And ask me about butt cracks at breakfast

I broke my self-imposed internet rehab only long enough to connect with the smart guys at Istanbul Eats and learned that not everyone is happy to see the local cooking school training students in soufflés and other “Continental” conceits. My three years without using my passport must have made me more tolerant of globalization, because I could see why those skills may be needed; locals can get tired of local food. But I learned something from our lunch on the terrace of the Museum of Modern Art, where the menu was all over the shower curtain map. We tried to order stuff that at least seemed rooted where we were, and Bob got fabulous lamb kebabs with a warm grain salad and a mound of arugula tossed with herbs while I plowed through a “four-cheese dumpling” salad (not four cheeses but four fried balls on mixed greens). As we walked out, I saw sad pizzas and other travesties on other tables in the shadow of the monstrous cruise ship docked alongside the museum and realized we had ordered very luckily. And before we walked out, my chair faced an American-looking guy wearing a T-shirt reading: Fuck yoga. He wasn’t as ridiculous as the local girl we saw with bosoms behind “I’m not normal,” who clearly did not need a caption. But he made me think a whole style of food could be called Catering to the Fuck Yoga Crowd.