My First Kumru Night in Istanbul

Some days feel like a small gift. This story is one of those days.

A few weeks ago, some close friends from my hometown came to Istanbul. They are not just friends to me — they are like family. My friend came because she had to attend a wedding of one of her friends, and she traveled with her husband and their two children. They arrived in the evening, rented a car, and later they called me: “We’re coming to pick you up!”

I was happy already, because I missed them. Istanbul is beautiful, but it can also feel fast and busy. When people you love visit you, the city becomes softer. We met, hugged, and suddenly it felt like we were back home.

That night, my friend said she had one strong wish: she wanted to eat kumru. I honestly had no idea what kumru was. I only knew the word “kumru” as a bird. In my head, I made a very strange connection: Is this bird meat? Do people really eat it? I know, it sounds crazy now, but I truly thought that might be the case.

I didn’t want to look silly, so I smiled and said, “Okay, let’s find kumru!” But inside, I was confused. Where do you even eat something like that? I had no experience with kumru, and I didn’t know the “right” place. Istanbul has food everywhere, and every food has its “best street” or “best shop.” So I did what any modern human does: I asked my friends in Istanbul who know the city well.

They immediately suggested a place with a few branches. We chose the closest one for us: the Okmeydanı branch, near Mecidiyeköy. It was late, almost around 11 p.m. or even closer to midnight. Istanbul at that hour feels different — the streets are quieter, the lights look warmer, and hunger becomes louder.

We arrived, found a table, and looked at the menu. I was still thinking about the bird. Then the food came… and I just stared at it.

Kumru was not a bird. Not even close.

It was a big sandwich filled with pieces of sausage, salami, and sucuk (Turkish spicy sausage). Inside there were also fries, and on top there was ketchup, mayonnaise, and melted cheese. It looked messy, heavy, and honestly… kind of fun. I remember saying something like, “This is kumru?” The worker smiled like she had heard this question a thousand times. Her face said, “Yes, dear. What did you expect?” And I wanted to laugh, because she was right.

The Late-Night Surprise

Here is the funniest part: I ate the entire kumru.

Yes, the whole thing.

And not only that — I also ate fries and drank cola. I normally don’t drink cola. I almost never do. But everyone was drinking it, and it felt like the perfect match for a late-night sandwich. So I joined the moment. You know those nights when you don’t count calories, you don’t think too much, you just enjoy being together? It was exactly that kind of night.

What surprised me most was my friend — the one who wanted kumru so badly — could not even finish half of it. She was full quickly and started laughing at herself. Meanwhile, I kept eating like I was training for a sandwich marathon. We all looked at each other and laughed. I felt a little shocked by myself too. I didn’t expect to enjoy it so much, but I really did. The bread was soft, the meat was salty, the cheese was warm, and the sauces made it extra rich. It was not “healthy food,” of course, but it was delicious in a very simple, street-food way.

After we finished, we drove back home. The kids fell asleep in the car almost immediately. One minute they were talking, the next minute they were dreaming. Istanbul has that effect on children — or maybe it was just the late hour and the full bellies. My friend’s husband drove, and my friend sat next to him, and we talked quietly so the kids wouldn’t wake up. We talked about life, memories, and small updates — like the kind of conversation that only happens when you feel safe with people.

They dropped me at my home, and I walked inside with a happy heart.

So here is my advice: if you come to Istanbul, and you ever see kumru on a menu — try it at least once. Not because it is fancy, but because it is a fun experience. Sometimes the best memories are not in big plans. Sometimes they are in a late-night sandwich, a shared cola, tired children sleeping in the back seat, and friends who feel like home.