Ferhat Dirik
11:37 AM (2 minutes ago)
What is a “cuisine”? What makes it authentic? And for how long does that last?
These are questions I wrestle with daily as my restaurant began on one end of the spectrum and broke through to the other. A traditional kebab house inherited by a father raised in inner-Anatolia. That was our existence for 26 years. It’s the product we offered daily. Kebabs and meze working in tandem to offer authentic Ocakbasi fare.
Sure, the latter years brought the addition of Cypriot halloumi, Lebanese Falafel and a miscellaneous cultured stroke of idiocy with a King Prawn Kebab (all me), but the menu and its contents felt unremarkably Turkish.
Which makes a lot of sense. Almost every Turkish restaurant in the UK will have a menu that is 60-70% a copy-paste equivalent to another. Quality will vary. Portions sizes and prices, too. But the construct of it will be all too familiar. A tried and tested formula, like your Bengali curry house, like your Chinese takeaway, or an “Italian” pizza chain. You know what you’re getting and it is unapologetically AUTHENTIC.
Ali Dirik, Mangal II Opening, 1994
Except, when does it stop being so? Is what was a true representation of my father’s understanding of Turkish Ocakbasi cuisine many years ago also a true representation to what Sertac and I identify with as Londoners born and raised today? Is what an Ali Nazik Kebap is to my dad (A wonderful use of lamb, a glorious expression of aubergine and garlic yoghurt he was happily selling to the masses), the same food my brother or I wanted to sell?
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I often ponder for how long establishments with an ethnic background will persist for? Immigration at vast numbers is a relatively new late 20th Century reality. The 60’s onwards brought many a tapestry of cultures into the UK. This contributed a very welcome onslaught of flavours and tastes to these shores. Immigrants opened restaurants translating dishes from home to cater to British gullets. Second generation immigrants (like myself) would take over said businesses and either run it to the ground (lord knows I tried), or keep it ticking (my greatest life achievement) to no particularly revolutionary avail. And look, I was raised by strictly Turkish-speaking parents. I was under no impression, growing up, that I was British, let alone, English. “We’re Turkish” would be the message my parents would forcibly indoctrinate me with since the moment I gained consciousness. So, taking over an authentically Turkish restaurant felt very normal for me, and selling very ordinary Turkish dishes felt honest. But I grew. My world grew. My identity grew. I realised I was multi-faceted. That I spoke more English than Turkish. That my inner narrative was becoming more the former than the latter. That I felt, increasingly as I’d spend long summers in Turkey every year, that I didn’t really completely belong there, either. And crucially, that I was a Londoner. London was and still is my home and where I feel most comfortable and complete. That my ethnicity is second to my identity. What sense did it make for me to sell dishes of Anatolian heritage, if I myself hadn’t stepped foot there in over 5 years?
What I did feel, and more importantly my brother (who creates every dish) felt, was the sense that whilst we feel Turkish and want to replicate Turkish flavours in our food (the impact of charcoal; the tanginess of ferments and wild greens; the malolactic qualities of curds and stringent dairy), we also wanted to hone in on what’s local, sustainable, seasonal and fresh. This is why Mangal 2 is what it is today. It is inspired by our heritage and our mother’s home cooking, by Sertac’s experiences in Copenhagen honing his craft, but also by the identity of being a metropolitan 2nd generation immigrant raised in a city melting and spilling with cultures that has no set constitution or playbook.
For the next courageous Google reviewer trigger happily lambasting us with a 1* for not being Turkish enough, I say: “%*$£*@!(£(^3”. But also: What we do is honest to us, and for that, we do not owe you an apology or explanation (though this article does go some way to provide that). How honest is your next proprietor selling food from a region they most likely have not lived in for the past 25 years? And I firmly believe said traditional cuisines will also come to this realisation over the next 15 years. It’s hard to envision the offspring of a family from, say, a South-East Asian background, educated and raised in the UK, now in their mid 20s, taking over their family restaurant and committing to implementing the same menu for another decade without an identity crisis/whole-scale change. Because at some point, it is plausible that such an approach will not feel honest to that individual and their own identity.
And it works both ways. Many chefs from a white, British background will fall in love with a certain cuisine for reasons we all fall in love - connection. They will identify something from that palate with what’s within themselves. Flavours unfamiliar in their home and schooling life will transcend and inspire them. And with the right dosage of luck, experience, skill, and often investment from outside sources, could open up a restaurant that bears no relation to their ethnicity or background. And inevitably the menu will provides twists and variations from the traditional rulebook. And you know what? That’s absolutely fine, because it will be honest to what they want to eat and what they want to serve - and as long as they do not pretend to provide a true offering of a cuisine’s authentic spine and soul, especially in a condescending westernised manner, all is fair. Because essentially, we hospitality creatures all just want to provide you a good meal at a fair price that will last long in the memory. That’s what it all boils down to. That’s the culture.