A nomadic culinary journey: Alaz

EBRU ERKE

With his new restaurant Alaz in Ankara, Chef Mehmet Yalçınkaya sets the table for the journey of migration tracing the memory of a nomadic culture that stretches from Central Asia to Anatolia.

There’s no need to introduce Chef Mehmet. At the peak of his career, he is known across Türkiye, and his restaurants continue to thrive. But he is not one to rest on his laurels. In my eyes, he is a veteran of the industry one who has made production and creativity his life philosophy. With Alaz, he embarks on an ambitious new culinary adventure. And ambitious it certainly is bringing together the past and present, the rooted and the migratory, memory and fire requires not just technical mastery but also deep research.

They have begun from a compelling premise, and in my opinion, Alaz will further evolve over time, shaping a more defined culinary identity as it continues to follow the path of nomadism. It’s no small feat to do what hasn’t been done before and to claim authorship of it. And Chef Mehmet isn’t alone in this; special credit must go to his greatest supporters his brother, Chef Mithat, and his son, Emre. Their contribution to this story is undeniable. Speaking of stories “dishes with a story” is a concept we often hear in today’s gastronomy world. But what Chef Mehmet Yalçınkaya offers is something even deeper: A dish shaped by geography, a flame imbued with memory, a journey rooted in identity. Born into a Yörük (Turkic nomadic) family, Yalçınkaya is a chef who has never severed ties with his origins.

Let’s start with the name: Alaz. It refers to a glowing, flickering flame — a fire that burns from within. It’s a concept that speaks directly to the historical identity of the Turks. The migratory journey that began on the steppes of Central Asia and ended in Anatolia has often been carried through stories told around the hearth. At Alaz, fire is not merely a metaphor it becomes the very heart of the restaurant. The kitchen, visible from the dining room, is built around an open flame. Cooking, smoking and drying each culinary process revolves around fire.

Here, fire isn’t simply a heat source it is a symbol of time, endurance, and transformation. Meats are enriched with smoke, vegetables acquire sweetness over embers, and flatbreads crackle from the tandoor. Each element reaffirms the nomadic cuisine’s age-old relationship with fire. And crucially, this ancient knowledge is elevated through the lens of contemporary culinary aesthetics. At Alaz, the past is not trapped in nostalgia, nor is the present constrained by tradition. The true mastery lies in selecting the right inspiration from history and reinterpreting it through the language of modern gastronomy.

I visited Alaz for their inaugural lunch service. From the outside, the restaurant exudes a quiet elegance reminiscent of the Basque region’s discreet luxury dining. Inside, a large, elevated marble table forms the centerpiece adding dramatic sophistication to the space. The wall engravings and lighting have clearly been meticulously designed. But the greatest care, of course, is in the kitchen. Despite it being the first day of service and the restaurant being full, the team maintained flawless pacing.

Now, the dishes. The tasting menu began with a cut of beef preserved using salting techniques an essential practice in nomadic foodways. The top round was cured for five days with a blend of spices, roasted for 45 minutes, and served with a smoky mustard sauce. Though the texture might differ from what most diners are used to, by the second bite, you begin to appreciate how the flavor seeps into the fibers of the meat.

Among the hot starters and arguably one of the menu’s brightest stars was a vegan dish titled Göbeklitepe, named after the world’s oldest known temple complex. Morel mushrooms were delicately stuffed with finely milled bulgur and paired with a base sauce of buffalo yoğurt a dish that pays tribute to ancient Anatolian grains and fermentation practices.

Another standout was the Dana Puli, featuring a rare cut from the upper portion of the shin yielding just 800–900 grams per 400 kg carcass. Cooked low and slow, the collagen melts into a gelatinous consistency that weaves itself between the strands of meat, offering deep umami and mouth-coating texture.

Skimming through the menu, several dishes caught my eye ones I’ll be returning to try: A beef brisket cured with 14 spices and slow-cooked over wood fire for eight days to create Anatolian-style pastrami; a reinterpretation of bazlama, the staple flatbread of nomadic tribes, transformed into a layered dish called cızlama by incorporating leek, onion, and the otherwise flavorless black squash of Bolu. Other highlights included smoked trout, sirit with duck and hand-cut noodles with a sparrow broth reduction.

And of course, no review would be complete without mentioning Chef Mehmet’s now-viral “simit.” Presented as a sharing course, it might resemble the humble street bread by name and shape but its contents tell another story altogether. Stuffed with seafood, it’s essentially a composed dish in its own right. So before getting caught up in social media controversies about its price, it’s worth taking a closer look at what’s actually on the plate.