IN WHICH your correspondent witnesses the fourth annual Burhaniye Festival of Olives and Olive Oil, and lives to tell the tale.
we had not a moment's rest after the tour bus drove off down the highway.
"alright," said mehmet and clapped his hands. "let's reassemble."
no sooner had we gotten things back in order did people start arriving for the day's main event: local and national cooks preparing traditional turkish recipes, twenty-five contestents, three to be selected as winners -- a hard battle.
mehmet and i spent yesterday preparing. we figured sixty to seventy-five spectators. but in the end nearly double that number arrived and we ended up having to move tables out and more chairs in, first wooden ones, then folding metal ones, then plastic deck chairs still dusty from storage. even then people stood at the back of the room and around the sides, and milled outside, cigarette smoke coming through the doors as people came in and out.
at the front, the from-before horseshoe arrangement of tables had been draped with white linen and decorated with gerberas; plastic placards with the names of each judge in block blue lettering, european style, last name in capital letters.
the competition was to start at 1:00 but people started arriving before noon. a group of women arrived first, in long plain coats and scarves around their heads. a man arrived next and brought the first dish for entry, three whole preserved fish each cut into thirds. he showed us: he had decorated his platters with a parsley coral reef and carrots carved into goldfish. people moved in tight groups through the space. lots of woolen pants on the women, short to show leather boots. earrings on one out of every two. four pairs of jeans in total. one woman in a drab pullover with a drab wool neck, with "US Army" on the left sleeve, and wool cuffs. suits on the men, often with sweaters beneath, and woolen hats. more and more dishes arrived, each one covered in tin foil. mehmet carried a clipboard, recording each entry and numbering it. people sat and drank tea. cell phones rang. soon the whole restaurant filled up. i sat at the back, watching and taking notes (since i could not really talk to the locals). two women came and sat at my table when there were no other seats. one of them pointed to my handwriting. "Inglishe?" she asked. "Or Arabique?"
meanwhile ruçhan photographed each dish as it arrived, ferrying each one, a napkin under his fingers, from the table where the competitors put each dish as they came in, to the photography table that he'd spent the morning setting up and lighting. from there an attendent took it up to the judging table. i smelled baklava.
the judges arrived, eight of them, and mehmet ushered them in through glass doors at the front of the room. the mayor, too, entered by the front, sat in a space saved for him in the front row. a camera crew, four men carrying backs of gear, pushed in from the back. the judges sat in their given places, the dishes numbered and laid out in front, and the contest began.
the MC wore a suit and boomed into the microphone. the judges sat still as they were being introduced. the contestants presented their dishes to the judges, some politely, some congenially, some seriously. silverware clinked from the kitchen: between each dish servers brought fresh knives and forks and refilled water glasses.
staff served lunch on styrofoam plates to the overflowing crowd: chickpeas made in a huge pot, bread, yoghourt drinks. the power went out, then came back, then went out again. mehmet jumped the first time to fix it; the second time he kept eating. i learned later it was a brownout. the power stayed down for most of the day. we ran off the farm's diesel generator.
i struggled with the truth of the scene before me. mehmet's uncle told me, c'est une journée, une chance à manger quelquechose. it's a day out, a chance to go out for a meal. mehmet worked at his speech.
the panel of judges retired upstairs to deliberate. men stepped outside to smoke. women sat in circles and talked, their children hovering. people spoke, listened, sought acceptance. people observed norms, pushed at them. people did what they could to differentiate this day from the last, drank the tea that was brought to them in little glass cups. a man played music over the PA -- again the sound of the flatted seventh. but then that song ended and the man changed the disc and put techno on, too loud. techno used to seem pan-national, devoid of dogma. this stuff had eastern sounding synths in it but mostly it was bland, standard stuff with standard EQ effects sweeping up and down, and a standard structure.
it was a goodhearted event.
the judges returned. people came back in. the man faded the music out. the MC took the mic. i heard mehmet's name. he spoke for a minute. the mayor's name, he spoke too, all smiles, and bowed his head. each contestent got a carnation and a certificate. the winners got gold pins.
the judges left, headed upstairs for the Q&A panel, and people pressed forward to sample what was left of the dishes. i looked for the baklava. gone! but i learned mehmet had put it off to the side, safe. the dish i liked was made with a textured noodle in a light red sauce, peppered meat, and a cream sauce overtop with paprika. c'est celui-ci que j'aurais choisis, i said to mehmet's uncle, this is the one i'd have chosen. j'ai vu, he said, i saw -- i'd gone back for more.
de quoi est-ce qu'on parle en haut? i asked him, what are they talking about upstairs?
de l'huile d'olive, he said, olive oil, on en parle toujours. always.
