Never in the illustrious 2.75-year history of the 52 Meals Project has a restaurant I wanted to attend been closed upon arrival. Until tonight.
I’d called ahead to get the hours for Cafe Glechik, a Russian place on Brighton Beach recommended by a Russian ex-coworker, and a woman had, in hesitant and broken English, claimed the hours of operation for Saturdays were “10 to 7,” which didn’t seem right. The place was shuttered and locked upon arrival; so much for the plastic bottle of cold Smirnoff in my bag (Cafe Glechik is B.Y.O.B.). Which lead to another first of the 52 Meals Project: in a strange and unfamiliar neighborhood, how does one find a decent place to eat when all appears closed or bodega-related?
Why, stop a stranger.
“How about . . . that guy,” Carmella said, pointing to a random pedestrian in the fast-moving crowd on the sidewalk of Brighton Beach Avenue. He was a solid man, stubbly and balding, with a furrowed brow, as one often is in this city while striding purposely forward with a briefcase. But after I excused our intrusion and explained our plight, he was happy to discuss our options in a thick, Eastern-European (Russian?) accent. The Russian restaurants on the Boardwalk are fancy, he said, and too expensive, which he defined as having entrees in the $20 range. He was keen to steer us toward a Turkish restaurant instead, but supplied directions for both it and the Russian joints before we parted ways. Carmella and I decided to give the Turkish place a try and biked off to Istanbul Restaurant.
Our waiter, Sohrab, had a mystical stare that seemed to pass through us as he took our orders and presented our dishes; we thought maybe it was a Turkish thing but probably more likely drugs. I had the baby lamb shish kebab, which arrived, as the menu promised “grilled to delight” while Carmella opted for the Izgara Köfte meatballs, which were actually mini meat patties. Everything was O.K., perhaps bland, and we weren’t flabbergasted; the presentation wasn’t engrossing, either, as both of our entrees arrived with the same slaw-based accouterments and garnishes, as if churned out of a cafeteria assembly line.
The view from our sidewalk seating of the bay was picturesque, with a mist in the distance and low buildings lining the water, strangely pretty and unlike New York, resembling Amsterdam, or California, we thought.
I notice now, at the bottom of the receipt, the slogan “Our place is yours until you are full.” We certainly were, but I can tell you there’s nothing better to burn down a belly of Turkish meats than to take an hour-long bike-ride through Brooklyn on Ocean Parkway, home to the nation’s first bike path, upon which we ignored the “bicycles permitted on west mall only” rule and discovered that Carmella’s newly installed dynamo-powered bicycle lights don’t work despite looking really cool.
Istanbul Restaurant
- 1715 Emmons Ave., Brooklyn
- (718) 368-3587
- Meal 43 of 52: shish kebab ($15.95), cheese roll ($6.95), Ispanak (spinach spread) $5.95 and two glasses of red house wine ($6.75 each)