Gluten. Be still, my beating heart, I love gluten so much. I find it in so many of my guilty pleasure foods—cookies, french fries, candies, lasagna, knockoff cereal (see May 2022). But you know this article is about gluten’s greatest work: Bread.
It’s one of those foods you can love in all kinds of unique forms (Ezekiel bread notwithstanding). Bosphorus in Hamlin serves this light, fluffy kind, lavaş (that’s la-VOSH), with hummus and dips of various flavors and textures. As an established bread-liker, I highly recommend it.
But before you grab that bread knife and start sawing, there’s one important detail: lavaş is hollow. As in, that plump loaf is actually full of steam, and it’ll fall like a soufflé as soon as you tear off that first piece—yes, with your hands. So take that as a word of caution when you give it that first poke.
Once it pops, though, the inside looks and feels fabulously bready, and tastes warm and soft and comfy in the way that only freshly baked bread can.
Oh, and don’t mistake hollow bread for less bread; there’s enough for four people to tear this thing to shreds without feeling too full afterward.
We confirmed that fact firsthand. It was Jamie, our publisher, and of course our photographer, Fred, who were with me; our schedules were packed, and that lavaş was the first food any of us had had that day.
Ravenous as we were, though, we were still plucking off the pieces on the bottom when the rest of the food came out.
And the rest of the food was just as tasty and filling. I had four cute little stuffed cabbages, packed with rice, tomatoes, garlic, and ground lamb and topped with a sort of yogurt sauce. Fred and Jamie both ordered the Chicken Adana Kebap,aka grilled chicken skewers dressed up with spicy, savory seasonings and accompanied by a rainbow of pickled cabbage, beets, carrots, and red onions with a Turkish vinaigrette drizzle. Two dishes we weren’t expecting to photograph until they came out so beautifully.
I don’t mean to get all meta here, but let me talk about The Local’s food photo shoots for a minute. They’re usually pretty straightforward: We order the food, we receive the food, we photograph the food while it’s fresh—it doesn’t take long, since food can’t accidentally blink. And then, of course, we sit down to eat the food.
Or, rather, the writer does. Everyone else basically peaces out immediately, either to return some business call or to head to the next shoot on the other side of town that starts in, like, three minutes.
It’s such a little thing, breaking bread together. We often skip it during the busiest times, the times we see each other the least. But it’s during those times, somehow, that it feels like it matters the most.