Turklish

There are myriad places 'ponst this Internets we call home that one can visit to see the amusing results of cultures colliding. The integration of two different peoples attempting to work towards some common goal. In my experience, this common goal is capitalist in nature, specifically profiteering from ones fellow man.

No greater humour can be derived for this desperate scrabble for sprilla than when one culture, say that of Turkey, or more specifically Istanbul, seeks to extract as much of it as possible from it's English visitors. Visitors such as myself.

Where could such humour lie GAME OVER? I hear you cry, or at least post in the comments section were I to gaze into my crystal ball of foretelling (+4). In the menu's, you ocelot of Internet information seekers, I reply.

It is with heavy heart that I come to the realisation that I may never be again, able to order a Turbo Fish. Such a fish could surely never be caught with a mere rod and line. Some superluminal device would be needed if nothing else, to entrap such a mythical being. Simply to obey Newtons laws of conservation of momentum you understand.

Freunh Fries similarly have a touch of the fabled about them. Being only 2 Turkish Lira, perhaps it could contain more awesome than even I am able to endure. I did not dare order them, lest the Freunh civilisation took some grievance to my careless slaughter of their fries. Whatever they were.

The Steved Fish. Could it belong to a Steve? Has it previously belonged to an appropriately named person? Perhaps the fish was self titled by the discoverer, although EOL gives no clues as to it's binomial nomenclature. Some sort of personalisation carried right through to the menu itself? Maybe it has been through some clandestine operation and process that would turn it into a Steve. The kind that drives a car best reserved for the back lanes of Essex.

If all of the above is not enough to fill you to brimming, then I urge you in the strongest possible terms to head to the Cuancan restaurant in Sultanahmet, and wash it all down with an ice cold refreshing glass of Spite. One letter of difference, a world of meaning.