Constantine’s

My husband and I went out this evening to promote me as a writer. We were planning to go to the bar at the Hilton—travelers, people from everywhere, but my instincts led us to the local Turkish restaurant, Constantine’s, first. We were planning to have their phenomenal falafel, which is an appetizer, so I headed for the bar while my husband parked the car.

The owner came over to me at the bar and cordially insisted that I take a table. When I protested that we were just grabbing a quick bite and didn’t want to entail changing table linens and resetting the table, I was told, “No, even if you are only having tea, you get a table.” We’ve been loyal clientele since they opened, and I recognized that he was showing respect and allowed him to seat me in a booth.

He told me that Firat, a new addition to the staff would take care of me (and my husband), but he would bring bread and water.

Let me interrupt the flow for a moment and address my readers directly (à la Jane Austen and the Brontes). Ladies, if you have not been to a Turkish restaurant, GO. Although I can only speak with confidence about Constantine’s, I have confidence that the experience is the same in other Turkish restaurants—you will be handled with care, made to feel like a goddess. The service isn’t obsequious, it’s spot-on what women want. The flattery is sincere, and you are told things like, “You are so beautiful.” Every woman needs to hear this, and a dining experience that begins with sincere appreciation is guaranteed to be fabulous, even if the dinner itself isn’t,

That’s not the case at Constantine’s. Everything from bread and water to coffee or tea and REAL Turkish Delight is exquisite. Fresh ingredients and love of food and culture are apparent in everything served at Constantine’s. I have a few favorites, but I’ll leave it to you to follow your own tastes and instincts when you approach their menu; however, the falafel can’t be beat, and the Prince’s Chicken is comfort food like you never knew food could comfort—a grilled chicken breast served on a bed of perfect French fries in the most amazing saffron sauce with apples, currants, and golden raisins. Your mother and grandmother together in a kitchen for a month couldn’t comfort you with food this way. It’s exquisite. I won’t discuss the bread; you must discover it and its sesame seed goodness with seasoned olives and olive oil for yourself. My words can’t do it justice.

Don’t fill up on your entree—leave room for dessert. Turkish cheesecake has a layer of lemon curd atop it, and it’s served with ice cream. All desserts are served with ice cream, like God or Allah or whatever you call the force of good in the universe intended. The baklava is rich with pistachios and honey, and the chocolate soufflé is richer than whoever Donald Trump wishes he was.

Our waiter, Firat, was courteous, kind, charming, bringing me a Turkish coffee and Turkish Delight at his expense after we paid. It’s the gesture that counts. The cost is irrelevant; it’s having someone tell you by action that you are important, you are special, you deserve good things, and I will bring them to you. It’s validation, it’s grace, it’s what we all need—to feel valued and beautiful, and you can’t get that at Cracker Barrel or Outback.

If you haven’t explored international cuisine, you should, and you should begin in the Mediterranean, expanding outward in all directions after you’re comfortable.

Our dining experience wasn’t the end of our evening. We went forth to the Hilton. Dead, moved on, took ourselves to Confluence, the Catawba Riverkeeper bar in Cramerton (go) and found ourselves in the right place at the right time.

That story will be told in the humans community.