Andy, didn’t even have a little bag of Doritos to cheer her up. Depressing. The only different part of that night is: I now I lived in Ürgüp. This was the first time in ten years, I didn’t have to go back to Nevşehir.
Turkish food culture is underrated. From a foreigner’s point of view there is so much to love about Turkish cuisine but still in many countries, like mine, people have absolutely no idea about the gastronomic treasures of Türkiye.
That night we ordered 2 kelle paça and one mercimek (because I am a soft girl), hot homemade bread and butter, a bunch of mezes and çay. Of course I already knew how perfect a red lentil soup can be with a good squeeze of fresh lemon and a sprinkle of red pepper flakes, but having that experience after drinks was something else.
Very soon I realized the entire party had suddenly just moved from one venue to another. Everybody was at the çorbacı. In fact, they were all regulars and this was routine. Apparently for years I’ve been the only one shoving Doritos down my throat while removing my makeup after a night out and listening to true crime podcasts — a perfectly normal way to relax.
I had only two years of Brazil’s night life before officially moving to Türkiye so we must agree that my repertoire is quite limited however I do remember my usual walk of shame. Please keep in mind that for us, there are two types of walk of shame in Brazil: the “still in the dark” one and the “having breakfast with heels and black eyeliner on”. I rarely embraced the second one. My level of stamina wasn’t that great even when I was 19. Yes, I enjoyed a night out and some drinks but after 02:00 AM it was time to go… but not before the snacks.
In my town we used to get hot dogs from grumpy men, stand out in the cold while waiting in line like second class people, eat at the parking lot, feel bad about ourselves, go home, feel bad about ourselves again, go to sleep and wake up feeling bad about ourselves. Sometimes the hot dogs were too big so I ate the leftovers next morning… to feel bad about myself during my hangover with a side of black coffee and soggy bread.
At the çorba place, reality was much brighter. Even though everybody was drunk, the mood was cozy, nobody was being rude or angry, people were always smiling and enjoying their teas before soup came. The aura was positive, the music was good. In one corner the DJ dressed, at the table behind me a truck driver, right by my side a family who was coming back from the hospital after a long night accompanying a loved one, and we were there in leather jackets and heels. Nothing was wrong and there were no judgements, just hungry people.
Was Çorba the ultimate peace maker?
Before we continue, let’s be clear: no, I am not an alienated Poliana who believes Turks don’t judge anyone. They do. I do. Learned with them. Sometimes they judge a lot, depending on who you are, where you live and what kind of teyze is your neighbor / human security system.
The point is that, even as Brazilian and being aware that the whole world considers us to be friendly and warm people; at that moment I did realize something important about Türkiye and one of the main reasons why I probably stayed this long: there is always a sense of family and home. Something I never experienced anywhere else. Not even in my “friendly and warm” country.
I traveled a lot, stamped my passport many times, met many people, moved from such a distant nation and established myself in Cappadocia. This was home now but most importantly, from a person who is nostalgic by nature; the food here had the power to “hug me” when I needed.
I remember my first time in Cannes, France back in 2015. After three days of fancy eating during business meetings and events; I sneaked out in a sweatshirt and found a dönerci. Yes, a dönerci in Cannes just a few blocks away from Palais de Festival where red carpets are nothing but regular. In between the brasseries, the designer stores and the bistros; there it was: the one and only, USTA! I’ve never been so happy to see a short, bald, hairy man with a massive belly and a pack of Marlboro coming my way. Prince Charming? Screw him. My heart belongs to döner — but I skip the ayran.
In 2015 I wasn’t even able to speak Turkish but with his basic English and my non existent French; me and the usta could talk a bit. I explained I was a Brazilian living in Nevşehir. His wife was from Nevşehir. I ate the tavuk döner like a starving animal and also the kuru fasulye she brought me in a white plate, with bread and turşu. That was the magic. The magic that only happens when you are in Turkey or when you happen to find a Turk. If the spotted Turk is a nene, you are a lucky bastard.
Almost a decade later, here I was sitting at the Çorbacı at 03:00 AM, with the same feeling taking over me again. This place was not part of my “walk of shame – the 30s edition”. There was no walk of shame anymore.
It didn’t matter which party you were at, what you did and how bad you felt. At the end of the night, everyone always went back to the same place where they could get the feeling of being home and being comforted enough before going to their beds and their future headaches. That’s a luxury only Turks know how to provide and enjoy.
As I drove back home, the Sunday morning sun started to appear behind the caves and the balloons were almost taking off. The world was at peace, Ürgüp was asleep, my driver’s license wasn’t confiscated, I had one künefe and one extra soup in a paper bag on the backseat. Life was beautiful and not shameful at all.
