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Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

22 hours ago

Day 3: Hangovers, Hades and a ferry that shouldn’t legally float

I woke up late. Not fashionably late. Not “we lingered over coffee and made meaningful life choices” late. No—this was the kind of late that comes with dry mouths, questionable memories, and the quiet, mutual understanding that breakfast has been missed and will not be spoken of again. I blame the Raki.

Fine. Screw breakfast. Dalyan is showing off—blue sky, sun blazing like it’s got a personal vendetta. It felt almost obscene to waste it indoors. So we did what any slightly hungover, poorly fuelled tourists would do when faced with that kind of weather: we went looking for an ancient city.

Behind the hotel sat the ferry crossing to Kaunos. Calling it a ferry is generous. It had the general appearance of something that has survived several wars, two questionable repairs, and at least one very poor decision involving welding and rebar. It leans—visibly—when you step on it. When a car drives aboard, the whole thing tilts at an angle that suggests gravity is more of a suggestion than a rule.

And yet, like all bad ideas you go with it. Because apparently survival instincts are optional on holiday.

The crossing was short but eventful in the way that makes you quietly rehearse your obituary. And then, just like that, you make it across. Alive, mildly exhilarated, and wondering why this feels more satisfying than it should.

A couple of kilometres’ walk, the landscape opened up, and then suddenly we were standing in something that once mattered—a city that had purpose, rhythm, people who got up in the morning and did things far more productive than debating whether or not to have a second (or in my case third) cocktail before lunch.

There’s a theatre carved into the hillside, seating five thousand people. Five thousand. It was impossible not to stand there and picture it—voices carrying, bodies packed together, the hum of something communal and important. No microphones. No screens. Just sound, stone, and human attention. I dared Andy to sing some Pink Floyd in the middle of the thing – alas he not so politely declined.

Around it, the remains of churches, a basilica, fragments of temples. Nothing polished. Nothing curated. Just pieces of history left where they fell, quietly refusing to explain themselves.

And then, as if history wasn’t enough, nature decided to get involved.

The poppies were the first thing that hit us. Not soft, polite flowers, but these deep, unapologetic reds that look almost too vivid to be real. They catch your eye in bursts—little flashes of intensity against the dry landscape—like nature couldn’t resist adding a bit of drama to the scene.

Then the tortoises.

They were everywhere. Unbothered, unhurried, moving with the kind of confidence that comes from having absolutely no expectations placed upon you. One of them, in what can only be described as a gross misjudgment of personal space, wandered up behind me while I was distracted—taking in the view, pretending to be thoughtful—and brushed against the back of my leg.

It was a brief moment. Entirely harmless.

And yet I nearly left my body, my soul beelining it to the tombs. Scared the bloody bejeezus out of me! Screamed like a little girl and almost peed my pants.

The tortoise carried on, unimpressed. I, on the other hand, needed a moment to reassemble my dignity.

Further down, the basilica offered something else entirely. Not silence, as you might expect, but sound – sound that could only be described as a full-blown amphibian rave.

Frogs.

Hundreds of them.

Croaking like they’ve just signed a record deal and you’re the lucky audience. Their voices overlapping into something that felt less like noise and more like composition. A low, rhythmic chorus that filled the space in a way that was oddly calming. We sat, we listened, and for a moment everything slowed down. No rush, no urgency—just this strange, perfect soundtrack to a place that has outlived everything that built it.

Naturally, this is also where we decided to take photos—leaning casually against ancient stone, striking poses that were, in hindsight, entirely unnecessary and only slightly less ridiculous than they felt at the time. There is something about ruins that invites that kind of behaviour. As if proximity to history somehow makes you more interesting.

From there, we made our way to the tombs of Caunus.

Cut high into the rock face, they dominate the landscape in a way that feels both deliberate and deeply human. The belief was simple: place the dead closer to the sky so that winged creatures could carry their souls more easily to the afterlife. It’s the kind of logic that makes modern thinking feel almost disappointingly practical. A willingness to believe in something bigger, stranger, more imaginative than ourselves. Which is either beautifully poetic or completely unhinged. Possibly both.

On the walk back, we found a street vendor selling homemade goods. Orange honey—thick, fragrant, intensely floral—and freshly pressed pomegranate juice. It was sharp, sweet, impossibly refreshing. The kind of drink that makes you pause, if only briefly, and acknowledge that sometimes the simplest things are the ones that land hardest.

Back at the hotel, after another crossing on the same deeply questionable vessel—somehow more alarming on the return—we did what any sensible people would do with access to both vodka and that pomegranate juice.

We upgraded.

The bartender— an absolute legend — patient, skilled, and clearly accustomed to dealing with people like us, mixed it without fuss. It was good. Too good. Clean, bright, dangerously drinkable. I had two.

I then decided to pitch him what can only be described as a war crime disguised as a cocktail… rather an entirely unnecessary escalation into dessert territory.

“Right—vodka, pomegranate juice, whipped cream, glaze drizzle, a bit of those seeds—make it fancy. Call it after yourself.”

He stared at me.

“My mother would kill me.”

And that was the end of that. Humph.

The afternoon dissolved into a siesta, the kind that arrives unannounced and takes you completely under. This time I blame the vodka and pomegranate. When I woke up, the sky shifted. The blue replaced by heavy clouds, the air thick, expectant. And then it broke—thunder rolling in, lightning splitting the sky, rain coming down with the kind of intensity that makes you grateful for solid walls and good timing.

It was the sort of rain that doesn’t invite discussion. There would be no strolling into town, no romantic dash between doorways. This was biblical, theatrical, borderline personal. So we did the only sensible thing left to us—we parked our asses at the bar and ordered drinks with the quiet determination of people willing to wait out whatever the sky was throwing at us.

And then, unexpectedly, the day shifted.

We met a lovely lady—travelling alone—on her first trip back to a place she and her husband had once loved together. He was gone now. The kind of loss that sits quietly but fills the room all the same. She spoke about him not with drama, but with a kind of steady, practiced grace that suggested she was learning how to carry it, one day at a time.

There’s something about travel that does this—it cracks you open just enough to let strangers in.

We shared a drink. Then another. A few stories. A few silences. At one point, a couple of tears that arrived without permission. Nothing heavy-handed, nothing forced—just a moment of real, unpolished human connection in the middle of a storm that felt, briefly, like it had a purpose.

She was brave. And quietly extraordinary.

Eventually, the rain eased, the sky softened, and we parted ways—wishing each other well in that slightly awkward, deeply sincere way strangers do when they’ve shared something that matters.

Dinner was an exercise in managed expectations. China Town Restaurant. A name that suggests ambition, if not necessarily execution. The menu was broad—too broad—stretching across cuisines in a way that usually signals trouble. Big menu. Indian-Chinese fusion. This is usually where hope goes to die. You’re fully prepared for oily disappointment and regret.

We went in fully prepared for mediocrity. Possibly worse.

What arrived instead was… good. Genuinely, unexpectedly good.

Noodles cooked properly, with bite and balance. Wonton soup that was warm and comforting without being heavy. Crispy spicy chicken that delivered exactly what it promised—no more, no less. And Manchurian beef that, against all odds, worked. Just solid food that quietly tells you to shut up and enjoy it.

We walked back through Dalyan full, slightly tired, and quietly satisfied, contemplating the day.

17,000 steps.

One near-death ferry ride (twice).

One tortoise-induced cardiac event.

A frog concert.

A cocktail that should never exist.

Tears with a stranger.

And somehow—against all odds—another perfect day.

Tomorrow, we said, would be more relaxed.

But then again, we’d said that yesterday too. Fucking liars we are. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

2 days ago

DAY 2 IN DALYAN: Plumbing wars, translucent bread, and a terrier I was fully prepared to steal

We woke up warm.

Which, after the previous night’s Arctic cosplay, felt like a win. Two extra blankets had appeared—no fanfare, no explanation—just quietly delivered by the cleaning ladies who had clearly taken one look at us and thought, these idiots are not coping.

They weren’t wrong.

So, buoyed by this small but meaningful success, I approached the shower with cautious optimism. The kind of optimism that says, today might be the day things turn around.

They did not.

Now—I saw the signs. “Save water.” “Protect the planet.” All very noble. All very worthy.

But there comes a point where environmental responsibility collides head-on with personal dignity.

And after standing under a stream of water that felt like it had come directly from a glacial melt, I made a decision. A selfish, reckless, borderline criminal decision.

I let it run.

Not for a bit. Not for a reasonable amount of time. For a full, stubborn, increasingly spiteful twenty minutes—like I was trying to psychologically break the plumbing into submission.

It did not break.

I did.

So I did something I swore I’d never do…we switched rooms.

Which is how I ended up watching our hotelier—a previously calm, lovely man—completely lose his grip on reality while attempting to fix our new room’s door lock that had clearly decided it no longer believed in doors.

For twenty solid minutes, he swore at it in Turkish with the intensity of someone addressing a personal betrayal. This was not maintenance. This was a feud.

At one point, I was rooting for the door. 😜

But—against all odds—he won. The lock clicked. Order was restored. Dignity, partially recovered.

And inside… finally… hot water.

Real, actual, unapologetic hot water.

I stayed in there far longer than necessary, partly out of gratitude, partly because I had some serious winter maintenance to address. Let’s just say my legs had reached a stage where they were no longer a feature, but a Sasquatch situation. Andy, I’m told, was quietly relieved.

Saturday is market day in Dalyan.

And markets here don’t ease you in gently—they hit you straight in the senses. Colour, noise, people who move with purpose. No one browsing aimlessly. No one pretending to “just have a look.”

Vegetables that look like they’ve actually seen sunlight. Tomatoes that smell like tomatoes. It’s unsettling, frankly.

But the real stars—the ones running the show—are the gözleme ladies.

These women are operating on a completely different level. They take a ball of dough and roll it out so thin it becomes philosophical. You’re not looking at bread anymore—you’re looking at a concept. Not thin in the way you expect. Thin in the way that makes you question physics. They stretch it out until it’s almost transparent—like watching someone perform the windowpane test on an entire loaf of bread and then deciding, yes, that’ll do.

They stretch it, fill it—cheese, mushrooms, minced meat if you’re behaving, or honey, sugar or chocolate if you’ve given up on yourself entirely—then throw it onto the griddle like it’s nothing.

No measuring. No fuss. Just decades of experience and the quiet confidence of someone who knows you couldn’t even begin to replicate it.

I ate it standing up, slightly burned, completely happy.

And then—unexpectedly—I was approached by a reader.

Now, in my head, I’d always imagined handling this with grace. A calm smile. Maybe a witty remark. What actually happened was closer to mild shock followed by what I can only describe as disproportionate joy.

Because it’s a strange thing—writing something, throwing it out into the void, and then having someone come up and say, I read that.

It never gets old. It makes the whole thing feel less like shouting into the abyss and more like… a conversation.

So yes—if you see me wandering about, probably heading toward food or alcohol, do say hello. I promise I’ll try to act like a normal person… or blame it on the Raki.

We returned—again—to Sofra Bar.

Because when you find a place that serves a pina colada with a marshmallow on top, you don’t question it. You don’t explore alternatives. You commit, like it’s a long-term relationship.

It’s still the best one I’ve had. Still unnecessary. Still perfect.

I did attempt to convince the bartender to set the marshmallow on fire—purely for research purposes—but he looked at me the way you look at someone who shouldn’t be trusted with open flames.

Fair.

Dinner at Dalyan Chef steak house.

And I’m going to say this knowing full well it will upset people:

The steak here is better than any beef I’ve ever had in the UK. There. I’ve said it.

Closer to Canadian Alberta beef—proper flavour, properly cooked, no nonsense—and somehow significantly cheaper, which feels like a personal attack on every overpriced steak I’ve ever endured back home. So needless to say, if you are looking for a fantabulous steak dinner, look no further!

We were greeted by Maximilian—a small, dangerously charming terrier who immediately decided I was the love of his life. He did not leave my side. Not once.

I briefly considered taking him with me. Andy shut that down quickly, which I think is unreasonable.

Starters were exactly what you want them to be—fresh, simple, and, crucially, tasting of something. Not dressed up, not overthought, not apologising for existing.

The halloumi arrived golden at the edges, holding its shape like it had standards. That first bite—that familiar, slightly defiant squeak—reminding you this is cheese that refuses to melt into submission. Salty, warm, just enough resistance to make you pay attention.

And the tomatoes… look, I don’t know what’s happened to tomatoes back home, but somewhere along the way they’ve lost the will to live. These hadn’t. Deep red, properly ripe, the kind that release that sharp, green-sweet smell the second you cut into them. Juicy without being watery, soft without collapsing—like they’d been picked that morning by someone who actually gives a damn.

It’s the sort of plate that quietly exposes how far we’ve drifted from food that tastes like itself.

Then the steaks.

Andy’s steak Diane arrived like it had something to say for itself. Rich, unapologetic, a little bit over the top—but in exactly the way you want when you’ve committed to ordering steak in a proper steakhouse. The sauce clung to everything it touched—peppery, slightly sharp from the mustard, softened by the mushrooms, with the salami adding that unexpected, slightly rebellious edge. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t trying to be. It was the kind of dish that leans in close and says, you didn’t come here to be sensible, did you?

Mine—the steak Oscar—took a different approach. Less noise, more confidence. Cooked rare, properly rare, the kind that gives just enough resistance before giving in completely. You could’ve cut it with a butter knife, but more importantly, you didn’t need to rush it. It held its own.

The shrimp on top felt almost unnecessary—perfectly cooked, sweet, clean—but really just there as a supporting act. And the béarnaise… rich, buttery, with that slight tarragon lift that stops it from becoming too much. It didn’t drown the steak, didn’t fight it. Just sat alongside, doing its job quietly, like it knew the meat didn’t need saving.

And that’s the thing—nothing on the plate was trying too hard. No unnecessary flourishes, no chef showing off with tweezers and foam and things that don’t belong anywhere near a steak. Just good ingredients, treated properly, cooked by someone who understands that when you get the basics right, you don’t need to shout about it.

We finished with apricot liqueur, more time with Maximilian (still not mine, tragically), and the quiet satisfaction of having eaten something genuinely excellent.

Back at the hotel, the room was warm.

Properly warm.

No blankets piled like sandbags. No strategic cuddling for survival. Just heat. Reliable, consistent, unremarkable heat—which, at this point, felt like luxury.

And that’s the thing about a day like this.

Nothing quite works the way it’s supposed to. Showers fail. Doors rebel. You make questionable beverage decisions.

But somewhere between the chaos, the food, the people, and the dog you almost stole, it all adds up to something better than perfect.

It feels real.

And frankly, that’s a lot more interesting. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

3 days ago

DAY ONE IN DALYAN: NEAR-DEATH LANDINGS, GIANT COCKS, AND THE HEALING POWER OF RAKI

There’s a very specific kind of arrogance that sets in when a flight is going well.

You’ve boarded without incident. No one has argued about overhead luggage. No one has removed their shoes and committed crimes against humanity. You’ve got a drink in hand and, in a moment of wildly misplaced optimism, you start a new TV series.

The Cleaning Lady.

Big mistake.

Because this show doesn’t politely entertain you—it grabs you by the throat and says, you’re watching me now. Before you know it, you’re emotionally invested in organised crime while cruising at 35,000 feet, wondering if you’ve ever made a single good decision in your life.

And then—because the universe enjoys a dramatic pivot—the landing into Dalyan begins.

Now, I don’t know who Dalyan offended, but the wind there has a personal vendetta. The plane starts doing that aggressive side-to-side shimmy—the kind where everyone suddenly becomes very quiet and very religious.

You don’t panic. You just… mentally prepare. You think about your loved ones. You think about your will. You think about whether you should’ve ordered that second wine.

But we land. Of course we do. Slightly humbled. Mildly traumatised. Alive.

And then—out of nowhere—we’re escorted into a limousine.

A limousine.

Not a tired shuttle bus with a sticky floor. Not a taxi driven by a man who hates you. A full-blown, leather-seated, “have you accidentally become important?” limousine.

easyJet holidays, you absolute maniacs. What is this behaviour? Love you!

We roll into the Dalyan Live Spa Hotel under the cover of darkness, having just missed what can only be described as an apocalyptic storm.

Lovely.

Until you get into the room and realise it’s colder than a landlord’s heart.

No blankets. No backup. Just you and your partner staring at each other like, well… I guess this is happening.

Romance? No.

This is thermal survival.

Morning arrives, and with it, hope. Hope in the form of a hot shower—the universal symbol of “things are going to be okay.”

Instead, you are assaulted by water so cold it feels like the pipes are actively punishing you for your life choices.

It’s not refreshing. It’s character-building. And frankly, I’ve got enough character.

Now—credit where it’s due—the hotel team, who had literally opened the day before, launched into action like a slightly disorganised but deeply committed emergency response unit. Phones ringing. People nodding. Someone probably Googling plumbing.

You couldn’t fault them. They cared. They tried. They rallied. Not their fault… and they are doing their absolute best to sort everything out. Best customer service ever!

Hot water? Pending. Faith? Intact.

We head into Dalyan town, and within minutes, one thing becomes abundantly clear:

This is not your town.

This is the animals’ town.

Cats everywhere—confident, slightly judgmental, clearly in charge. Dogs roaming like retired generals. And then… the roosters.

Let’s address the elephant in the room.

Turkey has the biggest cocks I have ever seen.

Absolutely enormous. Strutting around like they pay council tax. You don’t laugh—you observe in respectful silence and carry on with your day, slightly changed.

And yet, despite the chaos, there’s a strange calm to it all. Nobody’s rushing. Nobody’s stressed. It’s like the entire town collectively decided to relax and just never stopped.

We find a karaoke bar—because clearly we make excellent life decisions—and there it is:

A pina colada so good it makes you forgive the morning’s attempted hypothermia.

Cold, creamy, slightly dangerous. The kind of drink that whispers, you’re on holiday now, behave accordingly.

Across the river, the ancient rock tombs stare down like disapproving ancestors. Thousands of years of history looking at you, drink in hand, wondering where it all went wrong.

The weather plays along—sun, cloud, just enough warmth to feel smug, not enough to sweat like a sinner in church.

Back to the hotel for a “quick nap,” which is code for collapsing like you’ve just completed military training.

Then the hotel bar.

And this is where things properly unravel.

A couple of double raki later—and suddenly you’re in a full-blown political discussion with bartenders who are sharper, funnier, and more insightful than most people you’ve met in actual meetings.

No fluff. No nonsense. Just smart conversation and strong drinks.

Raki doesn’t just warm you—it convinces you that you’re interesting.

Dinner at Sahil.

And finally—validation.

Meze for two arrives, which is optimistic at best. Hummus, smoky eggplant, Russian salad, cacik, fresh veg—each dish quietly reminding you that you’ve been eating like an idiot back home.

Then calamari.

Perfect. Tender. Crisp. Paired with a thick onion-cheese situation that sounds wrong but tastes like a revelation.

Mains land.

Adana kebab—spiced just enough to wake you up without ruining your evening.

And a grilled sea bass so perfectly seasoned it doesn’t even bother with the lemon sauce it was promised. It doesn’t need it. It knows its worth.

We walk back.

And the sky absolutely loses its mind.

Not rain—biblical rain. The kind that soaks you instantly and leaves you laughing because resistance is pointless.

Back to the hotel. Drenched. Slightly drunk. Entirely satisfied.

Naturally, another raki.

Because at this point, you’re not making decisions—you’re honouring a tradition.

Day one in Dalyan:

Near-death landing. Luxury limousine. Cold showers. Giant cocks. Exceptional food. Smarter bartenders than most executives.

And just enough chaos to remind you you’re alive.

Perfect. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

1 week ago

Right. Let’s address the elephant in the room.

I’ve been missing.

Not dead—despite what a few of you probably assumed after the radio silence—but buried. Properly buried. Up to my neck in notes, grease stains, half-drunk glasses of red, and the kind of late-night, slightly unhinged storytelling that only makes sense somewhere between midnight and regret.

Because, and here’s the bit that sounds suspiciously like a respectable excuse—I’ve been writing a book.

An actual, honest-to-God book. The kind with pages and chapters and the looming threat of someone, somewhere, judging your comma placement like it’s a moral failing. It’s due out this summer, assuming I don’t throw the manuscript into a fire and walk away dramatically at the eleventh hour.

Writing a book, it turns out, is a lot like running a kitchen during a Sunday lunch rush. Chaotic. Sweaty. Occasionally brilliant. Frequently held together by caffeine, stubbornness, and a low-level sense of impending collapse.

There were days I forgot what daylight looked like. Days where meals consisted entirely of “whatever’s within arm’s reach and not actively moving.” Days where I became convinced that this was either the best idea I’ve ever had… or a catastrophic misjudgment that would haunt me forever.

So yes. I disappeared.

Not because I lost interest. Not because I ran out of stories. But because I was knee-deep in creating something bigger, messier, and far more dangerous: a collection of stories that probably shouldn’t be told… but absolutely will be.

And now—mercifully, gloriously—I’m coming up for air.

Which means we’re back.

And not quietly, either.

Because this Friday, I’m off again.

This time to Dalyan.

Now, if your frame of reference for Turkey is the all-inclusive chaos of Marmaris—sunburnt Brits, neon cocktails, and the faint smell of regret baked into plastic sun loungers—then Dalyan is its cooler, slightly aloof cousin who reads books and doesn’t shout.

It’s quieter. Lower key. The kind of place that doesn’t need to scream for your attention because it knows exactly what it is.

We’re talking winding rivers lined with reeds. Ancient Lycian tombs carved into cliffs like someone casually decided to build a mausoleum mid-mountain. Turtle beaches. Mud baths that promise rejuvenation and deliver something closer to organised chaos with a side of sulphur.

And I’m going pre-season.

Spring.

Which means fewer crowds, cooler air, and that brief, magical window where everything is just starting to wake up—flowers pushing through, markets finding their rhythm, locals not yet exhausted by the annual invasion of flip-flops and bad decisions.

Ten days.

Ten days of eating things I can’t pronounce, drinking things I probably shouldn’t, and getting myself into situations that will, without question, become stories.

Some of them questionable. All of them honest.

So consider this your warning.

Or your invitation.

Or both.

I’ll be starting Friday. Ten days. No filters, no sanitised travel brochure nonsense—just the good stuff: food, people, chaos, and whatever else inevitably goes sideways.

Stay tuned. We’re back!

It’s about to get interesting again. … See MoreSee Less