The International Istanbul Gastronomy Festival
When you hear the word "festival," you probably think of a collection of jam bands performing to college kids in the middle of a cornfield, or perhaps some swanky soiree on the streets of SoBe, sponsored by champagne companies and studded with celebrity chefs. At least that's the version I pictured when I was invited to attend the 12th annual International Istanbul Gastronomy Festival in February. My mind was awash with visions of vendors giving out samples of Turkish delight in a rainbow of colors, roasted meats dripping in oniony, herbaceous juices, and a never-ending line of booths where I could unravel the mysteries of Ottoman cuisine one taste at a time. Maybe there'd be a band, and I would definitely be leaving there with at least five extra pounds of heft on my figure.
Unfortunately, I didn't get lavished with exotic eats created by the Turkish versions of Bobby Flay and Rachael Ray upon arrival, nor did I fatten my frame; instead, I found myself hungry and bitter after gawking for hours at countless culinary creations that I couldn't taste, as the Turks have a different idea of how a gastronomy festival should be organized. That's not to say it isn't lively and entertaining for a while — it just needs work, and I'll explain.
But first, forget about my all-you-can-eat taste-a-thon fantasy: this festival centered around testing the abilities of hundreds of young chefs from around the world (but mostly from Turkey) in a series of over 40 intensive competitions. It's far from the way these things are done in America, where guests pay for admission into an area decked out in glittering streamers, are handed a plastic plate with and insert for a wine glass, and are given the privilege of unlimited booze and gourmet bites from a wide selection of stalls, with rare instances where you have to shell out extra cash for something special, like raw oysters or caviar. Here, you got to watch as high-school and college students engaged in a series of cooking trials focusing on things like pasta, pizza, and modern Turkish cuisine using mystery boxes of ingredients, as well as artistic exploits like ice carving, floral sugarcraft, wedding cakes, and show platters of small bites a la garde manger class. Only the judges had the opportunity to fill their bellies. A bribe of twenty Turkish lira couldn't get you a bite of baklava if you begged for it. (Trust me: I tried.)
Perhaps in the next few years the festival will become closer to my dream of a döner kebab free-for-all, but for now, the Turks at least have one aspect of a great gastronomy festival on lockdown: the talent. In addition to drawing exceptional students from all over Turkey and as far away as England, Italy, Qatar, Israel, Serbia, Malaysia, and Korea, a world-class panel of chefs flew in from across the globe to participate in judging and critiquing, some also to partake in events themselves, as certain events . To make matters more intimidating for rookie cooks, each judge donned his or her finest kitchen attire, fully loaded with fine metal medals hanging from their necks, colorful pins and sashes across their sleeves, shoulders and waists to commemorate their prowess in competition, and to exert their egos just a bit. One particular chef judge, Thomas A. Gugler, wearing what looked to be twenty-plus pounds of bling around his neck and a full color spectrum of sponsor badges emblazoned across his coat — even made sure to put a little extra wax in the curls at the ends of his mustache, a measure that multiplied his swagger a million-fold. (Google Gugler to see just how much of a baller chef he is, I dare you.)
The majority of entrants, however, were aged 16 to 22 and from culinary schools across Turkey, many of whom were competing for scholarships and to make the right impression for landing an internship with one of the judging chefs. These green burner-jockeys came ready to chop and grill, stone-cold expressions locked on their mugs, knuckles cracking in anxious anticipation for the time-keeper to give the indication to begin before every cooking competition. You couldn't quite smell their fear because the aroma of herbs and onions from previous contests lingered strong, but you could certainly feel it when you glanced at them frantically doing last-minute checks to their stations.
The festival was held inside a large chunk of the Tuyap Convention Center, a massive space in Istanbul's Beylikduzu section. One half was devoted to the majority of the cooking competitions, with a squared U-shaped row of 20-plus makeshift kitchen stalls set up on the far side, and a blockade of tables set up across the U's ends to keep back the crowd of viewers, mostly friends and family supporting the entrants. And these were some passionate fans. Groups came with enormous Greek, Pakistani, and (of course) Turkish flags, and there were homemade signs with cut-out letters from different alphabets, complete with hilarious photos of the chefs they came to cheer on. Sections would break out into patriotic songs during international competitions (as some were solely for Turks), often at the same time, in a bid to sing over one another. It was controlled chaos in the best of ways, everyone smiling and enjoying the friendly rivalries.
As a member of the media, I was one of the lucky few who got to sneak behind the barrier of tables (which kept guests at a rather far distance from every station except for the ones at the ends of the U on each side) for an up-close glimpse of the chef-testants in the timed cooking competitions. Walking from end to end of the kitchen stalls, which were each equipped with a stove, prep surfaces, oven and sink, you could see in every competitor's eyes the desire to outdo his or her peers, to prove to the esteemed panel that their dish and their ideas for flavor profiles reigned supreme. Some cooks handled the pressure with a cool calm, confident expressions plastered on their faces; others made it was easy for onlookers to discern their nervousness by tapping knives on their cutting boards and humming familiar melodies in hope of conjuring relief before having to scramble.
Even with tensions running high, there was never any animosity between entrants, save for some teammates getting frustrated with one another during a group event, and the good vibes carried over to the diverse group of fans. A major reason for this was because of the way the competitions were judged. Instead of one winner claiming first-place (and subsequent bragging rights) in each category, there could be multiple gold, silver, bronze, and "merit" winners — or no winners at all — for each event. Upwards of five judges analyzed each individual's or team's entry according to a detailed set of criteria for each contest — be it plated sweets, a lamb dish, or Asian cuisine prepared against a clock — tasting, evaluating creativity, technique and plate presentation, and making sure each contestant abided by the utmost standards in sanitation and organization. In the end, this meant that some competitions would have no gold winners at all (like the Best High School of the Year competition) or several silver winners, and there were even events where the highest honor given out was bronze.
There was one event, however, where every participant was awarded gold: a cooking competition between disabled culinary students. Battling diseases like MS and other oppressive conditions — many bound to wheelchairs — these chefs were able to defy the laws of logic and create some extraordinary displays of culinary workmanship. The amount of pride felt throughout the room between the families and friends of the competitors added a powerful level of emotion to the festival, as the sheer effort and skills of each entrant went far beyond the judges' expectations.
On top of the cooking competitions, there were culinary art competitions that exhibited some of the best food sculptures and designs I've ever seen. These festivities took place In the second, larger convention center space next door. About 30 percent of the expansive area was devoted to tens of tables displaying ornate wedding, celebration and novelty cakes (think Spider Man and Lord of the Rings-themed), beautiful show platters of meat, fish, hors d'oeuvres and aspic-glossed terrines, and remarkable sculptures made from fat, marzipan, and chocolate that were mindblowingly meticulous. The amount of time spent on adding detail to certain pieces extended into weeks, with the prospect of a gold or silver medal at the end of the journey the main motivation to get through the arduous work. If they won something, anything, it would be worth every second and drop of sweat they put into it, as these awards carry heavy weight in the culinary world, bestowing a lifetime of smack-talking privileges and kitchen clout, on top of a stellar addition to any resume.
Sculptures carved from butter, tallow, chocolate, and marzipan were absolutely stunning, displaying such precision that onlookers could hardly believe that edible ingredients were the media of choice for these artists. From an American country music star, guitar in hand, mouth a-croon, totally chiseled from fat, to a serene scene depicting a chess match between two men sitting a table in a park, all carved from chocolate, there were museum-worthy creations at almost every table you stopped at in this section. My only qualm was that you couldn't see any of these sculptures being made, since they were all finished before the start of the festival. (Okay: I also wanted to eat some of them.)
Across the way, you could watch fruit and vegetable carving competitions, where masters went to work like surgeons on ripe cantaloupes, transforming them from simple spheres into blossoming roses with layers of glistening petals. Here, guests could get within less than a meter of the competitors to see how dexterous their hands were, and to get an idea of just how many tiny carving tools were needed to create such wonderful works of arts. There was also an ice carving competition, where the chainsaws came out in full force to turn huge rectangular blocks into wild animals, flowers and trees, but only one person walked away with a medal (and it was silver, at that).
On the other side of this section were a small amount of stalls for the leftover space, most of which were run by festival sponsors who were showcasing industrial kitchen equipment, Turkish cookbook sellers, or people who had samples of things like whole heads of Turkish garlic, uncooked rice, and ice cream that they wouldn't share for reasons unbeknownst to me. And many stalls were just empty. While the ones that weren't were interesting to look for an hour or so on the first day, the shortage of food samples, stalls for people to purchase snacks or learn anything about Turkish cuisine, and the lack of options for attendees (aside from watching appetite-inducing cooking competitions on repeat) made me and my entire party rather weary after a few hours on day one, and we had to come back for two more full days of coverage. Despite an unlimited supply of Turkish coffee to keep us from falling asleep between events, the latter two days felt less like a festival for the food-loving public and more like an event developed solely for those immersed in the esoteric world of culinary schools and high-caliber chef competitions.
The event's chairman, Y. Yalcin Manav, described his goals for the festival in a brief interview: "There are three main cuisines: French, Chinese, and Turkish. I want the world to get to know the amazing food of my homeland as much as people are familiar with French and Chinese cuisine, and want to spread the influence of Turkish culinary arts to every corner of the world. In the end, we want people to think of our cuisine as number one." Manav, who looks like a human-version of Splinter from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but with a markedly less zen personality, was running the show like a tyrannical Prime Minister in the midst of war, rarely changing his fiery expression and breaking out in more hives as the festival trudged onward.
While Manav's intentions are well-based, in future years he'll need to adjust his approach on decorating the event space (maybe use a little bit more than humongous sponsorship banners next time?) and doing a better job to feed the people who pay to attend, because it really wasn't an expectation of mine or anyone else's to leave the gastronomy festival starving. Hopefully, he'll realize that he already has the talent in place, which is the toughest part, and that his festival now needs to place equal emphasis on educating and feeding the non-participating guests as it does on competitions. That way, outsiders to Turkish cuisine can be converted into people who understand and spread word of its greatness, instead of leaving the fest feeling entertained, but still curious about what defines the food of such a special nation.