Turkish Coffee: Little Cup, Big Tradition

Leah Schaffer

The author enjoying a Turkish Coffee experience in Istanbul

Photo: Kayleigh Sopko

    It’s easy to get whisked away in the ambiance of a European city, especially one that has learned to accommodate to the tastes of culture craving Americans.  Coming from a country whose history began recently by comparison, it is hard for me to resist the desire to mold myself into the rich history of a place.

    I knew from the time 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 European metropolis of Istanbul, Turkey.  I immediately settled in a constant panic to do whatever it took to blend in as best I could—as is the case for any traveler to a new and unfamiliar place.  It’s the reason why we fly through thirteen 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 what 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 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 people responded to the new coffee rave by establishing the world’s first coffeehouses a little over ten years later.  Not unlike our Starbuck’s atmosphere, these coffeehouses served as 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.  To the left and right are walls covered with neat, little coffee cups and other little trinkets familiar to the coffee culture, and directly in front of you is one of the best panoramic views of the city.  It sounds very much like posh places tucked away in Manhattan or Los Angeles, doesn’t it?  But, this was the making of a civilization in the mid sixteenth century, and despite some rough spouts with troublemakers and other unfortunate circumstances that forced the banishment of these establishments for a period of time, coffee has brewed to be an important component of Turkish culture ever since.

    At school, 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.  I was, of course, disappointed to find that most of the world drinks instant coffee that tasted like…well…nothing—enough of nothing, as a matter of fact, to make a wannabe coffee connoisseur like myself long even for the pot of coffee left to thicken like tar on the inadequate warmer of the twenty-four hour trucker’s diner on some highway in the middle of nowhere.  So, needless to say, arriving at a place that saves a special place for coffee made me feel utterly caffeinated. 

    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 fincan after being brewed with care in a small pot known as a cezve for fifteen to twenty minutes over charcoal.  It meant to be sipped.  (Though today, many restaurants take the easy way out and quicken the process to meet the demands of their fast-moving consumers, but you can spot these by the absence of the frothy top.)  Still, even today, it isn’t meant just as a grab and go sort of thing—it does not appeal to the American way of haste—instead, it has evolved into something whose purpose 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.  If I really don’t like the chump, I make a wicked 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 “Yea, 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, and 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.  The preparation of Turkish coffee, however, does not include the separation of the two, so that 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, but not just because it leaves a black residue and a 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 of the cup.  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 there for some time.  

    Gradually, you’ll begin to see a little puddle creeps 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, 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 his, so take revenge through the interpretation if need be.

    Really, though, in the end, it’s not about the coffee.  It’s not about how it’s made, where it came from, what it’s served in.  It’s not really even about the traditions that have developed around it.  Apparently, most Turks nowadays actually even 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 their company and conversation—slowly.  According to the Turkish saying, “to drink one cup of coffee together guarantees forty 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.  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 enjoy.  We thanked him, grabbed our books that we had been reading, and sped off and away, realizing that we had been sitting there for over an hour and were running late.

Leah Schaffer

schafferlj at my. hiram.edu

last updated 12 September 2008