What we know in America as Turkish Delight is, somewhat obviously, not referred to by that name in Turkey. Instead it goes by “lokum,” a word which seems to derive from Arabic for “morsel.” These are, however, a definitively Turkish invention, dreamed up at some point in the late 18th century, as traditional Ottoman confectionery was honed to a point of sugary perfection. Perfection in this case means small cubes of rosewater, lemon peel or bitter orange-flavored candy, thickened and bound with glucose to an ethereal chewiness that stops somewhere just short of a marshmallow. They made a huge impression on Europe upon their import in the 19th century, thus branding them with their current Western name, although it seems worth mentioning that they were initially known as the much goofier “Lumps of Delight.” As sold at Gulluoglu, a Turkish oasis amid the sea of Greek shops in the heart of Astoria, the rows of lokum are a beautiful sight, forming a tessellated horde of similarly-shaped brethren, all of them cast in soft pastel hues. This one had its surface dusted with a straw-like layer of toasted coconut, a popular topping at this export franchise, one of three locations in the city, which have operated in Turkey since 1871. It’s hard to say when and how a tropical fruit accompaniment became so connected to this characteristically Middle Eastern snack, but the two form a perfect pair, the softness of the lokum cosseted inside the coconut's toothsome sawdust coating.
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While the unphotogenic nature of this odd candy may seem to have something to do with the waxy translucence of the packaging, I can report that, even unwrapped, it does pretty much look like a turd that’s been hung out to dry in the sun. The same can be said for the churchkhela’s fresher cousin, although I imagine these confections fare better when encased within the traditional layer of thickened fruit juice, instead of one formed from intractable high fructose corn syrup. The processed imitation, despite its “aphrodisiac” claims, seems more silly than anything, encased in a soft plasticine aspic that demands knife-cutting rather than direct biting chomping. The taste is passable, with some hints of grape molasses (technically grape must, according to the ingredients list) and large walnut chunks helping to combat the otherwise-overwhelming artificiality on display. As for real stuff, despite churchkhela’s popularity beyond its native Georgia, into Turkey (the origin point of this snack), Armenia, Russia and beyond, I have not seen it anywhere in NYC. The Turkish on the packaging describes a “grape walnut dried sausage,” (despite what the Engish/German/French translations read); I imagine the fresh version’s range is limited to places where grapes grow in abundance, their byproducts funneled into mass sweet treat diversions. Georgia is wine country, and so blessed with these sort of resources, necessitating similar overflow desserts like pelamushi, a beautiful, pretty delicious grape pudding. Churchkhela can’t compete in the looks department (at its best it seems to resemble a poorly made candle or a fire cracker), but I imagine that, consumed on some remote Georgian vineyard in the fading evening light, it can make for a pretty magical experience in its own right.
Invented in 1912, Bonomo’s Turkish Taffy bar is billed as the ‘first interactive candy.’ A bit of a stretch, perhaps, considering the extent of the ‘interactivity’ here is bashing the extremely chewy candy against a surface hard enough to shatter it into a million pieces. If you miss this step, as I did after purchasing the bar from the Lower East Side’s always amazing Economy Candy, you may find yourself hopelessly gnawing at a series of too-large chunks, which remain totally resistant to stretching/bending. They can be cracked with teeth, but one attempt at this put such stress on my molars that I was afraid trying again would cost me a few fillings.
Despite the name, Turkish Taffy wasn’t always directly interactive, since it was originally stored behind Woolworth’s store counters in giant sheets. The helpful attendant would help you size out the piece you wanted, then would shatter it with a ball peen hammer, packaging up the resultant shards. The candy also isn’t Turkish, invented in the United States by the son of a Sephardic immigrant from the country. Albert Bonomo emigrated to the United States in the late 1800s and took up a trade as a candy maker in Coney Island, a business into which his son Victor followed him, developing this candy in the 1940s after a string of moderate successes ripping off more popular brands. Known as a ‘soft' or 'short nougat,’ similar to Italian torrone, it results from a mold-set mixture of egg whites and corn syrup. Victor Bonomo died in 1999 at the age of 100, but his company lives on, solely dedicated to the production of taffy bars and smaller ‘taffy nibbles.’ Also purchased on this same trip: a Zagnut, the odd coconut-covered peanut brittle bar whose 1960s TV ad campaign was even more memorable than the ones for Turkish Taffy. Few foods are as perfect for fusion as sandwiches, which whether in Dagwood monumental style or miniature snack size allow for a variety of differing ingredients to share one bready meeting place. Over the span of one week I consumed four fusion-oriented sandwiches, prepared with varying degrees of success: 1 - Paneer Achari Tikki / Polenta / Orange Tomatoes / Cilantro / Tamarind & Date Chutney: A leftover serving of these delectable cheese kebabs paved the way for a vaguely Indian-themed sandwich, using the ubiquitous tamarind date chutney (familiar as part of the omnipresent trio of condiments offered at Indian restaurants), also available in bottle form. A previous attempt at haphazardly pairing lamb shami kebab with polenta having proven successful, I embarked on the larger scale effort of mixing mild corn pap with Subcontinental flavors, fresh herbs and cherry tomatoes. The result was possibly the most successful of these four sandwiches, and also the only photograph taken under ideal circumstances. Fair warning that the backdrop will only grow more rumpled, and the staging more haphazard, as we continue.
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The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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