By Ayla Demirtaş, Senior Food Features Writer

A glint of gold catches the eye as a tray emerges from the oven in a steamy kitchen in Gaziantep, southeastern Turkey. The scent is intoxicating—warm butter, toasted pistachio, and the faint citrus whisper of syrup cooled just moments before. The chef, his white shirt stained with streaks of clarified butter, cuts each diamond-shaped piece with the concentration of a jeweler at the workbench.

Baklava is not simply a dessert. In Turkey, it’s a national obsession, a symbol of pride, and, for many, an edible form of poetry. It’s layered, quite literally, with history, heritage, and high expectations.

The Origins: As Contested as the Recipe

Baklava’s ancestry is as complex as its layers. Food historians agree that its roots stretch back to the kitchens of the imperial Topkapı Palace, where Ottoman chefs perfected the filo-layering technique by the 15th century. Yet even earlier versions of layered pastries were baked in the kitchens of Central Asian Turks and across the Levant, making baklava a contested jewel of the Eastern Mediterranean.

What distinguishes Turkish baklava is its refinement. The paper-thin pastry, the use of clarified butter (sadeyağ), and the exacting balance of sweetness—all have been elevated over generations. Nowhere is this more evident than in Gaziantep, designated by UNESCO as a Creative City of Gastronomy, and home to the country’s most revered baklava artisans.

Anatomy of a Masterpiece

To understand Turkish baklava, you must first appreciate its architecture. A typical tray might contain 40 to 50 layers of filo dough, each brushed with butter and carefully placed to create a featherlight, yet structurally sound, tower of texture. Between these sheets nestle crushed nuts—most commonly pistachios in the southeast or walnuts in the north.

The entire tray is baked to a bronzed finish before being drenched in a syrup made from sugar, water, and a splash of lemon juice. The lemon isn’t decorative—it balances the syrup and prevents crystallization. True baklava is never cloying. It is rich, but should finish clean.

The Gaziantep Standard

In Gaziantep, baklava is religion. The city is home to more than 500 baklava shops, and many are family-run businesses that trace their craft back generations. Karaköy Güllüoğlu is among the most renowned, with its original recipes dating back to 1820. Their pistachios come exclusively from the Nizip region, where the soil and climate yield a nut with an unmatched aroma.

The city even has a protected designation for its pastry—“Antep Baklavası” is registered with the EU as a geographical indication, ensuring that only baklava made with local ingredients and techniques can bear the name.

A Sweet With Seasons and Rituals

Baklava plays an essential role in Turkey’s culinary calendar. During Ramazan Bayramı—the three-day festival following Ramadan—households across the country prepare or purchase trays to offer visiting relatives and guests.

It’s also served at weddings, during circumcision feasts, and to mark the completion of military service or university exams. In short: no celebration is complete without it.

Though it’s easy to find supermarket varieties, true connoisseurs know the signs of quality: filo that shatters, not sogs; syrup that sinks in, not pools; and nuts that sing with oil and flavor.

The Global Palate and the Modern Twist

Baklava has long crossed borders, and today it enjoys global recognition. But in a world of fusion desserts and novelty spins, there’s a quiet movement among Turkish bakers to protect its integrity. “You don’t mess with the balance,” warns chef Cemal Tütüncü, a fifth-generation baklava maker in Şahinbey. “Baklava is sacred. You innovate by refining, not reimagining.”

Still, some modern Turkish pâtisseries have introduced subtle evolutions. Think chocolate-dipped ends, hazelnut layers from the Black Sea region, or even vegan adaptations using olive oil and agave syrup. While purists may scoff, these nods to dietary needs reflect baklava’s enduring relevance.

An Enduring Labor of Love

For all its luxury, baklava remains a labor-intensive delicacy. One tray can take several hours—and several skilled hands—to complete. It demands muscle to roll the dough thin enough to read through. It requires precision in slicing, so syrup is absorbed evenly. And it insists on patience.

But perhaps that’s what makes baklava so cherished: it resists haste. It asks us to slow down, to savor, to remember. Much like the land that birthed it.

As Turkish poet Yahya Kemal Beyatlı once wrote, “What makes a place beautiful is its memory.” In Turkey, baklava is memory made sweet—and it will always be worth the wait.

Further Reading & References

Ayla Demirtaş is a food journalist based in Ankara, with a focus on Anatolian culinary traditions and the regional stories behind iconic Turkish dishes.