We’ve all been there. Sitting at a crumb-covered, sauce-dripped table crowded with smeared plates and nearly empty serving dishes. So full you swear you might pop, then your hand pulls in a stray piece of bread, and your fork stabs another piece of meat. And when the server asks, “Would you care for dessert?” you reply, “We couldn’t possibly eat one more bite!” But then your friend counters, “What do you have?”
That was the four of us, seated in a (thankfully) roomy, cushioned booth at Edessa Restaurant, and — one would assume, looking at the proof of our plates — fully satiated. By most measures, we were full. But everything had been so irresistibly good so far, how could we say no to sharing just one dessert? Or maybe two? So we said yes.
Edessa’s sign features the subtitle “Kurdish & Turkish Cuisine.” The restaurant sits among many of Nashville’s authentic, ethnically diverse restaurants on Nolensville Road, in the area near Elysian Fields known as Little Kurdistan. Newcomers to Nashville may not know that the Athens of the South is home to the largest Kurdish community in the United States, currently counted at roughly 20,000. Kurdistan is not a nation but a region across four countries — Iran, Iraq, Turkey and Syria — and Kurds first began arriving here in the mid-’70s, refugees from the Second Iraqi-Kurdish War. More conflicts followed, and so did more refugees, who rooted families, built businesses and grew their community.
I’d wager that most have gathered for a meal or a celebration at Edessa since it was opened in October 2018 by Dilgeş Akgül, Mesut Keklik and Mehmet Alkan, three Kurdish men who emigrated from Turkey (six, nine and 10 years ago, respectively). Given how seamlessly Edessa operates, it’s surprising that this is their first restaurant venture. All front-of-house staff, many of them family members, are smartly attired in black, and they glide efficiently about the two dining rooms. Flames that leap from the large grill light the kitchen, tended by cooks and chefs from Kurdish, Turkish, Arab and Mexican backgrounds.
The leather-bound menu has 78 numbered items, each succinctly described and most with a tantalizing full-color photo. It’s a thoughtful consideration, for American diners and the unflappably patient servers, who won’t have to suffer locals mangling the pronunciations of sigara boregi (No. 10, rolled and fried phyllo dough stuffed with feta and parsley) or lahmacun (No. 42, ground meat, peppers, tomatoes, parsley and herbs on thin-crust dough); Akgül says the latter is one of their most popular items.
Seeing our eyes begin to glaze over, our server cheerfully suggested we take our time and start with the Edessa Appetizer Platter. I recommend the same on your first visit. Four of the six items — humus, baba ghanoush, stuffed grape leaves and tabbouleh — will be familiar to most diners, and they’re clearly freshly made. But I didn’t know about ezme — tomatoes, red and green peppers, onions and parsley are finely diced, and when mixed with olive oil, lemon and pomegranate molasses, they become nearly a paste to spread on triangles of soft, warm house-made pita. Or haydari — think labneh — mixed with garlic, mint, chopped walnuts and a swirl of melted butter. Or this iteration of shakshuka, which I’m accustomed to eating topped with poached eggs from a cast-iron skillet. No eggs in Edessa’s version, but rather a mound of chopped, sauteed eggplant, zucchini, onion, garlic and onions with a thick tomato sauce.
Next time — yes, I’m already thinking about next time — I’ll skip the full platter and go right for the appetizer-size orders of ezme, haydari and shakshuka.
I’ll also likely pass on the fresh lavash (aka balloon bread), which we ordered based entirely on its amusing name and photo — both accurate depictions of the sizable balloon of charred bread, strewn with black sesame seeds. Our server said she likes to poke a hole with a fork, then tear off pieces to butter or dip into sauces. Good advice, but the almost cracker-like consistency of the deflated bread didn’t lend itself well to spreading or dipping and was one of only two dishes we didn’t polish off.
The other dish we left unfinished — not for lack of trying or due to a kitchen fail — was the lamb liver kabob. Bite-size chunks of tender liver grilled over flame are plated off the skewer and piled on strips of paper-thin lavash, with saffron rice, pickled red cabbage and sliced white onion, doused with vinegar and sprinkled with herbs, with a ramekin of cacik, the Turkish version of tzatziki. All of us are lamb and liver lovers, but a little liver goes a long way, and this was a lotta liver.
When I was growing up in suburban Delaware, no one stretched a $35-a-week food budget like Joyce Shaw, who for special occasions could turn two frozen little Cornish hens into dinner for seven. At Edessa, the entire cut-up, sauced-up, fired-up hen is laid out on a rectangular plate — juicy and perfectly charred, with the same set as the lamb liver.
Testi kebabi had me at “finely chopped marinated pieces of lamb cooked with special Anatolian spices and vegetables in delicious sauce for hours to maximize the taste.” We took the option (for an additional $4.95) of having it poured into a ceramic dish, covered and sealed with dough and returned to the oven, resulting in the world’s best-ever lamb pot pie. Peel back the layer of bread to release the most heavenly aroma of those special Anatolian spices from the still-simmering stew of meat, peppers, peeled tomatoes and white onion. You’ll want a large spoon to scoop it all out.
We could have also ordered the saç tava (as described on the restaurant’s very lively Instagram account, “the star of Edessa”) topped with bread. But no need to gild the lily, so we ordered without bread. Diced and seasoned beef is stir-fried with red and green peppers, onion, garlic and crushed tomatoes, spooned around a mound of saffron rice centered on a round iron pan. The heat in the meat — likely from dried red pepper — gave it a nice edge.
About those desserts. I’m a sucker for a dish named for the restaurant, but the Edessa Baklava was a little over-the-top for my less-is-more taste. Katmer — squares of phyllo dough filled with ground pistachios, sugar and kaymek (clotted cream), brushed with melted butter, baked and topped with more crushed pistachio — was simply perfect.
Driving to Edessa on Nolensville Road, I was reminded of how 30, 25 or even 20 years ago, the thoroughfare was marked by the gradual emergence of little businesses in strip centers, and on the side of that gritty artery that signaled the arrival of new waves of immigrants, a place for the displaced. Tiny markets crammed with imported goods and restaurants to gather together for a taste of home, in food, language and culture. With great generosity, hospitality and pride, they hold a place at the table for all, a reminder that New Nashville is also Little Kurdistan.