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On a cold winter's evening, a Friday night actually, my students discovered something remarkable about me. I had never had Boza before. In fact, I had never even heard of it. They consulted each other excitedly then finally decided that enough was enough. I would have to try Boza. Immediately. Forget the fact that we still had another hour left of class. A field trip was declared, transportation arrangements hastily made, cell phones bipping and chirping, until finally we were loaded up and off to the ultimate Boza destination - Vefa Boza. The very glass that, yes it is true, Ataturk himself drank from, is on display there. I saw it. Protected in its display case. Rounds of boza were ordered. Everyone waited expectantly as I peered at the wheat-coloured mixture in front of me. Well, bottom's up. I took a respectable swig. It tasted like chic peas. Thick. Not bad. Not something I can ever see myself developing a craving for, but it was okay. I nodded my approval to my students. They beamed back at me. And ordered me more Boza since I seemed to enjoy it so much. Never let it be said that Turks are not hospitable. I had so much Boza that I was actually beginning to develop a taste for it. |
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