Twenty-four hours in Istanbul

The day begins with tea in a small glass and a ferry moving between continents. The tea is darker than we make it at home, served hot enough to slow you down. Outside, the Bosphorus is the exact cobalt we kept trying to describe on the Istanbul label.

At the market, pomegranates are stacked open-side-up. Their sweetness is deeper than expected, almost wine-like, with the acidity arriving later.

Fresh mint appears everywhere without announcing itself: beside parsley, inside glasses, under a plate of fruit. It cools the finish rather than taking over the flavour.

That became the structure of the bottle. Pomegranate first, lemon through the middle, then mint after everything else. The black tea underneath keeps it from becoming juice.

By late afternoon the city turns gold, but the water stays blue. We take the ferry back with another tea and a paper bag of fruit we will not be allowed to pack.

City bottles are not meant to reproduce a place. They are postcards from one specific day — incomplete, subjective and hopefully good enough to make you want to go.