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:
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:
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.
