Turkish Market

Every Tuesday and Friday, I peer out my window and watch one of Berlin's more unusual cultural events unfold. The Maybachufer Market, which locals lovingly call the "Turkish Market," is like stepping into an open air bazaar in the heart of Istanbul.

Twice a week - come rain, shine, or snow - a whole city block is packed with stalls offering vegetables, fruit, fish, cheese, housewares, fabrics, and loaves of fluffy flatbread strewn with sesame seeds. Tourists and locals alike crowd together, the babble of voices blending with the sharp calls of touts hawking their wares. "3 Kilo, 1 Euro! Drei Kilo, ein Euro! Bitte schön, bitte schön, bitte schön!" they trill, thick accents harmoniously rolling the "r".

Sliced fruit samples lay waiting, as shoppers snack their way along. An incongruous mix of humanity bumps together along the cobblestones: devout Turkish grandmothers, draped in black robes and headscarves, drag their unwilling shopping dollies behind them; tourist clutch their bags as dreadlocked 20-somethings with skull-print leggings try impatiently to squeeze by.

This market is quintessentially Berlin, and all summer long I made a point of meandering my way through at least once a week. I frequently came away without a single carrot; the atmosphere and the texture of fabric bolts beneath my hands was enough to satisfy me.

This winter something has changed. The biting cold air sucks some of the festivity from the crowd. People aren't there to meander now. With breath freezing in the air and overflowing bags dangling heavily from chilled hands, we walk quickly, looking forward to the warmth of our apartments. But despite the cold, I head to the market nearly every week. And now I never come home empty handed.

This winter, walking along with my scarf snug around my neck and my hands shoved deep in my pockets, I discovered root vegetables. Not just the potatoes, yams, and carrots I'd known in southern California; but new, unfamiliar beasts of the vegetable kingdom. Something in the frigid air peaked my curiosity about the piles of knobby, dirt-encrusted celery root; glowingly-white daikon; and crisp, green kohlrabi that all so recently appeared in the market stalls.

I tried the kohlrabi first, with a bit of trepidation. I had no idea what I would do with it when I got it home. But for 30 cents a piece, I figured I couldn't go too wrong. I chose three friendly-looking specimens, placed a Euro in the gloved hand of the stall owner, and headed off with my prize.

A quick Google search later, and I realized I'd stumbled onto a horticultural gem. Kohlrabe (which is actually a stem, not a root as I'd first thought) is like a mad scientist's cross between a green apple and a baby potato. Left raw, it keeps its fruity characteristics; steamed, sautéed, creamed, or baked it shows more of its vegetable nature. I've tried most of these options by now. I can't get enough of it.

I've had it raw with slices of cheese. Shaved it paper thin and sautéed it with Parmesan. I've cut it into matchsticks, smothered it in spaghetti sauce,chopped it raw into tuna salad.
Tonight, it was oven-baked kohlrabi "fries".

Warm, flavorful, and delicious, they have the dense chewy goodness of a potato with none of the starchy sleepiness. And an average-size kohlrabi has twice as much Vitamin C as an orange! I can't wait to keep playing with these - I think kohlrabi hash browns with eggs is definitely on the menu this weekend.



Kohlrabi Oven Fries:

Use about 1 kohlrabi per serving.

1. Preheat the oven to 400 °F (200 °C)

2. Peel the tough green skin from the kohlrabi, and discard it.
3.Cut each kohlrabi in half, then slice about 1/8 in. thick. Place slices in a large bowl.
3. Sprinkle your "fries" lightly with olive oil, stirring until evenly coated. If you have an oil mister, this is a great time to use it.
4. Lay the slices in a single layer on a metal baking pan, and sprinkle with your favorite French fry seasonings. I used salt, pepper, garlic, and paprika.
5. Bake 15-20 min, until browned on top and soft all the way through.