An Ode To Lamb

By Ferhat Dirik

An Ode to Lamb

As I woke up in the west of Ireland, visiting the edge of Europe where the Atlantic shows no let up in wind, cold crisp air and beauty, making my way down the open glass corridors of my partner’s parent’s home and finding a comfy chair, I peered outside and saw lamb frolicking boundlessly across green pastures. Spring born, tenderly young, too young to visit an abattoir in these parts of the world. I quipped “If my dad was here, he’d be lighting up a barbie and showing no remorse”, which brought some laughs but also held true. The man would absolutely delight in grilling these babies and proudly reference their tender textures (of course they’re tender: How many protein-shake downing babies do you know with tough muscles and heavy limbs?) and soft meats. And he would have been correct, because I have tasted first hand on many an occasion a young, heartbreakingly young lamb grilled, or slow cooked over the oven, or raw in the form of a Kurdish tartare with pepper paste, onions and a world of chilli. And that was all before I hit the age of 7. Never did we, my siblings and I, question the nature of the animal we’d be consuming as we’d be fed meat for breakfast, lunch and dinner on most days and days especially when our dad was home. He’d often say “If there isn’t meat in the meal, I don’t count it a worthy dinner” and it would be true – or at least, his truth. This wild idea became indoctrinated in my own impressionable brain for many years after, way into my mid 20s, where I’d find myself consuming insane amounts of lamb on a daily basis. My justification (at the time)? I was running a very good kebab restaurant and it was all too delicious not to enjoy. I recognised my privileges and I indulged in them, day after day, night after night (I still secretly yearn for my midnight Mangal 2 feasts with lamb sweetbreads, lamb ribs, ezme salad, pide soaked in lamb fat and a dark, deep glass of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo). I devoured animal after animal, stockpiling enough bodies on my hit count to populate a microstate.

Then, something emerged in me. Something I repressed. Something I had shut down as I tweeted silly anti-vegan slogans to the masses and waged war on Nando’s for being chicken-led (and a bit crap). Something I knew to be true, but which I constantly drowned out at a vague attempt to look cool and appear nonchalant towards life and nature; a little emo me acting like I didn’t give a shit. My truth bolstered through the ranks of denial: I love animals. I love nature. I love sheep. I love lamb. Lamb are so fucking cute. Look at them, all frail and curly. Look at the stupid, idiotic smile they all carry. Stupid lamb, why are you smiling? Why am I smiling? Lamb, stop it. Stop. Ok, ok wait, let me just… ok now I’m stroking your stupid smiling head and you’re letting out a “Baaaaaaaaah”. Who says “Baaaaaah?” Are you a little baby Scrooge reincarnated and haven’t yet learnt “Humbug”? Why did I ever eat so many of you? What did you ever do to me to deserve that?

Feeling conflicted, I visited farms. I drove country roads. I saw them everywhere and I felt joy. Was I seeking redemption, an atonement for my sins? I gradually faced my demons head-on and stared at my restaurant’s giant butcher’s display counter filled to the brim with tender, red-fleshed delights and I felt guilt. Meat for the masses as we’d do over 150 covers a Saturday, at what cost for the environment, for nature, for earthkind?

Yet. Yet still I was, and still I am a gluttonous, carnivorous beast. My hunger and strong urge for satiation overrides my ethical, empathetic sensibilities. I wrote the first half of this newsletter (essentially all of the above) and walked out of the restaurant that evening and devoured a lamb Adana Köfte from a nearby spot. Did I weep as I stuffed minced animal joy in pillowy soft pide bread in my salivating gullet? Absolutely not. No amount of raw chopped sumac onions inside my baton-shaped wrap of joy could bring water to my greedy eyes. I vacuumed up the whole thing like a ghostbuster suctioning in a ghoul.

But there is a middle ground. I consciously consume way less lamb now, avoiding it like a dark addiction and relapsing only when I can bear it no longer. I cannot recall the l last time I scrumptiously forayed into the dark arts of a veal cutlet. No suckling pig for this tribesman. Poisson is poison. The levels of consumption of animals has lessened, though it’s still to a degree which could still trigger a militant vegan into committing heinous acts on me. But I am now at least at peace. We source the best looked after sheep and cows in the land. Our lamb has been replaced by ex-dairy producing mutton, who have lived a long, harmonious life via the considerate, loving care of Matt Chatfield in Cornwall - whose techniques of regenerative farming makes the possibility of sustainable livestock appear hopeful in this burning, decaying world of dystopia. I visited his farm and saw happy, free sheep with an abundance of character only matched by the vast land they were free to roam. These creatures live a long life and are only culled at an elderly age, bringing bags of wisdom and experience (or let’s be more truthful here: FLAVOUR) with each bite. They even have names. The sheep have names. They exist and they have names. Their cooked fats are masterful expressions of healthy living, melting at the tongue and soothing the palate like a drug. Equally, the  Mr Txuleta beef we sell are from the same way of life, ex-dairy British cows adopting the same industry-leading Basque farming techniques to ensure a longer leading, happy life for dairy-producing cows before they’re culled at an old age. Essentially, old, happy, big animals who are converted to tasty delights when they’re near the end of their cycle. Big. Old. Happy. Ethical. Meat. Delicious.

Essentially, Mangal 2’s identity crisis was my identity crisis. Fewer animals on the menu. Older, geographically closer, organically reared and sustainably-existed meats from happy farms. 

And here’s a thought: Do you believe in reincarnation? Do we die, and our souls remerge in another living entity, and the cycle and continuation of life resumes? I’d like to hope so. And if true, do you know what I’d like to come back as? Kobe beef. A Cow in Japan massaged and fed beer all day, every day, whilst classical music is blared out to me, as if I’m some sort of medieval dandy living in a castle in a fortress in France. A life of oblivious pleasures in a land of wisdom, order, respect, culture and serenity. And then you eat me.

The Stage

Ferhat Dirik

It’s a peculiar feeling, being front of house. You carry plates over and receive all the praise, criticism, impatience, queries, insults, indifference, love, unsolicited feedback, and the rest of it. Yet you have no involvement in the dish being constructed. You can’t make it arrive any faster. You have little say in portion sizes. And you’re not the individual who decides on the seasoning/temperature. Yet everything goes through you. Every response. You are a sponge, soaking in every morsel, every squeeze of juice of communication and with what little moisture is left in your frantic, adrenaline-fuelled brain in “service mode” you drip out and drop trickles of information back to chefs - whom are already carrying heightened sensitivity and little composure as they battle with fire and heat and gas and smoke, all to enable food comes out adequately and promptly.

Who has it tougher? Front of house or back of house? The latter work longer hours, cut fingers, burn hands, have constant pressure and receive a lot of scrutiny over the slightest imperfections. Sounds impossibly difficult - borderline, well, shit. Front of house, however, have an equally arduous beast to tackle and tame: the public. A bad interaction with a rude guest, and it ruins your night. Most are lovely and courteous and thankful and polite and receptive. Rarely, but perhaps more impactful, they are awful; they snap fingers; they don’t look at you as they order food - treating you like second-class citizens; they’re perverts and they don’t care how they show it, however uncomfortable it makes you; they remove service charge because a chef undercooked the fish despite that having no semblance to the service itself.


You break a glass and it’s the loneliest place on Earth.
You spill a drink and you’re momentarily the world’s worst person.
The table isn’t ready because the table occupying it are obnoxious and couldn’t care less there is a peering, restless group itching to righty overtake their space at the designated time slot and you receive all the abuse as the unflinching diners who refuse to leave act oblivious to all the goings on and refuse to do the decent thing and ask for the bill knowing full well time’s up and they’ve consumed all of their desserts and digestives.

It all sounds so morbid. Who would do such a job? Late shifts. Lots of cleaning. The night bus home. Anti-social hours. You become obsessed with food and wine so you spend a lot of your days off visiting restaurants and spending what little disposable income on dining out. Someone once said to me “Hospitality workers are the world’s poorest millionaires” and there’s a lot of truth to that. You want the lifestyle and experiences but the industry does not permit you to earn the same a banker, lawyer, trader, tech employee does - though you probably work just as hard (if not harder).

Why do this job? First of all, there are many who do it because they have to. They need a paid gig and they need it fast, and stay because other plans fall through. Or the artwork they produce (a lot of artists in front of house roles, did you not notice?) isn’t being commissioned and when it finally is, it’s often not paid on time. Or their degree is still in its second year and they need money for the rent (to be fair, we ALL need money for the rent). Or the hours suit them as it compliments their other job, say, as a freelance designer.

Then, there are the career servers. The ones who I’m really speaking about. The ones who make this an art form. Every night, the lights are dimmed; the menu rehearsals completed; the cigarettes ravishingly consumed out the back; the deodorant sprayed; the wee flushed; showtime, baby! They’re on stage.

Performers.

We’re performers, without the fanfare. We’re all nuance, and flair, and subtle movement of the hips as we glide past packed tables. We’re all smiles and positive energy and competence. We’re on show. We swan, we don’t run. We reek of core strength, balancing glasses and plates and personalities across the floor. Our confidence is impregnable (on the surface). We jump in and out of conversation with dozens of different individuals in any given service hour, and humour and entertain and comfort them all. We make cocksure recommendations and exude the air of a know-it-all. At our best, customers love us. They reference our names in their reviews. They walk in and see we’re working and feel relief - they’re being looked after tonight and nothing can go wrong. We hold power over the difference between a forgettable evening and a fantastic night. We make the same joke again and again and receive the same response because each time it’s to a new customer and nobody knows we’re massive frauds.

It’s addictive. It’s intoxicating. It’s not for everyone but it’s ours. Because for 4 hours every evening, we’re our own gods.

And then you go home. The bus driver couldn’t give a fuck who you served tonight, if you don’t run to catch the giant red bastard in 5 seconds, they’re speeding off and you have to wait another 23 minutes for the next one. You go arrive in your digs. Black mould in the ceiling the landlord swore they’re dealing with. Heating not working at full blast and the duvet cover keeps realigning in the most infuriating manner. Council tax. You’re humbled. You’re just a person, working a service job, on an unremarkable wage.

And come tomorrow, by around 6pm and you’re refilling someone’s tap water which they could easily do themselves, you find inner peace and contentment. At a stretch, you find happiness. We live to serve, and that’s alright by us. Someone’s got to do it, right?

What is a cuisine?

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.