Hot weather and warped train tracks mean we arrive an hour late, feeling (not unlike Bridget Jones) an unholy trinity of sweaty, stressed and starving. There’s an old TV flickering at the top of the stairs, beaming out scenes from vintage Turkish shows, before we pull back a heavy curtain and step inside the lively dining room. We’re greeted not just with a smile but a handshake too. As we sit down, our server tells us Kismet replicates the traditional “meyhane” drinking dens of Istanbul and northern Cyprus. The walls have been painted in a soft yellow, emulating the tobacco-stained…
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