Feasting at Floor Level

Criss cross, applesauce - dinner is served.

The first time I ate on the floor was in Karaman, my mother-in-law’s hometown in south-central Türkiye. As the eldest of six, four daughters and two sons, she comes from a world very different from my father-in-law’s Izmir, where Aegean life is more laid-back. In Karaman, tradition runs deep, and hospitality is second nature.

We had traveled by car from Izmir, a total of 11 hours, for my husband’s cousin’s wedding, a grand affair of over 500 guests, where celebrations were a week-long carousel of feasting and dancing. Plates were never empty, music never ceased, and every night, we collapsed into our beds because the day had happened to us.

On our final evening before departure, we ended our time with an intimate gathering—just 15 of us, immediate family only. Someone had arrived with a towering stack of etli ekmek (pictured below), Karaman’s famed flatbread. Crisp-edged and fragrant, its surface slick with minced lamb and warm spices, it was laid out alongside bowls of lentil soup, a tumble of fresh tomatoes and onions, sprigs of parsley, and wedges of lemon. 

To make space for us all, one of Salih’s aunts transformed the entrance corridor into a dining room. With practiced ease, she unfurled a long, rectangular sheet across the floor, a stage set for a meal as old as time. Around me, a flurry of hands arranged the spread, and before my eyes, a “table” appeared where there had been none. No chairs, just the easy intimacy of a shared meal on the floor. The video below is a small clip from this very meal.

I settled in beside my husband, glancing his way for silent instruction, a novice in the unspoken etiquette of such gatherings. It didn’t take long to realize I had misread the script.

Here, men sat cross-legged, broad, and at ease. Women, however, folded themselves neatly to one side, legs tucked together, a posture both demure and, if I’m honest, deeply uncomfortable. I hesitated, then begrudgingly adjusted, shifting onto my hip with quiet annoyance at the expectation yet unwilling to break the rhythm of the room. Tradition has a way of demanding surrender.

With a small sigh, I pulled the edge of the tablecloth over my lap, fashioning it into an impromptu napkin. Then, leaning in, I reached for a piece of etli ekmek.

Since then, I’ve grown to love the ritual of eating on the floor. There’s an intimacy to it, a sense of returning to something older than tables and chairs. In addition to using cloth on the floor (sofra sergisi), families in Türkiye often gather around the sofra, a low table once favored in Ottoman homes and palaces. At its center sits a large round tray (sini), balanced on a wooden stand (sofra ayağı), transforming the floor into a sitting space to gather (please refer to the image at the top of the article for a visual). It’s a way of eating that feels both grounding and grand.

Eating at a sofra with my in-laws.

It is believed that this tradition took root among the Turks due to their nomadic origins and large family structures. A life on the move hardly accommodates an excess of furniture, and so a simpler way of gathering became customary. Of course, the Turks are far from alone in this practice; Koreans, Japanese, Indians and many others have long embraced the art of dining at ground level. In nearly all these cultures, as in Türkiye, shoes are not worn in the home, both out of respect and a commitment to cleanliness.

Some enthusiasts insist that eating this way enhances digestion and flexibility, which may be true. What I do know for sure is that there is an undeniable charm to the experience, a quiet intimacy, and a sense of continuity with generations past. Yet, like many traditions, it is fading. Today, it lingers mostly in rural villages, where life moves a little slower, unhurried by modern convenience…or chairs, for that matter.