In the frozen wasteland of Cappadocia, the man running my cave hotel recommended a restaurant close by, called Orient. It was a short trek, but froth with difficulties like ice and snow. After a few slips and close brushes with icy death, I made it inside.
I checked out the menu, remembering that the guy at my cave had recommended the steak. After a short glance, I found the “Minute Steak.” The name wasn’t terribly specific and I wondered what it could possibly mean. Did it take a minute to cook? A minute to eat? Maybe it was minute in the sense of being small? Perhaps it was Turkey’s version of Minute Maid? My curiosity got the best of me and I ordered.
A minute went by. Then another minute. I guess my first question was a resounding NO. In fact it took almost 30 minutes to arrive and I quickly saw that it was neither minute in size, nor would it take a minute to eat. I cut in and started eating, it tasted meh. I finished half, then discovered that the second half was virtually unslice-able and almost twice as thick as the first half. Perhaps they had taken a minute to thaw the steak before beginning to cook it, resulting in the name. Either way, I was disappointed, but not nearly as disappointed as I was in the salad on my plate. For even though it was difficult to eat the steak, at least it was meat and not green.
For unexplained reasons, the restaurant ended up giving our table a free platter of fruit and free postcards showing what Cappadocia looks like in brighter, less wintery times. These made me very happy, but not happy enough to forget the steak. Next time I’ll get some chicken.
