The tramvay doors swing open at Çemberlitaş station, and I am greeted by the familiar sight of the stark Column of Constantine, signaling my return to the market district within Istanbul’s Fatih neighborhood and marking the beginning of a new sourcing adventure. I slowly descend through the plaza toward the Nuruosmaniye Mosque’s spires, marking the turn I’ll take westward to the market entrance bordering the Tavuk Pazarı (named “Poultry Bazaar” in referencing the market where live poultry and other fowl were once traded) at the very southeastern edge of the Grand Bazaar.
Pigeons scatter as my steps disrupt their feasting on street food scraps left behind. It’s early morning and the market is just waking. Merchants lean against storefronts stirring over their first hot sips of freshly brewed tea, accompanied by the plumes of cigarette smoke they blow as I pass by.
I’ve learned from previous sourcing days that time slips quickly, so despite a withering will and jet lagged lethargy, I woke early anticipating the detours I know will come. Part of the beauty of these excursions is a willingness to be surprised, to surrender some sense of direction and see where the day takes me, an approach I feel Bourdain himself would be proud of.
As I enter the massive iron gates of the Kürkçüler Kapısı (“Fur Merchant’s Gate”), the voices of faux leather bag and jacket dealers echo through the corridor that once housed fur traders selling goods from Central Asia and Siberia beyond. The tost chef is pressing his first order of the day for a nearby merchant, and the aroma of kaşar cheese and sucuk sausage reminds me of my empty stomach and how I’ll satiate it in the not too distant future.
My target today, as always, is silver, but this time something rare and harder to find, the kind of piece that seemed out of reach not too long ago but I managed to uncover through persistent curiosity on a previous trip. What once felt like aimless wandering has evolved to the brisk pace of someone who knows exactly what they’re after.
What am I looking for? That one stall.
And inside? A glimpse into the ancient.
This officially marks my fourth sourcing trip to Istanbul. I am by no means an expert, but at least I have some idea of how to get around. To understand why, I must reflect on a previous trip that changed the direction of dalga as I know it.
It came after a marathon day of introducing myself to prospective suppliers and not quite finding the relationships I had hoped for. I had been in the market for two days and had no idea where I was going, only that I needed a reliable supplier for silver in an ocean of dealers I wasn’t sure I could trust.
I had an idea of what dalga could become, but it would amount to nothing without a quality product and craftsmen who understood my vision of bringing ancient work into a modern world. I needed to find a craftsman who understood the vision and was willing to take a chance on a newcomer to the industry with a fresh Western perspective (and a peculiar Turkish accent).
The day nearly amounted to nothing until I stumbled upon a corner I had yet to see, a turn I had yet to take. I decided on a final sweep and followed my intuition down a narrow descent toward the center of the Bazaar.
A large fountain at the crossing of four hallways gave way to large archways held together by horizontal iron bars, seemingly holding up the entire ancient complex single-handedly. It felt as though I was exiting an exoskeleton and entering the concrete foundation of the market, a place that seemed to have stood the longest.
The walls were more muted and worn, the halls enclosing tighter around me. A musk lingered in the air, as though I were entering a space shared by mystics and shopkeepers of old, trading treasures from across the Silk Road.
My curiosity drove me toward a small passage that opened into a more airy enclosure beyond. As I ventured further, a worn plaque bearing the name “Cevahir Bedesten” appeared. Had I turned around and looked back, it felt as though the passage might disappear among the stalls into nothing, gone forever.
But it remained and beckoned me in.
This was the point at which my relationship with the Grand Bazaar changed. It seemed I had reached an inflection point, where everything before had been part of a grueling market initiation. Just when I thought I had seen every corner and began to question my decision to source here, I was led to the hidden center of the market, where generations of jewelers and antique collectors had been housed.
I felt I had uncovered another layer of the complex, one most people pass by or simply don’t have the time to find. It’s a moment I reflect on often, as it became an anecdote for the importance of perseverance in the journey of building a business.
The only certainty is what lies on the other side of giving up: the end of the push, the search, the build. Persisting forward means embracing uncertainty, where inspiration, lessons, and unexpected discoveries remain.
This moment shaped how I would approach subsequent sourcing excursions and reinforced the importance of venturing beyond paths most traveled. This essence is what makes our work at dalga so unique. I find what others won’t because of a willingness to turn any corner, never leaving a stone unturned.
The Cevahir Bedesten was the original market structure from which the Grand Bazaar would eventually grow. Its construction was ordered by Sultan Mehmed II (“Mehmed the Conqueror”) around 1460, just years after the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople.
Its purpose was to serve as a secure center for commerce and the exchange and safekeeping of valuable goods. The market was endowed to the Hagia Sophia through its waqf (charitable endowment), with merchant rental income helping fund the landmark’s continued maintenance and operation as a mosque.
Of Arabic origin, the Turkish word cevahir translates to “jewels” or “precious things.” The structure itself reflected this purpose: a massive rectangular masonry building supported by eight substantial pillars and covered by 15 brick domes. Its enclosed construction offered security against theft and greater protection from the fires that frequently devastated the surrounding wooden commercial districts.
Unlike the open streets of a typical market in these days, the Bedesten had controlled entrances and contained secure storage where gold, silver, money, documents, and other valuables could be kept. Its vault-like structure eventually made it not only a center for valuable goods, but an important center of commercial and financial activity.
As commerce expanded, shops and trading streets spread outward from the Bedesten, transforming the surrounding district into an increasingly dense center of trade.
My initial exploration of the Bedesten left me in awe. The halls were littered with handmade jewelry and antiques. Bright stalls full of sparkling gems were juxtaposed with historic chambers housing authentic daggers from the Ottoman era. Neatly organized briar wood tobacco pipes shared walls with hanging coffee pots, framing cave-like openings that gave the impression you might disappear forever if you dared to enter.
Turning around I was faced with pendants and coins from nearly every civilization that passed through these lands. Incense holders from as far away as India seemed to suspend mid-air, until the chirp of a finch in a small hanging cage proved a wall indeed existed.
Under the finch sat the archetypical Turkish grandfather, his mustache stained yellow from decades of sipping tea, his fingers masterfully passing ivory beads along the thread of his tasseled tespih. He smiled at his neighboring merchant while tossing two plastic tokens onto the tray of a passing tea runner, signaling a refill.
Despite the glass displays and absence of caravans, I imagined little had changed here in centuries. I knew I had to scour every corner of this chamber. I was being called toward something trying to find me as much as I was trying to find it.
It took me hours to take it all in, and it wasn’t until I reached what seemed like a black hole of antiques that I came to a full stop. I took a step inside, and it felt as if the world’s activity ceased and I was transported back to an age of merchant collectors showcasing rare finds from journeys along the Silk Road.
Suspended copper bath plates shined my warped reflection back at me. Large brass ladles brushed my head as I kneeled to observe oxidized candelabras barely in view under the faint light of authentic oil lanterns scattered throughout the stall.
Just as I began to wonder how I could be left alone in a place like this, a pair of eyes locked with mine from the corner of an alcove I had passed without noticing. “Buyurun,” ”welcome”, was all I heard until a small figure emerged in the shape of a man who could only have produced the raspiness of the voice I had heard. Without realizing it, I must have been within three feet of him the entire ten minutes I spent observing his treasures.
Looking back, I can’t help but smile at Selim Bey, who I’ve come to connect with often since that day and who must have gotten a kick out of my hypnotized awe of the space he calls his office every day. He greeted me with a friendly “sen yabancısın,” ”you are a stranger”, a phrase I was all too familiar with at this point, so I shared my story and why I had come.
I explained how I took a forced detour on my way out after a long and unsuccessful day traversing the market.
His next words were, “Sana bir şey göstereyim.” “Let me show you something.”
Back in Los Angeles, I had participated in enough markets to gauge interest and get a feel for what people were looking for in my next collection. When it came to new handmade pieces, enough visitors had mentioned rings that I knew there was interest. At the same time, a few ancient coins I had turned into pendants with jewelers on my last trip received a lot of attention, reinforcing my desire to find pieces with a history of their own.
I always leave room in the inventory for surprises. After all, that’s why I travel so far to source. But little did I know Selim Bey would present both at once.
He placed a large silver tray on an ottoman and began presenting hidden treasures he had been collecting for years. Each piece was a worn sterling silver vintage ring, which he presented with an alacrity that made it feel as though he personally knew the people who had worn them.
He showed me Seljuk archers’ rings, worn on the thumbs of warriors. When worn one way, a pointed triangle decorated with intricate hand-carved designs faced outward. When the archer was ready to fire, Selim Bey explained, he would flip it inward to assist in pulling the bowstring and protect the thumb from friction.
Next was a large metal ring with an L-shaped extension protruding from the top. At its end were two uneven bittings resembling some sort of key. Sure enough, Selim Bey explained that these rings were used by Ottoman military officials as keys to the large iron doors guarding their homes.
What followed was story after story in the form of signet rings from merchants and businesses of the past. Bespoke markings and signatures were engraved into the bezel of each ring and used as stamps to mark correspondence and sign trade agreements when dipped in wax.
The collection was a reflection of ancient function: handmade sterling silver heirlooms built to withstand daily wear. The pieces also represented the hard work of generations of collectors seeking artifacts and keeping the craftsmanship of old alive. They represented everything dalga stands for, and I knew I had to make space for pieces like these in our arsenal.
As I enter the market again, now with this experience behind me, I carry more confidence. Not in knowing exactly what I will find, but in knowing that what I do find will carry a meaning and story that can’t be replicated in modern jewelry.
It’s that persistence and willingness to be surprised I mentioned earlier. It’s what has brought me this far, why dalga’s early adopters have such unique pieces they can now call their own, and why I return to the Grand Bazaar time and time again.
What began as a serendipitous interaction with Selim Bey has since grown into a relationship that led to the newest Bedesten Collection, an homage to the fortress that once served as the nucleus of economic activity in the Ottoman Empire.
The Bedesten Collection is a limited release of one of one antique sterling silver rings I dig deep to uncover alongside generations of collectors preserving artisanal craft. No two rings are the same, something you’ll notice across the surface of every piece. From the bands to the engravings to the bezels, these rings embody the perfect imperfections of handcrafted silver and the patina left behind by functional use.
I scour every twist and turn of the Grand Bazaar to bring you artifacts and examples of craftsmanship you otherwise may never encounter. I dedicate days to connecting with artisans, collectors, storytellers, and ustas who remain the backbone of the Bazaar and custodians of its past.
We present an opportunity to connect with a piece that you, and only you, can have, carrying a story that began lifetimes before it reached your hands.
The limited Bedesten Collection is live on the site now. Once they’re gone, they’re gone, until I pack my bag and hit the road again in November in search of new artifacts with stories of their own.
Until then, I’ll be sporting my Byzantine coin turned ring on my pinky, the only one I know to exist.
Which will you choose?
