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I knew I was in trouble the instant I saw the tinfoil-lined tray emerge from the kitchen. An orange and blue Sterno-fired flame leaped out of a makeshift torch centerpiece.  It had 'Sucker' written all over it - and I knew it was headed straight for my table.

I was about to be ripped off in Istanbul. How I fell for the Restaurant Scam within my first few hours in the city was pathetic, but I wasn't going down without a fight!

I landed at IST, the shiny, new airport on the European side of the Bosphorus, just three hours earlier. I was exhausted but excited after making the 16-hour journey from home, a layover in Germany, and then on to Turkey.

I breezed through Customs. And since all I had was a carry-on bag for my two-week trip, I bypassed the chaotic carousels and walked straight for the exit.

WhatsApp chimed on my phone, and I saw that the Limo company I had hired was ready and waiting for me at Gate 13. I navigated my way there, walked outside, and passed through what felt like a Red Carpet event. A crowd standing behind barricades waved signs with names written on them, shouting, hoping I was their next fare. But I knew my name wouldn't be on any of those whiteboards or torn shards of cardboard.

The Limo company had warned me that they do not display passenger names at the gate. A common ploy is for more treacherous operators to copy down the names of passengers and then intercept them before they walk out of the airport to steal the fare. Talk about cutthroat!

Once past the Transportation Paparazzi, I texted the Limo company back - 'wearing a red checked shirt,' and my driver immediately approached me. Thirty seconds later, I was ushered into the back of a well-appointed limo van, handed cold bottled water, and we were off.

The sixty-minute drive from IST to the Hotel Sultania was uneventful until we entered the Old City. As we passed over the Galata Bridge, I caught my first glimpse of the Blue Mosque out of a rain-stained window. My hands fumbled vainly for my iPhone. I wanted to snap a picture, but I couldn't look away from this incredible sight. Illuminated by dozens of yellowy floodlights, this giant Mosque glowed a soft, velvety blue in the evening haze. I was entranced. There would be no picture - save the image permanently burned into my astonished mind.

I had arrived in Istanbul.

The limo stopped suddenly in the street, and the driver hopped out. He had been talking in Turkish on his cellphone and then abruptly pulled over. At first, I thought perhaps he was unsure of the directions. But then the sliding door opened, and he beaconed me to hop out.

As my tired feet hit the street, I saw a bellman running towards us. A young man with a warm smile and a shock of dark, curly hair grabbed my carry-on and greeted me in excellent English. "Welcome, sir! The hotel is just around the corner."

I settled up with the driver and walked around the corner and into Hotel Sultania. Another warm greeting by the desk clerk and check-in commenced immediately.

"I'm sorry; the hotel restaurant is closed for the evening," the deskman informed me as we passed papers together. Unfortunate. It was 8:30 PM, and I was hungry and tired. I would have opted for a quick meal there on location and then gone to my room to get started on time zone acclimation, but it was not to be. "But if you are hungry, there are lots of options close by!" he added, sensing my disappointment.

Finished with check-in, I was escorted to the elevator and then shown to my clean, comfortable accommodation on the third floor. It was a lovely room; I'm very pleased. I stowed my gear, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and headed back down to the lobby.

So far, everything had proceeded near perfectly on this trip to Turkey. The initial flight to Germany. Finding and checking in at the Senator Lounge in Frankfurt for hot food and an even hotter shower. The next flight to Istanbul. Customs. Transport to the Hotel. And finally, confirmation that the hotel I had chosen online had been an excellent choice.

All that was left to do on this long travel day was grab a quick bite to eat and then hit the hay. But my luck was about to run out...

As I stepped onto the stone-paved street, I felt elated - and exhausted. This was it! Istanbul! I am actually here! The evening air was mild but comfortable. Autumn was checking into Istanbul but had yet to unpack fully. Even the light drizzle that greeted me at the airport had ceased.

In this section of the Old City, the streets are pretty narrow. Small cars and motorbikes still try to make their precarious way through. But people walk in what feels like - but isn't - a pedestrian-only street. However, one learns quickly when the first scooter approaches rapidly from behind, smacks the horn, and whips around you with no hesitation and just inches to spare.

And what do you know? Ten feet separate my hotel and me from a smart-looking restaurant directly across the street. Inside, bright lights and clean, linen-lined tables. Outside, comfortable street seating, complete with gas-powered heaters for those with thinner blood. Easy! Simple! Perfect!

Nope.

I decide, instead, to take a quick look around. Epic fail.

I begin to stroll around this antique neighborhood of narrow, crisscrossing streets they call Fatih. Restaurants, bars, and cafes line every square foot of this place. Although the thin mist has subsided, it seems to have turned into a Brain Fog that has taken up residence within me. I continue to walk as indecision and confusion join forces to harass me.

Twenty minutes later, jet lag kicks things up a notch. I'm doing a quick but fuzzy mental calculation, and my poor math skills suggest I've been awake for over 36 hours. I decide that I've had enough. I'm done. I'll have one hell of a breakfast in the morning, I assure myself.

I stop on a corner and pull out my phone. I fire up Google Maps and plug in my hotel to find my way back. It can't be far.

"Hello, friend!" I look up, and a trim, pleasant-looking man in a stylish silk shirt and dark slacks is smiling at me. An arm sweeps out and gestures to a near-empty bank of street-side tables. "Are you hungry?"

"Haha, actually, I am," I reply without hesitation.

"What do you like tonight? Fish? Steak?" His English was pretty decent. He then turns my attention to a curious wooden fixture embedded in the sidewalk.

It's a 3D menu. A half-dozen whole fish, preserved in a sort of hard gel, are on display. Or, perhaps they were replicas produced by a 3D printer in lifelike detail. I don't know for sure. And there's an outside chance I was hallucinating the entire episode from extreme fatigue. "Sure, fish," I say.

Credit Pixabay.com

Again, the one-arm sweep towards the tables, and I follow it to a seat he pulls out for me. "I take very good care of you," he states. "I make you a special fish."

Friends, this was my first and worst mistake of the entire episode. But it wouldn't be my last...

As it happens, his offering me a "special fish" should have been my first big clue that this dinner would go sideways.

My Server goes into overdrive. A menu appears in my hand. A plate pops onto the table in front of me. Silverware wrapped in linen arrives in an instant. "Wine?"

I scan the menu. It's similar to menus in other tourist spots around the globe. Written in their native tongue, it features English translations underneath and displays oversized photos of each item for Point and Choose ease. "I'll have a beer."

I point to a picture of a frosty mug of Efes (I found it to be a terrific Turkish Pilsner) on the menu. 40 Turkish Lira. About 3 USD. My Server looks disappointed.

"Wine?" he implores again. I point back to the Beer—a sigh.

This interchange should have been my second big clue that things were about to get wildly expensive. I unwittingly managed to escape this time, but the night was young.

"Salad?"

I scan the pictures of salads on the menu. A nice, green side salad. 10 Turkish Lira. Call it 80 cents. "I'll have that one, please." The Server nods, plucks the menu from the table, and walks away.

Feeling comfortable, I begin to look around me. Perhaps two dozen tables with chairs are neatly arranged along the sidewalk in a long row. There are expansive windows into the restaurant proper to my left, but they are mostly covered with pictures of entrees and other promotional materials so that I couldn't see inside.

Two other parties are dining here with me. One is a young couple almost next to me that I suspect are from the UK judging by their appearance and accents. Another, a middle-aged Turkish man with two children, is further down the row. They are eating, talking, and laughing together as young families do.

Moments later, the Beer arrives along with a small basket of crusty bread. Not far behind, the salad. It looks fresh and delicious, and so I immediately start in.

Three bucks for the Beer. Less than a dollar for the salad. Judging by the other entrees on the menu, the fish should be around 80-100 Lira, or $6-8, tops. With a tip, I'm looking at about 150 Lira, or $12 total - if I skip dessert. Which, by the way, is not necessarily a given. I AM on vacation, after all...

I'm mostly through the salad, and I find the bread quite tasty. The Beer is crisp and cold. I'm relaxed and feeling quite comfortable when my Server approaches me again. He scans my half-drank Beer, and I suspect he's going to offer me a second one. "Wine?"

I'm slow, but I'm beginning to catch on. "No, thank you. This Beer is delicious, though." He frowns, then turns and walks across the street to where I now understand the kitchen is.

Notwithstanding my weariness, and despite the cold brew now further attacking my consciousness, I begin to feel a bit vulnerable and suspicious. Retracing the order of operations in my head, I realized that the Server and I had not specifically discussed my entree, the contents, and the cost.

Whelp, I guess I'm in for a 200 Lira entree, I summarize. That would be relatively high-end here in Istanbul, but whatever - as long as it's good.

As if on cue, my Server steps out of the nondescript doorway of the kitchen across the street, holding a giant serving tray wrapped entirely in tinfoil. In the center of the tray, standing four to six inches above the surface, is a turret-shaped tinfoil torch to which he then holds a Bic lighter.

It's Showtime.

As the flame leaped up out of the torch, my heart dropped down into my stomach. As he walked straight towards my table, the young couple sitting next to me laughed, and the young lady exclaimed, "Wow! Look at that!"

Yeah. Look at that.

My Server placed the firey entree down onto the table in front of me, rearranging the plates, baskets, and bowls to accommodate the massive display. I was embarrassed. "Can you put that out?" I ask, gritting my teeth a bit. He shook his head as if to say either No, or I don't understand. And so, I sat there with this funeral pyre burning in front of me. For my funeral, apparently. The young couple gathered their things, turned to me, and said, "Enjoy," and then disappeared into the street.

My Server returned. He picked up my not-yet-empty beer mug. "Wine?"

Does this guy own a vineyard, or what? I thought angrily to myself.

"Ok. Look, I'll have a glass of your house white." I was annoyed, but I needed a bit of consoling, as well. If I'm going to have a 300 Lira dinner, read USD 22, I'm sure as hell going to have a $5 glass of wine to wash it down with.

Mistake.

I hadn't even picked up a utensil before I saw him come back out of the shop behind me. In his hand was a small, half-sized bottle of white wine, 375 ml. He already had his corkscrew inserted into the neck and popped out the cork as he walked to the table. Another server followed him with a large ice bucket stand, placing it beside my table.

"Wait! I agreed to a glass, not a bottle!" I blurted out.

Without any reaction, he poured a glassful, pushed the bottle down into the ice, and said, "No problem. No problem." He offered a weak smile and then returned to the building.

I stared at the flaming entree. Eight dark-battered fillets were spread out around the tray. Beside them were large slices of bright red tomatoes; bullseyes, if you will. Next to those? Sliced cucumbers. Fancy. But the pièce de résistance?

French fries. Lots and lots and lots of french fries.

Ironically, the french fries made me feel a little better about the situation. I mean, how expensive could this entree be if it was 87% french fries?

I went to stab one of the credit card-sized fillets of fish with my fork,

but I could not pierce it. Bone. Underneath the thick layer of brown batter was a rigid encasement of fishbone. I had another slice of bread while I contemplated my situation.

I decided to make the best of things, and I attacked the fillet in earnest. I managed to pick a few flakey white morsels of fish matter from the brick and pop it into my mouth. Bland.

As I sawed away at the padlocked panfish, the Server returned. He plucked the wine bottle from the ice and poured the rest of its contents into my still, primarily full glass. Then, he picked up a knife and a fork and separated the top of the bone away from the fillet, revealing... another tiny morsel of bland, white fish flesh. Thanks, buddy.

Then, incredibly, he kind of shrugged. It was an insult to injury. My interpretation of this gesture was him saying through body language, "Geez, this kinda sucks."

Yeah. It kinda does.

After poking at the seafood for a few more minutes, I raised the white flag. I'd finally had enough. "Waiter?" I called out. "I'll take the check, please."

"No dessert?" he asked, looking almost hurt at the seven iron chests of fish fillet yet unwelded open.

Yeah, no. No dessert. It's Showdown Time, folks.

I was mentally preparing myself for this 300 Lira fleecing I was sure I was about to receive. I'm going to pay the bill, leave a tiny, tiny tip, and then slink back to my hotel to sleep off this debacle. Tomorrow is a new day.

My Server returned with a faux leather bill holder and dropped it on my table. He collected the fish boat, wine glass, ice bucket, and my dignity with practiced ease.

As he walked away, I opened the book at gasped at the bill inside.

Well, we'll call it a bill for simplicity's sake. What it was, though, was a scrap of paper. It could have been a page torn out of an ancient phone book for all I know.

However, on this 'bill' were five or six hand-scribbled lines. Next to those hand-scribbled lines were numbers. One number was crossed out and replaced with a more significant number. The total?

1000 Lira. Exactly. USD 113. (The exchange rate then was about 12ish Lira to the dollar.)

Deep breath. I called the Server over. He was prepared.

"What is this?" I asked calmly? A look of faux concern appeared on his face out of thin but practiced air.

He took the bill and studied it. Then, placing it down back onto the table, he recited: "Beer, salad, fish, wine. It's good."

"600 Lira for a fish?" I said, now more incredulously. "Where is that on the menu?"

He plucked a menu off a nearby table, turned to a page inside, and pointed to a picture of a fish: "Market price. Good fish. One kilogram. Go to any shop in Istanbul, you'll see."

I laughed out loud. A kilogram of fish? That's over two pounds. $75 for a fish.

"And this?" I ask, pointing to the number 240, which was initially 180, but 180 wouldn't get the bill to an even 1000, so an alteration was necessary.

"Wine," he said.

"That's ridiculous," I replied calmly, but trying to radiate firmness. "I'm not paying that."

That calm, almost vacant expression never wavered throughout our remaining exchange. "Yes, that's the bill. You will pay," he said matter of factly.

Another server who was tidying up nearby then wandered over to our table. As I spoke with my Server, the other one simply stood there in front of my table, following along. But when I said I wasn't paying, he inched closer into the table, and his face turned to a dark frown.

No one spoke or moved for what seemed like ten minutes when only fifteen or twenty seconds expired. I was relatively sure that neither of them would be physical with me there in the open street, but one never knows these things for sure. I'm in a foreign country. I'm alone. And it's 10 PM with only a few other people in the vicinity.

"Well, I'm very disappointed," I finally say out loud. "It's my first night in your country, and this is my welcome. You took advantage of me." He stood immobile.

Foolishly, I couldn't help myself. "But thank you for teaching me something valuable." That received a slightly raised eyebrow, and I felt a tingle of satisfaction ripple down my spine. I don't know for sure if he fully understood me or not, but I had pricked his thick arrogant veneer with my Disappointed Dad routine. And that steadied me.

"I'm going to pay this. There's no tip, though. And you know, this is going to get charged back to you once I get home." He was unmoved but uttered one solitary word in reply.

"Cash."

And now, here we were at the crux of it all. I knew they'd want cash. With cash, there's no evidence and zero recourse. With cash, it's Game Over. Checkmate.

"I don't have any cash on me. I just got here tonight." Internally, I was ready. I was braced. I was one hundred percent going to be quickly overwhelmed by these two younger men if this devolved into physical negotiation. I'm no tough guy, and I'm probably twenty years their senior, but I wasn't going to be caught off guard again.

Did I actually have any cash on me? I'll never tell...

My Server stood there silent for a moment, his partner staring at me and waiting for whatever came next - as did I. Finally, he walked over to a table, picked up a card reader, and returned.

I fished my wallet out of a back pocket and, under their heavy watch, withdrew my credit card and handed it to him. He ran the card through, spit out two copies of the bill, and then silently offered me a pen. I scribbled my name on the receipt.

He took the signed copy, and they both withdrew without another word. I stood up and walked straight to the next establishment just a few feet away from the restaurant. If this wasn't over, it was going to be finished in a crowded place, not down a dark street with just the three of us.

I waited a few minutes inside the gift shop to ensure that everyone had settled down and then cautiously made the short walk back to my hotel.

Upon my return home, I filed a dispute with my credit card company two weeks later. After an investigation, the charge was dismissed, and my card refunded the entire amount.

A wiser person would have simply kept their mouth shut, paid the bill, and filed a dispute from home.

Actually, a wiser person would have confirmed the price for everything upfront. Especially so if something isn't on the menu, is 'market-priced,' or otherwise undisclosed.

What happened isn't a reflection on Istanbul, either. It reflects unsavory tourist-focused bars, restaurants, and shops anywhere in the world and the unwary tourists who frequent them.

Cheers!

@braveboat

All images taken by the author with iPhone 7 except where otherwise stated.

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