Meatballs After Midnight

There was an older man near a metro exit who sold meatballs late at night.

I remember the hours roughly: after ten, before the night was completely over.

I also remember believing that his meatballs were among the best in Ankara.

There was one problem with the review.

I had usually been drinking before I ate them.

This made the evidence unreliable.

Still, the place had its own logic. The evening would be ending, the streets quieter, and someone would say they were hungry. We would walk toward the metro, and there he would be.

No reservation.

No menu worth discussing.

No reason to compare sauces.

Just hot food at exactly the moment hot food seemed necessary.

Late-night hunger is generous to cooks.

The meatballs tasted excellent. Maybe they truly were excellent. Maybe cold air, tiredness, alcohol, and the knowledge that the night was nearly finished had improved them.

I never solved the question.

That was not important.

The man became part of the route home. A city often enters memory through places like that: not landmarks, but useful corners. A seller outside a station. A shop open late. A place that appears when the rest of the evening has already happened.

Years later, I could not describe the recipe. I could not tell you the price. I do not remember the exact stand.

I remember the hour.

I remember the metro.

I remember eating there more than once.

And I remember thinking the meatballs were very good.

For a food critic, this is weak evidence.

For a memory, it is enough.