Turkish Coffee
Little cup, big tradition
By Leah Schaffer
It’s easy to get whisked away in the ambiance of a European city. Coming from a country with a history that began relatively recently, it is hard to resist the desire to mold myself into the rich history of a place.
I could tell from the minute I stepped off the bus that I was a foreigner. My clothes were different, my hair was different, my speech was different—everything about me screamed small-town America in the middle of the metropolis of Istanbul, Turkey. I immediately settled into a constant panic, trying to do whatever it took to blend in as best I could—as is the case for many travelers in new and unfamiliar places. It’s the reason why we fly through 13 gigabytes of digital camera memory; it’s why we “ooh” and “aah” over the sugary sweet compliments of shopkeepers and restaurant owners and then flock to whatever authentic goods they have to offer. You can buy a thousand evil eyes and dozens of ceramic plates or, if your pocket allows for it, even a couple of carpets. But if you really want to submerge yourself in the Turkish culture, you need to look no deeper than the bottom of the teeny, tiny Turkish coffee cup.
The first coffee to arrive in Turkey was brought by the Yemeni in 1543 during the reign of the Ottoman Empire. The Turkish people responded to the new coffee craze by establishing the world’s first coffeehouses a little more than 10 years later. Not unlike the atmosphere of Starbucks, they became places for people to read, play chess, and discuss music, art, and the latest town gossip. The Turkish term keyif, which means “idly enjoying the moment,” is used to describe the mood: imagine lounging around on plush cushions surrounding decorative pools with running water meant to soothe the senses. Walls to the left and right are covered with neat, little coffee cups and other small trinkets familiar to the coffee culture. Directly in front of you is one of the best panoramic views of the city. It may sound very much like posh coffeehouses tucked away in Manhattan or Los Angeles, but this was the making of a civilization in the mid-16th century. Despite being briefly banished after occasionally drawing large crowds prone to vandalism and flighting, coffee has brewed ever since to become an important component of Turkish culture.
At school in the United States, I carry an oversized coffee cup around with me through my day of classes, meetings, and daily routine. I claim it as a necessity and cling to it as a very part of my personality. Having left my coffee cup back at home, I was still determined to experience beans around the world—the aroma, the taste, the strength.
But as I would come to find out, Turkish coffee, though they know it as coffee in the most general sense, is extremely different from what we might expect from an American cup-o-joe from Starbucks. Much like Italian espresso, Turkish coffee arrives steaming in a small cup called a fincan, after being brewed for 15 or 20 minutes over charcoal in a small pot known as a cezve. It’s meant to be sipped. It isn’t just a grab and go sort of thing—it does not appeal to the American way of haste. Instead it has evolved into something which has a purpose that extends fully past the actual body of the brew.
There are several customs that surround the tradition of Turkish coffee. If I were a Turkish young woman of an age appropriate for marriage, my family would begin entertaining the parents of potential suitors.
Though my say in whom I marry may not exist in all cases, I do have a say in how the coffee is prepared for our guests. The parents of my suitor should expect a good cup of coffee as a sign of my potential to be a good wife, mother, and housekeeper. And, if I really don’t like the chump, I make a wickedly bad cup of coffee and convince his parents that their time would be better spent in another home. As the tradition goes, the woman prepares the coffee with a sweetness reflective of her desire for or against the marriage. Extra sweet means, “Let’s do this!” No sugar means, “No, thank you.” And in extreme cases a spoonful of salt might accidently be confused for the sugar, suggesting, “Over my dead body!” But, perhaps my favorite Turkish coffee tradition follows after the coffee is gone, when all that is left is your life’s fortune.
When we non-Turks make coffee, we grind the beans and filter the grounds in a compartment of the coffee maker so that when we pour the brew into our cup, we needn’t worry about anything unwanted floating about as we sip. The preparation of Turkish coffee, however, does not include this separation. So after sipping away the coffee, you are left with a very chalky, silt-like coffee ground substance at the bottom. Don’t be confused (as we all were at first) in thinking that you’re supposed to bottoms-up and deal with the grit on your teeth afterwards! That’s a mistake you definitely won’t want to make—not just because it leaves a black residue and bitter taste in your mouth, but because it leaves you with nothing left to read. Instead, take the saucer from beneath the cup and place it upside down on the top. Spin it in a full circle three times, and then carefully, holding the two tightly together, flip them so that the saucer is now right side up and the cup is upside down. Let it sit for some time.
Gradually, you’ll begin to see a little puddle creep from beneath the rim of the cup. In a little while, take the cup off the saucer and flip it back right side up and hand it to your friend. As the tradition goes, they will read the streaks of coffee grounds in the cup, using any shapes or images that have formed as a way to predict your relationships, your dreams, your shortcomings—anything they want, really (so choose your fortune readers carefully). Then, you’ll read your friend’s coffee grounds, so take revenge through your interpretation, if need be.
In the end, it’s not about the coffee. It’s not about how it’s made, where it comes from, what it’s served in. It’s not really even about the traditions that have developed around it. Apparently, most Turks nowadays actually prefer tea over coffee. But, coffee has remained an important axis around which society and relationships revolve. It’s a sign of hospitality and good wishes. It’s a way to bring people together and make them sit and enjoy each other’s company and conversation—slowly. According to the Turkish saying, “To drink one cup of coffee together guarantees 40 years of friendship.”
It was a Wednesday afternoon around lunchtime, and my friend and I were running around the city trying to complete our errands and grab a bite to eat before we needed to be somewhere else. It took a complete stranger standing in the middle of the walk to offer us a cup of Turkish coffee at his restaurant for us to slow down, stop trying to do everything a tourist is supposed to do in a few days in the city, and enjoy our surroundings. After we had thoroughly sipped our coffee, we reached into our pockets and asked him how much we owed him. He looked at us (with an extremely charming Turkish smirk, I might add) and shook his head. He wanted nothing but for us to have enjoyed ourselves and his coffee. We thanked him, grabbed our books that we had been reading, and sped off, realizing that we had been sitting there for over an hour and were running late.
Bio current at the time this article was printed:
Leah Schaffer, a Biomedical Humanities major and Creative Writing minor at Hiram College, participated in the Biomes of the World program (http://biodiversity.hiram.edu/modules/biomes.html) last spring, traveling to several different destinations, beginning in Alaska and ending in Germany. She plans to attend medical school in the future.