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Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

24 hours ago

DAY 6: The hangover that should have ended my career (but somehow didn’t)

There is a particular flavour of regret reserved for the morning after a night involving far too much Rakı. It’s not just a headache—it’s a full-body, existential audit. Your mouth tastes like you’ve been licking aniseed-scented regret off a nightclub floor, your brain feels like it’s been gently sautéed, and your memory… well, your memory becomes less a reliable narrator and more a crime scene with missing evidence.

Somewhere in that fog—somewhere between the fifth drink and what I can only assume was a deeply confident but entirely undeserved sense of charm—I answered a phone call. Not just any phone call. A job interview call.

Now, I don’t remember the details. I remember the ringing. I remember thinking, you are in absolutely no state to speak to another human being, let alone one assessing your professional worth. And then, like a complete idiot with Wi-Fi access and misplaced confidence, I answered it anyway.

What followed, I can only describe as a masterclass in accidental performance. Because this morning—when I woke up feeling like I’d been embalmed rather than rested—I discovered a calendar invite sitting politely in my inbox. Which means that either I managed to string together coherent, intelligent sentences while chemically compromised… or they’re running a very different kind of recruitment process than I’m used to.

Either way, I’m through to the next round. God help them.

We slept in, which is putting it mildly. This wasn’t a gentle drift into late morning—this was a full-scale collapse. The kind where your body simply refuses to participate in the day until it’s negotiated a peace treaty with your poor life choices. By the time we surfaced, Dalyan had already been up for hours. Bread had been baked, coffee had been poured, cats had completed their morning patrols, and we were still horizontal, blinking at the ceiling like two people who had absolutely lost control of their narrative.

The day unfolded slowly, as all proper hangover days should. We took refuge by the pool with books we only half absorbed, drifting in and out of sleep in that hazy, slightly surreal state where you’re never entirely sure if you’re awake or just having a very boring dream. Every now and then one of us would sigh heavily, shift position, and re-evaluate life decisions without actually learning from them.

Eventually, hunger forced us into motion.

Now, I have always maintained a firm, almost moral stance on one thing: I did not travel thousands of miles to eat a full English breakfast in Turkey. It’s culinary cowardice. It’s what happens when people are too afraid to engage with the world beyond baked beans and familiarity. I have judged those restaurants. I have judged the people in them. I have, if I’m honest, judged quite harshly.

And yet, there we were. Hungover. Tired. Unwilling to walk more than a few metres without filing a formal complaint.

We stopped at the first place we saw: WHY NOT RESTUARANT.

The name alone should have been a warning. It’s not exactly a bold culinary statement—it’s more of a shrug. A kind of edible indifference. And out front, like a betrayal in laminated form, the words Full English Breakfast stared back at me.

Under normal circumstances, I would have walked straight past. Possibly muttering something self-righteous under my breath. But hunger, especially the kind brought on by poor alcohol management, has a way of dismantling your principles piece by piece.

So we sat down.

And then—because the universe enjoys humbling people—we were served one of the better meals we’ve had here.

The calamari arrived first, golden and crisp, not a trace of that rubbery disappointment that so often accompanies it. But it was the garlic sauce that stole the show. This wasn’t a gentle, polite hint of garlic. This was aggressive. Weaponised. The kind of sauce that announces your presence in a room before you even enter it. I’m fairly certain I’ve eliminated the possibility of romance with a sexy vampire within a two-mile radius, but it was worth it.

Andy ordered the Adana kebabı, and watching him eat it was like witnessing a man reassess his entire belief system. Bite after bite, a slow nod of approval forming, until eventually he declared it the best he’d had so far in Dalyan. This is not a statement he makes lightly. This is a man who has approached kebabs on this trip with the seriousness of a critic and the appetite of a small army.

Half the price of the more “refined” places. Twice the satisfaction.

And just like that, my smug little rule about avoiding full-English-breakfast establishments quietly died at the table. Maybe…

The rest of the afternoon drifted by in that gentle, slightly surreal haze that only a hangover can produce. It was during this time—somewhere between sips of water and silent reflection—that I noticed something deeply peculiar about Dalyan’s restaurant culture.

They are either cat restaurants… or dog restaurants.

There is no overlap. No coexistence. No neutral territory.

Cats stretch out across chairs and tabletops like they own the establishment—which, in fairness, they probably do. Dogs, on the other hand, sit patiently beside their humans, occasionally glancing around as if quietly judging the entire operation. It feels less like a coincidence and more like a deeply entrenched, unspoken divide. A kind of furry Cold War playing out across dining spaces.

By evening, we had regained enough composure to venture out properly, and dinner took us to Limon Garden Restaurant The LEMON BBQ Garden Restaurant—a place that leans unapologetically into atmosphere. Soft lighting, a garden setting, the kind of environment that encourages you to sit up straighter and pretend you’ve had a far more productive day than you actually have.

I ordered the Beyti kebabı—lamb, grilled and wrapped in lavash, then drenched in tomato sauce and yogurt. It’s the kind of dish that feels indulgent without being showy. Rich, comforting, deeply satisfying.

Andy, meanwhile, went for the Çökertme kebabı, which arrived looking like something between a masterpiece and an act of excess. Marinated strips of meat layered over crisp matchstick potatoes, all tied together with garlic yogurt and tomato sauce. It was, quite frankly, ridiculous. In the best possible way.

We ate slowly, quietly, the kind of content silence that comes from knowing you’ve made a very good decision.

And for the first time since arriving in Dalyan, there was no Rakı in sight.

Instead, I sat there with an iced tea and sprite, sipping it like someone who has seen things—terrible, boozy things—and has decided, at least for one evening, to make better choices.

An early night followed. No drama. No debauchery. Just the quiet, fragile dignity of two people attempting to recover from themselves.

Because tomorrow, apparently, I have to be employable. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

2 days ago

DAY 5: THE DAY I ATE LIKE A SULTAN AND DRANK LIKE HIS BAD DECISIONS

Let me start with an apology. Not a polite, British “sorry”—one of those real apologies where you acknowledge you’ve made choices, and those choices are now writing the blog for you.

I am, at present, pickled.

Not gently infused. Not delicately marinated. I am a full-blown raki preservation project. Somewhere between glass seven and “who’s counting anyway,” I crossed the invisible line between charming holiday buzz and questionable authorial integrity.

And yet—what a day.

Let’s start with… there are breakfasts… and then there are events.
This was not breakfast. This was a full-scale edible uprising.

Now, I had been told about this place in the way people talk about secret fishing spots or underground poker games—low voice, slight lean-in, eyes scanning the room like someone from Interpol might be listening.

“Only locals go there,” she said.

Which, of course, guaranteed I would immediately go there and then loudly tell the entire internet.

Getting there, however, requires commitment. And possibly a mild disregard for your own wellbeing.

You walk. Thirty minutes out of town. Along the river towards the lake. Past the point where shops disappear and the only witnesses to your poor life choices are ducks and the occasional suspicious goat. Then a boardwalk. Then—just when you’re questioning everything—a ferry appears.

Not the slightly haunted, creaky contraption behind the hotel that looks like it was assembled during a power cut. No. A proper ferry. One with dignity. One that suggests survival is likely.

You pay your 25 TL. You cross. You walk another ten minutes. You hit a T-junction. You turn right. You wonder if you’ve made a terrible mistake.

And then—

maviyasemindalyan (Mavi Yasemin)

And suddenly, everything makes sense.

We ordered “Turkish breakfast.”

What followed was not service. It was an ambush.

The table—built for four normal humans—was overwhelmed within minutes. Completely buried under food like it had been caught in a delicious landslide.

Five types of cheese. Not slices. Not polite little cubes. Full, unapologetic slabs of dairy excellence.

A vegetable omelette that tasted like it had been cooked by someone’s grandmother who doesn’t believe in shortcuts or forgiveness.

Eggs poached in butter. Not “a bit of butter.” No. These eggs were living their best lives in butter. Floating. Thriving. Possibly planning a future together.

Eggplant sautéed down into something silky and rich, topped with tomatoes and yoghurt like it had just come back from a spa retreat.

Tomatoes and cucumbers so fresh they made you question every sad, watery version you’ve ever eaten back home.

Bowls of greens. Olives in both colours—and I’m convinced a third, secret variety only available to people who pass some kind of initiation.

Then the jams.

Eight of them.

Eight.

All homemade. All better than the last. Honey. Freshly churned butter. Bread that was still warm enough to make you emotional.

And then—because apparently the goal was to absolutely break me—pancakes.

American-style fluffy stacks…
AND Turkish gözleme stuffed with spinach, onion, and cheese.

At this point, I was already negotiating with my waistband.

And then they brought fries.

Now listen carefully, because this is where your life changes:

Fries.
Dipped.
Into egg yolks poached in butter.

If you have not done this, you have not lived. You’ve been loitering in existence, waiting for purpose.

All of this—for 1250 TL. About £20.

Frankly, I feel like I owe them money. Or my firstborn

Naturally, after consuming enough food to incapacitate a small village, we decided the only logical next step was a pub crawl.

Because growth. Personal growth.

First stop:

@tapas bar Dalyan

Second-best piña colada in town. And I mean that as a compliment. It’s like being the second-fastest runner in the Olympics—you’re still exceptional, just slightly overshadowed by something unfairly good (it’s called a marshmallow btw).

Enter Fiona Cramer

Fiona is fabulous. Effortlessly so. The kind of woman who radiates good energy and probably has better stories than you, me, and everyone else in the bar combined.

Hi Fiona. You’re brilliant. Never change.

Let’s talk cash.

If you are withdrawing money anywhere other than the PTT Bank, you are essentially volunteering to be mugged by a machine with a smile.

Go to PTT.
Get your cash.
Keep your money.
Retain a shred of dignity.

Then we landed at:

Sofra Bar

The undisputed, undefeated champion of piña coladas.

There we heard about Tina from Sheffield—absolute legend—who had already introduced my blog to the staff and expats. Which means I can never return quietly again. 😉

A couple of piña coladas turned into a couple of rakis.
Which turned into… well… here we are.

At some point, the line between “afternoon drinks” and “this is now your personality” completely vanished…

We stumbled back to:

Dalyan Live Spa Hotel

Now, hotel fried chicken is usually a last resort. A beige, regrettable decision made in poor lighting.

Not here.

This was crispy, juicy, perfectly seasoned, borderline inappropriate fried chicken. The kind that only reveals its full potential when you’re several drinks deep and emotionally compromised.

At that moment, it wasn’t just food.
It was salvation.

Day 5 was a masterclass in excess, discovery, and the dangerous illusion that you can “handle one more.”

Key takeaways:
• Turkish breakfast is not a meal. It’s a commitment. A lifestyle. Possibly a religion.
• Locals know exactly what they’re doing—and they’re right to keep it quiet.
• Raki will betray you. Slowly. Charmingly. Inevitably.
• And somewhere between butter-poached eggs and late-night fried chicken, you stop being a visitor and start becoming part of the madness.

Tomorrow, I recover.

Or at the very least… I attempt to locate my soul. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

3 days ago

Day 4 in Dalyan didn’t come in hot. No chaos. No grand plans. No heroic cultural ambitions. Just heat, a pool, and the slow, creeping realisation that doing absolutely nothing might be the most productive thing I’ve done all year.

We parked ourselves by the pool like two overfed cats and committed to the art of horizontal living. Books in hand, cocktails within arm’s reach, and not a single ounce of guilt—because frankly, we’ve earned this level of laziness.

I started with Morning Waits—a book that doesn’t so much tell a story as it crawls into your brain, rearranges the furniture, and then leaves the lights flickering. It’s a full-blown psychological ambush. One minute you’re reading about cognitive dissonance, the next you’re questioning your own existence, your choices, and whether you actually like olives or have just been pretending for years.

And then—because the universe has a sense of humour—a woman strolls past.

Leather trousers. Boots. Black turtleneck. Full-length coat brushing the ground like she’s about to interrogate a suspect in a Scandi noir thriller.

It’s 25 degrees. The sun is blasting. I’m lying there in a bikini, slowly melting into a lounger like a forgotten ice lolly.

At that exact moment, the book and reality collided in a perfect, surreal handshake of “what the fuck is happening?” Cognitive dissonance, live and in the flesh.

That’s when I bailed.

Switched immediately to John Grisham’s The Widow. Something grounded. Something that doesn’t try to psychologically waterboard you before lunch.

Speaking of lunch—because of course everything revolves around food—we wandered over to Mahir kebabs place. No fuss. No pretension. Just the kind of place that knows exactly what it is and doesn’t feel the need to Instagram it.

I went for a simple chicken kebab wrap. And when I say simple, I mean deceptively simple—the kind of thing that reminds you that good ingredients, treated properly, will always beat overcomplicated nonsense. Juicy, well-seasoned, wrapped tight like it had purpose in life. Half of it is currently sitting in the fridge, patiently waiting for its moment of glory at midnight.

Andy, on the other hand, ordered an Iskender kebab.

And this—this—was not a meal. This was an event.

Chicken, drenched in a spicy tomato sauce, tangled up with yoghurt, soaking into fries like it had absolutely no respect for structural integrity. It was rich, indulgent, and borderline offensive in how good it was. Imagine Hungarian chicken paprikash… then give it steroids, a tan, and a questionable moral compass.

I had immediate, aggressive food envy.

Back to the pool. Back to the loungers. Back to doing absolutely nothing, professionally.

Siesta hit like a freight train, softened only by the steady arrival of piña coladas. At this point, I’m not drinking them—I’m studying them. There’s a science here. A balance. I think of the one from Sofra Bar…a kind of tropical alchemy that Sofra seems to have mastered while the rest of us are still fumbling with sad, watery imitations.

I need that recipe. Not want—need. Please!!!

Dinner plans came courtesy of the lovely, slightly wine-fuelled recommendation from yesterday’s conversation—a woman navigating grief with more grace than most people manage happiness. She told us to go to Temsi Rest. So we went.

And thank God we did.

The meze arrived like a greatest hits album: carrot salad, red cabbage, spicy pepper salsa, and garlic butter that should probably be regulated by law. All of it mopped up with hot, toasted bread that didn’t stand a chance.

This was the first mistake.

Because we also ordered starters.

Rookie move. Amateur hour. Absolute hubris.

The portions weren’t generous—they were borderline confrontational.

Andy’s Sultan lamb kebab turned up like a gift from the gods—slow-cooked lamb stew wrapped in pastry and topped with melted cheese. It didn’t ask for attention. It demanded it. This thing was rich, deep, unapologetic. The kind of dish that makes you pause mid-bite and question every other lamb dish you’ve ever eaten.

I went for creamy garlic prawns.

And look—they were good. Very good. Almost excellent…

But here’s the thing: if you’re going to call something garlic prawns, I want garlic that punches me in the face and steals my wallet. This was more of a polite handshake. Lovely, but lacking a bit of criminal intent.

We also ordered a halloumi salad—which, at this point, was less a dish and more a test of endurance. Perfectly grilled, golden edges, that unmistakable salty squeak that halloumi does so well.

We barely made a dent.

Somewhere between the meze, the starters, and the mains, we crossed the line from “pleasantly full” into “life choices are now under review.”

And yet… no regrets.

Because this is Dalyan.

Where the days are slow, the food is obscene, and even a completely uneventful day somehow turns into something worth writing about.

No chaos. No drama. Just sun, food, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing that sometimes the best days are the ones where absolutely nothing happens—and it’s perfect. … See MoreSee Less