Murat – Clara Hsu

Still, I’m A Donkey

A billboard in Sultanahmet: I carrying books since years, but could not stop to be a donkey.

There are just too much out there. As I peck away I’m in awe of how little I know. And yes, the donkey is a good reminder of my ignorance.

My outlook is to take in something here and there and never mind if the learning is incoherent. Experiencing a little is better than not experiencing at all. A patchwork quilt is afterall, a quilt, no matter how fractured it seems.

The business people in Sultanahmet speak multiple languages, enough to lure a customer from any part of the world into their establishment.

“It is how I learn about life, and so will my children.” My ever philosophical friend Murat said to me. His son, Cemal, spoke no English when he started working at Murat’s shop. For four years he ran up and down the cobblestone street chasing cats, pouring tea, watching and listening to his father interacting with customers. This time when I see him, Cemal is speaking adequet English from continuous tourist exposure.

“The world comes through my street. I don’t have to go anywhere.” Murat sprints from where we are sitting back to the shop when he notices some customers approaching.

I turn back to another page of my book.

Photo by Joe Pyrek

The Mole

Sitting next to the wall of Topkapi Palace, my friend Murat served Turkish coffee after a delicious meal of Adana kebap. I observed the crumbling wood pile in front of me and remembered the single inhabit in that house.´

‘What happened to the man who used to live here?’ I asked Murat.

‘He is living inside the palace now.’

‘How?’

‘Well, this structure was falling apart. He found a hole in the palace wall that was big enough for him and moved there. I give him food. We all give him things. He is fine there. Doesn’t need much.’

‘What about the authority? The police? ‘

‘He is not normal, you see, but he is not hurting anyone. I had wanted to help him get money from the government but he didn’t want it. He saves the government lots of money. No one minds him staying in the hole.’

That was the story. I patted one of the cats sitting next to me—a baby, one and a half months old.

‘The other day I put seven cats in my car and drove them to the fish market.’ Said Murat. ‘They get run over by cars around here. But at the fish market they have food and I don’t have to worry about them.’

Murat puffed his cigarette heavily. They cannot smoke inside their businesses anymore. It’s against the law.

How to Make Menemen

Feasting in Murat's dress shop with Menemen in the foreground

It’s tomato season. The farmers market down at Alemany has stall after stall of ravishing beauties. They have been ripened in the sun (not machine) and their sweetness naturally flavor whatever dish that I cook.

This is the time for Menemen, the Turkish scrambled eggs. When I was in Istanbul I befriended two shop keepers—Murat and Mehmet— and hung out with them whenever I could. We sat on the sidewalk of the narrow street in front of their shops and drank Turkish tea with lots of sugar. They boiled water using a propane stove. Upon hearing that I like Menemen, Murat brought his frying pan out and Mehmet made it for me.

The trick, is ripe tomatoes. The secret ingredient is paprika. Combine with a little cumin, salt and pepper, cook the chopped tomatoes down to a medium thick sauce and pour beaten eggs over it. Since then, scrambled egg has a new meaning in my life and I hope it will to yours too.