My First Sip of Salep

Recalling the first time I tasted Salep aboard a ferry in Istanbul

A few weeks back, in the midst of a season already brimming with more tasks than hours, I impulsively signed up for a 10-week food writing course, piling more onto my plate than seemed wise. Yet, this course has turned into a sliver of creative light, cutting through the chaos of packing, logistics and relocation. Today, I’m sharing a “foodoir” from one of my assignments—a culinary memoir that captures a moment close to my heart. As the air sharpens with the chill of autumn, my longing to sip salep on a cold Istanbul afternoon grows ever more insistent. I hope this gives you a taste of that memory.

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The ferry attendant, his thick mustache lightened at the tips by the residue of countless cigarettes, swung open the gate. In that moment, a tide of eager souls surged onto the weathered planks that connected the pier to the three-story ferry. In Istanbul, ferrying from one shore to the other is woven into the daily rhythm. On that brisk afternoon, I was making my 30-minute commute from Beşiktaş on the European side to Kadıköy on the Asian side.

Istanbul had captured my heart during my first visit in 2010 with my family. By 2015, I had returned not as a visitor but as a resident. I yearned to immerse myself in the language, to move with the locals and to shed the feeling of being an outsider.

As the passengers spilled onto the ferry, they instinctively gravitated toward their preferred levels. The first deck offered cozy, fabric-lined seats, a refuge from the chill. The second level was a lively mix of indoor and outdoor seating, centered around a bustling snack bar. The third level, exposed to the elements, provided a panoramic view of the city. You could learn a lot about a person from their chosen level; I claimed my place among the third-level passengers.

I ascended the steep staircase, grasping the wooden railing as the boat swayed with Bosphorus’s rhythm. My destination was the snack bar to purchase my customary cup of Turkish tea—çay. Clutching the tulip-shaped glass warmed my hands and made me feel as if I were blending in—an increasingly earnest goal as I settled into life in Istanbul.

Yet on this particular day, my attention was caught by other passengers ordering a drink I had never encountered. Aunties wrapped in snug coats and rosy-cheeked children cradled small, insulated cups topped with a dusting of cinnamon. Its appearance, reminiscent of eggnog, intrigued me. In my broken Turkish, I took a bold step and asked the frenzied vendor about this mysterious beverage. “Salep,” he replied hastily.

“I’ll have one, please,” I said and he quickly asked if I wanted cinnamon. Before I could respond, he sprinkled a layer over the surface. After exchanging a few Turkish lira for my cup, I made my way up to the third level. The ferry was already gliding away from the dock and my hand scrambled for the handrail, seeking stability for both myself and my salep.

Despite the cold, I nestled into a sun-drenched spot at the edge of the deck, gazing out at the churning waters of the Bosphorus. As I took my first sip, the cold air mingled with the warmth of the salep, forming a thin, cinnamon-infused skin that nearly scorched my tongue. After overcoming the initial awkwardness, I took another sip. The salep was thick, creamy and sweet.

With each sip, warmth cascaded down my throat and drinking salep felt like a quiet victory in my life abroad—a triumph of embracing the unknown, guiding me to moments that deepened my belonging in a city I had come to adore.