What to Eat in Turkey

Turkey sits between the Mediterranean, Black Sea, and Anatolian plateau, and its cuisine mirrors this geography. Olive oil and herbs thrive on the coasts, while wheat, pulses, and livestock define the interior. Markets privilege seasonality, with grilling and slow braises anchoring daily meals.

Meals are structured yet social: hearty breakfasts, soup-led lunches, and shared spreads at dinner. Bread accompanies almost everything, from stews to meze. Spices are used with restraint—pul biber, sumac, cumin—allowing produce and charcoal smoke to lead the flavors.

Made with hand-chopped lamb balanced by tail fat and seasoned mainly with salt and pul biber, Adana kebabı is formed around a wide, flat iron skewer with a zırh knife and firm palms, then grilled over hardwood charcoal until the ridges set. The mixture is kept cool so the fat binds, the skewer is slapped lightly to vent steam, and as dripping fat hits the coals it perfumes the meat with smoke; it is served with lavaş or pide, charred green peppers and tomatoes, and sumac-dusted onions with parsley. The flavor is juicy, lightly fiery, and distinctly lamby, with a crackling exterior where the surface has seared, a texture prized for its spring and moisture rather than crumbliness. Named for Adana in the fertile Çukurova, the kebab carries a registered geographical indication and a codified method dating to local butchers’ guilds, and it is commonly eaten at ocakbaşı grills for lunch or dinner, often alongside ayran and fresh herbs year-round.

Kayseri mantısı are tiny hand-pinched dumplings made from a thin egg-enriched wheat dough wrapped around a filling of finely minced beef or lamb mixed with grated onion, salt, and black pepper, sometimes a touch of allspice. The parcels, often small enough that locals boast of fitting “forty to a spoon,” are boiled until tender, then dressed with cold garlicky yogurt and a sizzling butter sauce infused with tomato paste or pul biber, and finished with dried mint or a dusting of sumac. The contrast defines the dish: silky skins, a savory core, cool tang from yogurt, and aromatic heat rising from the butter, each element balanced rather than heavy. Long associated with Kayseri’s home kitchens and celebratory tables, mantı mark labor and hospitality, and today they are eaten at lunch or dinner across Turkey, in homes and humble lokantas, with bread or a simple salad alongside.

İmam bayıldı belongs to the Aegean tradition of zeytinyağlı dishes: eggplants slit and either shallow-fried or oven-roasted, then stuffed with a slow-sweated mixture of onions, tomatoes, garlic, and parsley bathed in generous olive oil. The tray bakes gently with a little water or tomato juice until the eggplant collapses into a silky, sweet-savory cradle and the olive oil mingles with vegetable sugars, creating a glossy sauce best enjoyed at room temperature. Its name—“the imam fainted”—reflects Ottoman-era affection for the richness of olive oil, and the dish remains a summer staple when markets overflow with eggplant and cooking moves earlier or later in the day to avoid heat. Served as meze or a light main with rice pilaf and bread, it offers a delicate, perfumed taste that is vegetarian by design, appearing at family tables and meyhane-style spreads from the Aegean coast to the big cities.

Baklava is a meticulously layered pastry of yufka sheets brushed with clarified butter and sandwiched around a filling of finely chopped nuts—most prized are emerald-green Antep fıstığı pistachios from the Gaziantep region, though walnuts are common in the north and interior. After baking to a deep golden flake, a hot syrup of sugar, water, and lemon is ladled over and allowed to absorb slowly so the layers stay crisp rather than sodden, a balance of crunch, fragrance, and measured sweetness. Gaziantep baklava has an official geographical indication, formalizing nut varieties, butter quality, and sheet thickness, and its craft traces to master bakers whose techniques were refined under palace and guild systems. Eaten on holidays, weddings, and everyday tea breaks, you find it from Gaziantep to Istanbul in countless shapes—squares, şöbiyet, and nests—typically served at room temperature with tea or Turkish coffee to highlight its buttery aroma.

Menemen is a soft, saucy scramble of eggs cooked gently with peeled tomatoes and green sivri biber peppers in olive oil or butter, with the optional and much-debated addition of onions, and occasional enrichments like beyaz peynir or slices of sucuk. The pan simmers until the tomatoes thicken and peppers soften, then eggs are folded in and left just barely set so the texture remains custardy and spoonable, ready to be scooped with crusty bread. Light, bright, and fragrant, it exemplifies the Turkish preference for letting produce lead while spices stay in the background, with salt, black pepper, and perhaps pul biber doing quiet work. Menemen anchors breakfast tables nationwide and shows up late at night after long shifts or travel; in Istanbul apartments and roadside lokantas alike, it is an everyday dish tied to seasonality, tasting best when tomatoes are sun-sweet in summer.

From charcoal-grilled kebap to olive oil braises and yogurt-brightened dumplings, Turkey’s cuisine translates diverse climates into distinct techniques and flavors. Spices amplify rather than mask, while wheat, legumes, vegetables, and lamb form a steady backbone across regions. For deeper guidance on seasonal eating and travel planning, explore more Turkish food content and destination insights on Sunheron, where you can match dishes and festivals with the best weather to experience them.