Meze First, Memories Always: My Istanbul Eating-Out Ritual

There’s something about eating out that instantly flips a switch in my brain—from “life is complicated” to “life is delicious.” I love the whole ritual, but especially the moment before the main dish arrives: the table starts filling up with meze, little plates appear like a friendly parade, and suddenly the night has a heartbeat. This time, we went to a kebab spot—more of a dürümcü vibe—and honestly, their starters were the real headline. Everything felt simple, warm, and perfectly made for long conversations. And I just want to say: thank you, Eating Out community, for giving me a space to share one of my favorite joys in life.

The Meze Symphony (and That “Unhealthy” Fries Love)

Let’s talk about the opening act: the meze. There were those bright, tomato-based sauces with peppers on top—slightly spicy, slightly smoky, and impossible to ignore. You know the type: bold color, bold flavor, and it makes you want to grab bread immediately even if you promised yourself you wouldn’t. There were also creamy sides that felt cooling and comforting, pickles that snapped with every bite, and little bowls of peppers that added just the right sharp kick.

But the real guilty pleasure—my happily accepted weakness—was the fries.

Yes, fries are “unhealthy.” Yes, I know. But these fries were that kind: thin, crisp, perfectly salted, and somehow still soft inside. And the best part wasn’t even the fries alone—it was the dipping. I love sauces. I love the moment you dip a fry, lift it up, and it’s glistening with flavor like it’s wearing a fancy coat. Dipping and eating becomes this tiny celebration you repeat again and again, and suddenly you’re not counting anything—calories, time, worries—just enjoying the taste.

That’s the thing about good meze: it isn’t just food. It’s pacing. It gives the table a rhythm. Bite, sip, laugh, story, another bite. It creates space for connection.

Long Conversations, Sweet Endings, and Living the Moment

The best meals aren’t only about what’s on the plate—they’re about who’s around the table. With the right friends, even two hours can feel like ten minutes. We’ve had those kinds of sits—sometimes not exactly two full hours, but long enough that the outside world starts to feel far away. The kind of night where you talk about everything and nothing: life updates, old memories, random observations, future dreams, tiny jokes that only your group would ever find funny.

It reminded me of the old days when I was working—when lunch breaks sometimes turned into these long, almost luxurious pauses. We’d sit, talk, eat slowly, and somehow still make it work because we never let our responsibilities fall apart. We always compensated afterward, focused again, and handled our jobs properly. Looking back, those moments feel like proof that balance is possible—even in a city that runs fast.

And then came dessert, which felt like a soft landing after all that savory joy. Turkish tea on the table, warm amber in those classic glasses, and sweet bites that made everyone quieter for a second (the highest compliment a dessert can get). There’s something deeply comforting about ending a meal with tea—like the night is being wrapped up gently rather than abruptly. Sweet, warm, calm.

Now, here’s the honest part: I haven’t been the most disciplined investor. I’ve worked for years—really, I’ve always been working—and yet I didn’t build the kind of “perfect plan” people love to talk about. Part of it is my own habit, yes, but part of it is also the reality of living in Istanbul. It’s a beautiful city, but it has become incredibly expensive—especially over the last three or four years. Salaries don’t stretch the way they used to, and saving in a meaningful way can feel like trying to carry water in your hands.

And still… I don’t want to make my pleasures feel like a sin.

Right now, I’m not working, so I have to be careful. I’m trying to be more frugal, more thoughtful, and definitely not excessive. But when I get the chance—when the timing is right, and the friends are there—I don’t want to deny myself these moments. Because I know something very clearly: you don’t get the same moment twice. The same table, the same laughter, the same mood, the same version of you—never repeats exactly.

For me, living in the moment sometimes looks exactly like this: a table full of meze, fries dipped in sauce, a main dish worth waiting for, and tea at the end—shared with people who make time feel kinder. That’s why I’m here, and that’s why I love this community.