APPLE TEA

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an uptight person. And I’ve nothing against carpet sellers. 

            

I once worked as an Executive Assistant at a multinational corporation in Istanbul. My boss, who didn’t speak Turkish, used to assign me for outside jobs too, picking gifts for his wife, acting as his interpreter, instructing his cleaning lady and such. On rare occasions I would go out on what I called “field duty.” I would double as an interpreter and guide, accompanying his foreign colleagues who would visit Istanbul every now and then. My boss had trusted me and would say that I was honest as the day was long. 

It took me a few excursions to get the hang of it. I was scarcely at ease about their safety. There were many pickpockets, and I often wished I had more eyes, ears and arms to spare as well as a sledgehammer for cheeky salesmen. I was en garde at all times. Most shopkeepers would  offer me ‘my cut’ whenever a purchase was made but I’d always decline saying that I wasn’t a tour guide. 

 

Today I had Mr. van Rijk with me. He was Dutch, talkative and funny. We rounded off our cultural tour ably; the Topkapi Palace Museum, Basilica Cistern, Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia and Hippodrome. We had a nice meal at a local eatery— at company’s expense. On the way back to the office he offered to buy me a cup of pomegranate juice - very fashionable nowadays - but I refused. Fruit juice was too juvenile. I also didn’t want guests to feel obligated to buy me anything.

            Mr. van Rijk knew about the Grand Bazaar, and how it had almost four-thousand shops and over sixty alleyways but he had never been inside. So he said, 

            “Do we have a chance to stop by a carpet shop?” 

            Keeping in mind his nationality and its reputation for frugality, I was quite surprised at this request. Carpet shops were notorious for their jaw-dropping prices. Once they got hold of someone, they would never let them leave empty-handed. In other words, you could count yourself lucky for stepping back out with all of your money. Notwithstanding, my reservations were more a question of general price-to-performance of the merchandise themselves. In all honesty, I’ve never seen actual Istanbulites shop at these touristy places. What’s more, my guest was from a country which had invented the Flessenlikker; a utensil to scrape the very edges of ketchup bottles. 

            We then entered an exquisite-looking carpet shop right outside the bazaar, one which my boss had already handed me a business card for just such an occasion. If you’ve ever been to a carpet shop in the Middle East, especially in Turkey you’re familiar with the routine. 

            First, the senior salesperson - that’s usually the owner - weighs the tourist up; judging whether or not you’ll be a real buyer as welcomes you into his ‘humble shop.’ If you are, you’ll be seated by the more valuable carpets of the gallery and will be offered a hot beverage, tea or coffee. Then, they’ll make a show of it by hurling the rugs in the air in circles. 

            That day was my first time in that particular shop. Inside, as we made our way upstairs, I couldn’t ignore the price tags. I had to find a discreet way to signal Mr.van Rijk to bargain to his last breath. That is if he was willing. Following our welcome ceremony, a young boy appeared with a tray carrying a cup of coffee for me and a funny-looking hot red drink for him. Meanwhile, the sales person was going on about the superb craftsmanship of the silk rug he was holding up. 

            “This exquisitely beautiful one guarantees solid noise absorption and sturdiness, therefore sustainability. It will bring a luxurious feel to any space.” He paused for a second then added, “I’ll tell you a secret. The girl who weaved this rug laboured so hard her fingertips were left injured when it was finished, she could no longer use them!. Look at the colours of that one there. You may or may not know, silk rugs have higher knot counts, typically at least 200 KPSI, that’s ‘knots per square inch’, yes, and this one is 400 KPSI. Twice as much, can you imagine?” 

            I glanced at Mr. van Rijk. He was listening with significant amazement. I on the other hand was left speechless by this fabricated story. By the way, what was that drink they’d offered my guest? 

            “Excuse me” I said in Turkish, “What’s that?” I was pointing at Mr. van Rijk’s glass cup. 

            “Apple tea,” said the boy who served them. 

            “Apple tea?” 

            “Yes, apple tea.” He smiled as if to say you're welcome and left. 

 

I had heard about it yet had no idea what it tasted like. It looked awfully cheap. I asked the salesman quietly, 

           “How come you served him apple tea and coffee to me? Is it proper to serve different drinks?” I was grinning so Mr van Rijk wouldn’t understand.

          “No, it’s okay. He’s a foreigner.”

          “With all due respect I don’t think it’s okay. After all he’s the guest, not me. I can have Turkish coffee every day, shouldn’t he be offered some?”

            “Of course, but they love apple tea.” 

 

 

Apple Tea… The enigmatic hot beverage that’s only good for tourists. It was completely unknown to the local population, unmarketted and unconsumed. Apples themselves weren’t popular in Turkish cuisine, pies or crumbles were unheard of until very recently, let alone apple tea... I repeated my concern,

            “How do you know? Did they tell you they liked it?”

            “Yes!” 

             “Are you really telling me that at some point they actually said they preferred this ambiguous, instant-made up drink over a proper Turkish coffee with a delight on the side?” I knew I shouldn’t have put it like that but I couldn’t help it. And I wouldn’t be touching my coffee to show my protest. 

            He was getting red-faced, “Madam, this is hospitality” he said, “if they don’t want it, they don’t have to drink it. It’s all fair.”

            I looked at Mr. van Rijk. The poor man was quietly sipping his crappy tea, hearing the salesman's palaver.

            “How is that fair? Locals are served properly but when it comes to foreigners they ought to be happy with that slime. You don’t even serve regular tea in its customary glass. How much is this thing anyway?”

            The salesman was getting impatient. “If they want coffee they can ask for it.”

            “Well I didn’t ask for mine but I got one anyway. I don’t get it. This rug is going for 8,000 dollars but it doesn’t even come with a decent drink to your clients? I’m sure your boss would love to hear about it.” I turned to Mr. van Rijk, “Oh, we’re just joking.”  I quickly gave him my lokum. He smiled and looked away as if he didn’t want to bother us.

            “Is something wrong? I am Murat, the shop owner’s son. You can tell me.” 

            It’s always the son. This question came from a man in a crispy white shirt with anthracite trousers that appeared out of nowhere. We sized each other up. He was trying to work out my status from my clothes, like any salesman. In the world of such men, women were good for three things: sex, housework and childbearing.  He had been listening in on the conversation all along and he was trying to intimidate me. I wouldn’t give in.  Istanbul was my home, and I doubted that these wispy stubbled men with skin-tight trousers cared about representing their country in a positive light.  He ordered his salesman to continue on with his presentation who this time grabbed a wool carpet:

            “This antique Persian Style rug features an exceptional floral design that flows harmoniously with other geometric elements for an interesting twist to Ottoman sensibilities. With shades of blue, red, golden playing the hero in the pattern...” He was listing the features one after the other like a news reporter. I continued,

            “I was asking your salesman why you’d served me coffee and my guest... that drink.” I couldn’t bring myself to say it. “After all he’s a foreigner too, so...”

            Murat said,

            “Madam, I understand your concern for your guests. But don’t you worry, it’s okay. We don’t give you the expensive and serve him on the cheap. No, no.” He firmly shook his head to both sides. 

            “Excuse me?”

            “We're not like other shopkeepers looking to rip off foreigners. We treat you equally. Madam, they get apple tea because they like it. My father also served apple tea to his foreign guests. And his father before him.” Owning the same shop for three generations ? I don’t think so.  “They all served apple tea.” He continued, “And it was highly appreciated.”

            “Excuse me but that drink is not even made of apples. It’s fake. Simply an E621 shot!” 

            “What shot ?” he said with a jerky smile.” He was playing games with me. 

            “Monosodium Glutamate... Commonly known as a flavour booster. It is one of the most cancer-causing substances.”

            We gazed at each other with hatred.

            “Okay, let me ask you this and all will be well” I said, “Do you find this drink good enough to have yourself ?”

            “Why would I drink it ? I’m not a foreigner?”

            “What does that mean? You say it as though they’re aliens.”

            “In a way they are. They’re foreigners.”

            “Oh my God.”

            “Besides, if it's all about being fair, your coffee isn’t expensive either. It’s  not real coffee. It’s cheap too.”

            “What?” I froze. I didn't know what to say to this arrogance. What kind of a farce had I fallen into? That was it, I had lost my patience. I turned to the boy who was praising the carpets, ‘How can this carpet costs 8000 dollars anyway ? I’ve got the exact same one in my living room and it's not even a quarter of the price.” 

            Then I turned to the manager, “Instead of defending apple tea as if it were your father's son, you could have made one coffee for my guest as a common courtesy by now. It wouldn’t even matter whether he drank it or not, seeing how it’s instant anyway.”

            Murat grew furious. He told me that I didn’t know the first thing about client relations and that I was in no place to teach him his job. I retorted with a history lesson. Which culture did this apple tea belong to anyway? It wasn’t Turkish. As I began lecturing him about the distinction between Ottoman and Turkish values, he again interjected that I had no idea how to entertain guests and that besides he gained all his values from the Quran. What !? I responded by saying that Islam did not suit us to begin with, that Turks need not stoop so low as to cover up their women, to oppress and ignore them. Our vehement argument was raging out of hand. At one point I picked up Mr van Rijk's empty cup, tossed it on the floor,

            “Look, you even brought it in a plain water glass!” Just then Mr. van Rijk raised his hand and said; 

            “Hey, I really liked this tea very much. Can I have another one please?” He then turned to me and said, “Won’t you try one too?”  

            I slowly sat back down, not knowing what to do. Murat shifted closer with a simper on his face, as his salesman rushed back to fetch another glass. You can tell he felt sorry for me.

            “Madam, don’t be surprised. He’s Dutch, they’d go and lie in a grave if it was for free.”