22 Fathom Cove

"I sat opposite Recep, his makeshift table stacked high with freshly baked bread on his left, an old ice-cream tub full of Lira on his right and, slightly menacingly, his shotgun lying casually between us"

Entering 22 Fathom cove we head toward the houseboat cum restaurant “Amigos” in the north east corner.  Master of this dominion is Recep. He is a craggy-faced polyvalent with a commanding and unforgettable presence. Our first encounter with him, a few years ago, was as we came in to moor, bows to, and he instructing us exactly how he wanted things done. “Zees line zat side, an zat line zees side. No, no! Zat line Zees side” he insisted gruffly as we tied up to his makeshift pontoon.  Minutes later he reappears, note pad and pencil at the ready to take our dinner order.  As is customary, we are addressed by our boat’s name, or Kaptan if he thinks you're worthy. With no written menu he rattles off the choices and taking a minute to adapt to his accent we realise his offering of Vile Baw Kazroll is actually Wild Boar Casserole, which we choose. He then explains, with eloquent gestures and impatient English, how he shot the boar in the hills above the cove earlier that day. Each time we go there we get the identical story and we order the same dish - obviously.

As the afternoon and evening unfolds we get to hear more about Recep, his long-suffering wife and family. Some of it is probably apocryphal, but entirely believable.  His previous restaurant venture was in a bay know variously as Manastir or Tomb bay but, for the purposes of this story, its other name, Cleopatra’s bay is more fitting. It turns out that his business and the building in particular did not have the requisite paperwork and the authorities flattened it. Apparently Recep spent some time on the run and being incarcerated before he established Amigos.  This time he circumvented the need for building permission by keeping everything on his houseboat and only setting out plastic tables and chairs on the shore in the evening as temporary fixtures for the meal.  The authorities have left him alone since and will hopefully continue to do so.

The languid afternoons in 22 Fathoms are spent in and out of the crystal clear water interspersed with cold Angora white or Mojitos depending on the availability of ice.  This all against a backdrop of charcoal and bread aromas, which drift towards us from Recep's wife's homemade oven.

As the sun sets we make our way to the dining area on the shore and, surrounded by pine trees cicadas and the occasional mosquito, we enjoy a feast of mezze, wild boar and Angora wine.  As things wind down Davey gets his guitar out and entertains with the classics, audience participation more or less enhanced by the level of Angora or Efes.

In the morning the ritual is to enter “Amigos” to settle up, reminding who you are by announcing your boat name.  I sit opposite Recep, his makeshift table stacked high with freshly baked bread on his left, an old ice-cream tub full of Lira on his right and, slightly menacingly, his shotgun lying casually between us. His dog-eared note pad is at the ready with our details and his demeanour transforms from bumbling to accountant-like as he expertly and quickly jots down prices, confirms the copious number of drinks we consumed, and tallies it all up.  He proffers a loaf of bread as compensation for having to charge me so much, which I gratefully accept and, business done, we attempt to engage in some small talk.