Turkish Dondurma Delight

Merhaba from Istanbul, my thorny travelers! I've arrived in the magical city where East meets West, where ancient mosques share the skyline with modern restaurants, and where the ice cream fights back. Yes, you read that right. Turkish ice cream, called dondurma, is a stretchy, chewy, almost elastic frozen treat that requires actual effort to eat. And getting it from the vendor? That's a whole theatrical production. I had no idea what I was getting into, and I've never been happier to be confused.

My first dondurma encounter happened near the Galata Tower. I approached what I thought was a normal ice cream cart and asked for a cone. The vendor smiled. Then he did something strange: he scooped the ice cream onto a long metal rod and extended it toward me. When I reached for it, he flipped the rod and the ice cream was suddenly on the other end. I reached again. He twirled, the ice cream disappeared, reappeared, and somehow ended up on top of my head. The crowd that had gathered was delighted. I was bewildered. This continued for approximately three minutes before I finally received my cone, at which point the vendor took a bow.

The secret to dondurma's stretchy texture is two ingredients: salep (a flour made from wild orchid tubers) and mastic (a resin from the mastic tree). These give the ice cream an almost taffy-like consistency. You don't just lick dondurma—you have to pull at it, bite it, work for it. It's chewy in a way that sounds unpleasant but is actually deeply satisfying. The traditional flavors are mastic and salep, which taste like nothing else: slightly floral, slightly sweet, and completely unique. I was hooked after the first (hard-won) bite.

The vendor theatrics are a beloved Istanbul tradition, especially along Istiklal Avenue where tourists congregate. These dondurma performers have turned ice cream sales into street comedy. They'll pretend to give you the cone, snatch it away, make it disappear, put it on a stick, take it off the stick, tap you on the shoulder with it—all while maintaining perfect deadpan expressions. Some have elaborate routines with props and costume elements. It's like buying ice cream from a very cold magician. I watched one vendor keep a family entertained for five solid minutes before their son finally got his scoop.

Beyond the tourist areas, I found more traditional dondurma shops where the ice cream is equally stretchy but the service is more straightforward. In a small shop near the Spice Bazaar, an elderly man makes dondurma the way his grandfather did, using the same copper pots and wooden paddles. He demonstrated the process: repeatedly kneading and stretching the mixture until it reaches the perfect consistency. "Good dondurma should stretch at least one meter," he told me, then proved it by pulling a strand of pistachio ice cream across his entire counter. I applauded. He seemed pleased.

The best part about dondurma is how it resists melting. The same ingredients that make it stretchy also make it incredibly stable in warm weather. While my regular ice cream would have melted into a puddle in Istanbul's summer heat, my dondurma held its shape as I wandered through the Grand Bazaar, browsed for carpets I couldn't afford, and contemplated buying a lamp that wouldn't fit in my luggage. It's the perfect ice cream for exploring—sturdy, satisfying, and strange in the best possible way. Teşekkürler, Turkey, for this unforgettable frozen adventure! 🌵🍦🇹🇷