The Bread of Ramazan by Tom Brosnahan

Food can make a holiday, no matter where you are. Years ago, I was living in Istanbul and writing a travel guidebook to Turkey. The Muslim holy month of Ramadan (Ramazan in Turkish) was upon us, and no good Muslim in the city let anything pass the lips during daylight hours, not a bracing glass of tea, not a savory kebab, not a dish of tangy eggplant or sheep's-milk cheese. People strolling along Istiklal Caddesi had no pistachios, hazelnuts, or sweet dried fruits to munch, a strange sight on this street of shops selling every variety of delicacy.

But at sundown the feasting began, and continued long into the night. I was looking forward to a feast of my own, because all the Americans in the city had been invited to the U.S. Consul-General's private residence for a Thanksgiving dinner of roast turkey and home-made pies. Though I had fallen in love with Turkish cuisine, I was nostalgic for a good American Thanksgiving feast. As sundown approached and I hurried back to my apartment near Taksim Square, I could almost taste it.

Lines had formed in front of bakeries all over the city, democratic lines peopled by housewives, taxi drivers, business executives, bankers, street sweepers. Each waited to buy a large round loaf of hot, fresh pide bread with which to break the day-long fast. The aroma from the bakery grabbed me and forced me into line. Only a few bites, I thought, just an appetizer to that red-white-and-blue banquet to come. The pide cost a few pennies. It was so hot I had to hold it in a newspaper or it would burn my hands. After a hundred yards, it was cool enough to eat. After two hundred yards, it had partly disappeared. At my apartment door, it was gone, and so was my appetite.

The Consul-General's dinner must have been wonderful. I was there, I should know. But all I remember from that Thanksgiving abroad was the intoxicating aroma and incomparable flavor of hot pide bread. Ramadan was not my holiday, but wonderful food made it so.