If You Say "Meatball", I Say "I'm There"!

I spent the muted daylight hours of yesterday in search of history, and when nightfall came, I went in search of meatballs.  The math Ph.D. student I had befriended at the airport had suggested a Turkish meatball (köfte) place across from the Blue Mosque – except he didn’t know the name and there were two a few doors down from one another.  One was the original, the other the defector/upstart, but he did remember the better place had marble tabletops.  I explained to him The Original Ray’s Pizza analogy, but it was probably wise I didn’t delve into the John’s/Patsy’s/Grimaldi’s convoluted, almost Shakespearean histories.

So making my way out of the tourist ghetto, I am bound to encounter local men whose form of introduction is shouting out guesses as to where I am from: Singapore (I get that a lot), Korea, Malaysia, Japan (they all know “konichiwa”). They are all met with a shake of my head except one fellow who astutely shouts “American”.   So he successfully gets me to chat, as everyone is trying to engage you in conversation here, and introduces me to his obviously local pal whom he jokingly refers to as “The Potato Man” from Idaho.  Okay… Unusual, until the friend whips out his wallet to reveal an Idaho photo i.d.   Said friend has spent the better part of the year working at resorts and hotels in Coeur d’Alene, ID, Spokane, WA and Bozeman, MT.  Oh, and that most luxurious of eastern seaboard oases, Secaucus, NJ.

“Potato Man” then spots a pair of young American women turning our way down the cobblestoned street, just enough time for me to make my gracious exit, I mean, there are meatballs calling out to me. 

The köfte place is easy enough to find, the marble tabletops were a good hint, but it is also packed unlike the other place.  It does a brisk and efficient service, bringing to mind institutions that cater to hungry locals and tourists alike – say Peter Luger’s or Grimaldi’s save for the interminable line.  They seat me at a four-top where there is already a single, Asian male diner.  Hmmm, I think – they’re putting me in another ghetto I see.  Oh well, just get me some meatballs man!

“Meatballs” might be a misnomer, they’re more like flattened sausage links.  Tasty, I devour mine with hot sauce, bread, a salad, yogurt.  Not spectacular, but will do for now…

Oh!  And a special Happy Birthday to Cate!