When my siblings and I met for a catch-up just before New Year, we were collectively over Christmas food. So we dared to venture outside the relentless cycle of what leftovers meal we could make next, and let someone else take the load. There was really only one place we could go to: my Dad’s favourite local Turkish restaurant, Turkuaz.
The restaurant has been a part of our lives from the moment it opened its doors back in 2005. My Dad, always partial to a Turkish meal, made sure we went to check it out as a family, and we were all hooked.
I’ve reflected on lots of different things since Dad passed in October, and that will no doubt continue over the weeks, months, and years to come. But loss makes you think of those moments that gave you joy, with the person who you’re no longer able to share joy with. And Turkuaz, nestled opposite Catford bus garage, is where we’ve shared so many family moments. From birthdays and anniversaries to celebrations and commiserations, countless moments have involved us sitting together over a borek, lahmacun, shish and chicken wings and whatever else we’ve decided to devour that day.
It can be so easy to take familiarity for granted, and it can also be easy to underestimate just what a local restaurant can mean to families, and individuals. It’s more than the food. It’s walking into a space where you feel safe, where you share moments with your friends and family, where you break bread, where you laugh, where you cry, where you can walk in and are greeted like a long-lost friend. Chain restaurants have their place, sure, but they will often change staff regularly, making it hard to build a long-lasting human connection. But a local, independent restaurant? They are worth their weight in gold.
When my family flew into the UK from the Caribbean and the US for Dad’s funeral, there was only one place we could all go the night before the service. Anywhere else just wouldn’t feel right; nowhere else would envelop us in a sea of spices and warmth, which is what we needed that night. So 28 of us bundled in and took over half the restaurant, and we laughed, cried, and caught up. All of us were anxious about what was to come the next day, but somehow being sat together in a place that had been part of our lives for 20 years felt right.
I remember looking around the tables that night and thinking how lucky we were to have each other, but also that we really were blessed to have a local restaurant where the owners hugged us the moment we walked in, with sadness in their eyes, and just said, “I’m so sorry”.
My Dad – in fact, all of us – had been a part of their lives too for over 20 years. They’ve watched us get older and have kids ourselves, they’ve met our children and our partners. My two children, at six and eight years old, know all about “grandad’s Turkish place”, having been in and out of that place since they were born. It’s become part of their lives too.
In a world where we can feel so disconnected from each other, and we see so many restaurants closing up and down the country, we really do have to celebrate and support the special ones with all our might. They give us so much more than food: we gather in these places at some of the most important, and unimportant, moments in our lives. When my siblings and I sat in Turkuaz last week, my two kids desperate for the bill so they could get their Turkish delight, I started to wonder where on earth we’d go if this place didn’t exist.
We celebrated many of my grandma’s birthdays there when she was alive. It’s the place me and the kids would take my Dad regularly for his birthdays. I’ve done my birthdays there, as have my siblings, and my kids too.
This place has seen four generations of my family over the course of 20 years. I’m sitting here, writing this, and realising that my Dad’s favourite Turkish is very much part of the story of my family’s life. My Dad may have passed, but his “Turkish place” will continue to nourish us and bring us joy.
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