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Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

24 hours ago

Day 7.

You ever get woken up by a sound so aggressive, so wildly committed to being heard, that your brain just… gives up trying to label it?

That was us.

Next door. Something between a donkey in emotional crisis and a human being having the kind of morning that requires electrolytes and a long sit-down afterwards. No build-up. No mercy. Just—full volume, straight through the wall like we were part of it.

I lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like: this is how people end up in documentaries. 🤣

Cold, too. Not “oh it’s a bit brisk.” No. That damp, creeping cold that gets into your bones and makes you question your life choices. Naturally, we decided to go to the beach. Because logic had clearly left the building sometime around the donkey incident.

We took the bus to Iztuzu. A vehicle that rattled like it owed someone money. Windows slightly fogged, seats with that weird shiny fabric that sticks to your skin like regret.

And of course—we got on the wrong bus.

Because why wouldn’t we.

There was a lady with a baby—very convincing, very confident—who assured us, with the authority of someone who has absolutely no reason to lie, that yes, this was the bus to the beach.

It even had a turtle sticker on it.

A turtle sticker.

At that point, what are you supposed to do? Launch an investigation? Interview witnesses? No. You see a turtle, you commit.

So we climb on, sit down, settle in like two people who have absolutely no business travelling unsupervised.

The bus hasn’t even left yet and the driver shows up. Looks at us. Looks at our money. Looks back at us again like we’ve just tried to pay for a haircut in Monopoly cash.

We hand over the fare, confident. Ready. Prepared to be legitimate participants in Turkish public transport.

He just waves us off.

Not aggressively. Not rudely. Just this calm, almost philosophical dismissal—like, no… this isn’t your journey.

Tells us to get on the next bus.

That’s it.

No explanation. No apology. Just a quiet rejection of our entire plan.

So now we’re standing there, holding our money like idiots, while the lady with the baby—who I still believe knew exactly what she was doing—sits there, completely unbothered, probably thinking, another successful operation.

At this point it stops being frustrating and starts being impressive.

Because there’s a particular kind of travel humiliation that sneaks up on you slowly. You’re not lost yet—but you’re clearly not where you’re supposed to be either.

We shuffle off. Pride slightly dented. Faith in turtle-based navigation systems severely shaken.

And get on the next bus like people who have learned absolutely nothing. But we eventually get there.

We arrive and head to DEKAMER. The turtle hospital.

Now, here’s the thing. You walk in expecting something quaint. Maybe a few sleepy turtles, a nice sign, a bit of conservation guilt.

No.

This is a trauma ward.

Real damage. Shells cracked open like dropped plates. Deep gouges from propellers—clean, surgical, horrifying. One turtle just hovering weirdly in the water, like it’s forgotten the basic mechanics of being a turtle.

And yet… calm. No panic. No drama. Just these people—quietly, methodically putting broken things back together.

It’s the kind of place that makes you feel small in a very specific way. Like… oh right. This is what actual good looks like. Not your emails. Not your meetings. This.

I lasted about 30 minutes before my brain went: this is too much reality, we need carbs. But not before Andy and I emptied our pockets and wallets and begged everyone to save these poor creatures!

The cafeteria saved us. Gozleme. Meat and cheese. Fresh off the griddle, slightly blistered, folded over like it’s hiding something good.

You bite in—steam hits your face, cheese stretches, meat salty and perfect—and suddenly you’re not thinking about fractured shells or the general incompetence of humanity. You’re just… eating. Alive. Grateful in a very basic, animal way.

Which is probably the most honest feeling there is.

Afternoon?

Chaos, but with marshmallows.

Piña coladas. Several. Cold enough to make your teeth hurt, sweet enough to convince you you’re doing fine in life. Coconut, rum, denial. And Sofra Bar roasted the marshmallow! Yay!

I had my notebook out. Properly. Like a serious person.

“Interview prep.”

There were bullet points. Big words. Strategy. Leadership. Vision.

At some point I wrote down “be authentic” and immediately took a sip of a drink that tasted like melted ice cream and poor decisions.

I don’t know what I was researching by the end. I remember opening my phone to look up something impressive and ending up deep in a hole about why octopuses hate each other.

That feels like it might come up in the interview. You never know.

Dinner.

Luz Food And Cocktails

Walk in and it’s like someone designed a restaurant based on a very specific philosophy: what if we just… didn’t rush anything. Ever.

Garden vibes. Low lights. People moving at half speed. Not lazy—no, that’s the wrong word. Intentional slowness. Like time is a suggestion, not a rule.

It had that Cheech and Chong energy—but not in a gimmicky way. More like… everyone here has already figured out that stress is optional and has opted out.

You feel it immediately. Your shoulders drop. Your breathing changes. You stop checking your phone. You stop caring.

Dangerous, honestly.

Menu hits you like a good idea you can’t afford.

Everything sounds right. Everything sounds excessive. You want it all, and you know you’ll regret nothing.

Chips and salsa first. Fresh. Bright. Tomatoes that actually taste like tomatoes. Lime cutting through everything. A little heat that sneaks up on you instead of announcing itself like an idiot.

Then a Caesar salad, because apparently I like to pretend I have boundaries.

It was aggressive. In a good way. Dressing unapologetic. Anchovy doing its job properly. No restraint. I respect that.

Then the Cusco chicken.

And this is where things got serious.

Lime. Cumin. Paprika. Beer. It hits every part of your mouth at once—sharp, smoky, slightly bitter, deeply savoury. Skin crisp, meat juicy, the kind of dish that makes you pause mid-bite and just stare at it like it owes you an explanation.

This isn’t food trying to impress you. It’s food that already knows it’s better than you.

Then the oxtail tacos.

With roasted apple.

Which sounds like someone lost a bet.

But no. It works. Of course it works. Rich, sticky meat collapsing under its own weight, and then this soft, sweet apple cutting through it like a knife through bad decisions.

I stopped talking at some point.

Just sat there. Eating. Drinking. Slightly drunk, slightly overwhelmed, fully aware that this—this exact moment—is about as good as it gets without winning the lottery or committing a crime.

No rush. No pressure. Just flavour, alcohol, and the quiet understanding that nothing outside this table matters right now.

We left eventually. Had to.

And as we walked back—

There it was again.

That sound.

Louder this time.

More… committed.

I didn’t ask questions. Some things in life are better left unexplored.

Like how many piña coladas with marshmallows is “too many.”

Or what, exactly, is happening next door. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

2 days 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

3 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