Spice Routes Reimagined in a Copper Kettle

Words by Emre Yıldız · Notes from the spice stalls of Kemeraltı to the kettles of our atelier

The first scent that greets guests entering our kitchen is not sugar—it is spice. Cinnamon bark, crushed cardamom, and roasted sumac waft from jars stacked like library volumes. These jars map ancient trade routes that once threaded through caravansaries, ports, and bazaars. We may not travel by camel, yet every batch of lokum honours those passages. Our copper kettles hum with stories of spices that journeyed from the Levant, Persia, and Anatolia’s own hillsides.

Saffron is our most delicate traveller. We source threads from Safranbolu, a town whose name literally means “abode of saffron.” Grower Ahmet Kaya presses the dried stigmas between parchment, packaging them like scrolls. When the parcel arrives, we celebrate with silence. Saffron bruises easily, not only under pressure but under harsh language. We bloom the threads in warm honey, letting crimson bleed into amber. This infusion anchors Saffron Amber Lokum and colours the dipping syrup for pistachio helva. The tradition echoes a Silk Road practice where merchants steeped saffron in wine before trade negotiations to soothe voices. We steep to soften sugar.

Cardamom comes from further east. We partner with a collective in Şanlıurfa that cultivates green pods among pomegranate orchards. The pods arrive wrapped in cotton cloth, still damp with the morning mist. Crushing them is a ritual. We use a brass mortar inherited from my grandmother. Each strike releases eucalyptus, citrus, and peppery notes in quick succession. These crushed seeds enter the syrup for Midnight Hazelnut Dragees and dust the icing sugar we use to finish lokum. If you pay attention, the aroma shifts as the confection cools—first bright, then gentle, finally warming the throat like an ember. Cardamom teaches patience; it reminds us that flavour is a timeline, not a single moment.

Sumac migrates from Gaziantep hills, where crimson berries dry under August sun. We sprinkle ground sumac over Apricot Silk Rolls to mimic the zing of the fruit’s own skin. But before sumac reaches the kitchen, it visits our tasting room. We brew it into tea, noting its tartness against toasted sesame. These notes inform how much citrus zest we add to the apricot filling and whether honey or grape molasses should dominate the glaze. The conversation between sumac and apricot is like a call-and-response song—sharp, mellow, sharp again.

Not all spices travel far. Mastic—a resin from Chios but cherished across the Aegean—crumbles like glass when cold. Stored at the back of our pantry, it infuses Fig & Walnut Helva with pine sweetness. We grind mastic with sugar, coaxing it to melt cleanly. The resin’s history is tangled with maritime routes guarded by empires; today, it reaches us via a cooperative that protects ancient trees. Their letters arrive sealed with wax scented faintly of the resin itself. Opening them feels like releasing the island’s wind.

Each spice dictates choreography. Once saffron is added, we stir with wooden paddles to avoid metallic interference. Cardamom demands constant movement to prevent clumping. Sumac is sprinkled only after the confection cools so its tart oils stay bright. We chart these steps on a wall-sized map, tracing lines from source to kettle. Trainees learn geography alongside technique; they can point to the village that grew the cloves inside our mulled grape molasses or the valley where cinnamon bark was harvested.

Reimagining spice routes also means exchanging knowledge. Twice a year we host spice merchants in our tasting room, pairing sweets with unroasted spice infusions. Together we adjust roasting times, experiment with smoked paprika dust, and debate the ideal ratio of anise to fennel for a winter batch. These sessions echo historical guild meetings where merchants negotiated blends before caravans set off. Our version ends with honey tea and lokum rolled in crushed rose petals.

When guests bite into our confections, I hope they sense more than sweetness. I hope they feel saffron fields brushing against night air, shawls scented with cardamom, and the dry rustle of sumac berries. These flavours travelled through countless hands before reaching ours. We honour that lineage by continuing the journey—sending each confection out with tasting notes that mention every spice by name, every village by location. In this way, a copper kettle in Izmir becomes a compass, pointing back to the routes that carried the world’s warmth into our sweets.