The Janissary Tree

Set in Istanbul in 1836, The Janissary Tree was the first Yashim mystery to be translated into over forty languages. The story revolves around the Ottomans' notorious infantry corps, the Janissaries, who were also craftsmen, musicians and fine chefs. When they mutinied, they would overturn the huge cauldrons in which they cooked their rice, and drum on them with wooden spoons.

"The other day you quoted something to me – an army marches on its stomach. Who said that? Napoleon?'

Palewski pulled a face. 'Typical Napoleon. In the end his armies marched on their frozen feet.'

'But you remember how the Janissaries named their ranks?'

'Of course – by kitchen duties. The colonel was called the soup cook. Sergeant-majors carried a long wooden ladle, and for the men, losing a regimental kettle in battle was the ultimate disgrace.'

"Yashim found the Polish ambassador in a silken dressing gown embroidered with lions and horses in tarnished gold thread, which Yashim supposed was Chinese. He was drinking tea and staring quietly at a boiled egg, but when Yashim came in he put up a hand to shield his eyes, turning his head this way and that like an anxious tortoise. The sunshine picked out motes of dust climbing slowly toward the long windows.

'Do you know what time it is?' Palewski said thickly. 'Have tea.'

'Are you ill?'

'Ill? No. But suffering. Why couldn't it be raining?'

Unable to think of an answer, Yashim curled up in an armchair and let Palewski pour him a cup with a shaking hand.

'Meze,' Yashim said. He glanced up. 'Meze. Little snacks before the main dish.'

'Must we talk about food?'

'Meze are a way of calling people's attention to the excellence of the feast to come. A lot of effort goes into their preparation. Or, I should say, their selection. Sometimes the best mezes are the simplest things. Fresh cucumbers from Karaman, sardines from Ortakoy, battered at most, and grilled ... Everything at its peak, in its season: timing, you could say, is everything.'

Cigar pastries with feta

sigara böregi

Filo pastry – yufka, in Turkish – has been known to the Turks for centuries, and is still made across

Anatolia by housewives wielding three-foot rolling pins, oklava. To replicate their effort would be a counsel of perfection: easier to use commercial filo pastry.

Simple to make, impressive, and utterly delicious, these cigar pastries are perfect Ottoman finger food, good for meze and parties. Just don't expect them to last long once they've been served.

feta cheese 200g/8oz
egg 1
parsley, mint and dill a big
bunch, chopped fine
filo pastry 5 sheets
olive oil 3 tbsp

• Crumble the feta into a bowl and mash it with a fork, then add the egg and the chopped herbs and mix well.

• Stack five sheets of filo on a board and slice them through to make ten five inch strips. Keep a damp tea towel handy to pop over the filo so it won't dry out.

• Lay a strip on the board, running away from you lengthways. Put a teaspoonful of mixture on the near end, and roll it up. Halfway along, turn in the sides to tuck the ends in. Roll it up until about an inch from the end of the sheet, which you should wet with a brush. That seals the filo and keeps it rolled.

• As you finish them, put the cigars in a dish under another damp tea towel.

• Heat the oil in a frying pan. When it's hot, fry half the cigars for about five minutes, turning now and then to brown them all over. Remove them to a dish covered in kitchen paper to drain the oil, and fry the other half.

• Eat them straight away. You can make different stuffings, with baked aubergine or some roasted pumpkin mashed with feta and dill, for instance, or spicy lamb mince. the lighted crack at the foot of the door in front of him.

"At the head of the stairs Palewski paused to catch his breath and analyze the peculiar mixture of fragrances seeping through the lighted crack at the foot of the door in front of him.

Yashim the Eunuch and Ambassador Palewski were unlikely friends, but they were firm ones. 'We are two halves, who together become whole, you and I,' Palewski had once declared, after soaking up more vodka than would have been good for him were it not for the fact, which he sternly upheld, that only the bitter herb it contained could keep him sane and alive. 'I am an ambassador without a country and you — a man without testicles.'

Yashim had considered this remark, before pointing out that Palewski might, at a pinch, get his country back; but the Polish ambassador had waved him away with a loud outbreak of sobs. 'About as likely as you growing balls, I'm afraid. Never. Never. The bastards!' Soon after that he had fallen asleep, and Yashim had employed a porter to carry him home on...