This Dish Changed the Way I Eat Poached Eggs

The moment I broke into the egg, allowing its golden yolk to ooze across the plate, and then scooped and took a bite, I understood exactly what Hösükoğlu meant. Çılbır is a beloved, homey dish Turkish cooks turn to when they need a quick, ultrasatisfying meal, thanks to its succinct ingredient list of yogurt, eggs, butter, and the red pepper flakes pul biber. At the same time, the dish is so thrilling to eat and to behold—the creamy, garlicky yogurt and golden yolk are luscious; the butter is toasty, fruity, and warm from the spice—that it’s no wonder that the dish was once served to Ottoman royalty.

But nailing a pitch-perfect iteration of this dish was no small feat. While the assembly of çılbır is quick and straightforward—spread yogurt on a plate, top it with a poached egg, drizzle the plate with sizzling and nutty spiced butter—the dish hinges upon a precise balance of flavors. Hösükoğlu told me that in an ideal çılbır, “No ingredient dominates the others. Rather than jumping and saying, ‘I am here,’ each ingredient takes its turn to come and please you.” I made it my goal to master this flavor and textural harmony as I developed my own version of the dish.

Traditionally, the yogurt base of çılbır is thick and creamy, and when I plated a few yogurts, I immediately knew I’d be sticking with this customary choice. Whole-milk strained yogurt had enough structure to provide a plush, creamy bed for the poached egg, while the runniness of unstrained yogurt didn’t provide enough textural contrast with the liquid-y egg yolk. 

To give the yogurt a savory edge, I incorporated garlic, as some cooks like to do, grating it into a paste so that it melded seamlessly into the smooth yogurt. Most recipes don’t call for adding salt to the yogurt, but I found that a small amount brought the flavors into focus. I divided the seasoned mixture among four serving plates; spread the dollops into even layers; and then followed the traditional step of leaving the plates on the counter for a few minutes so that the yogurt could warm up, ensuring that it wouldn’t be too cold against the hot egg and butter. 

When I spoke with Aysenur Altan, a Turkish food writer, content creator, and YouTuber, about çılbır, she told me that palace chefs in the Ottoman Empire had to audition by making an egg dish before they could take on high positions in the royal kitchens. It’s easy to understand why: There are a lot of ways that poached eggs, the most common preparation for çılbır, can go wrong. A perfectly poached egg has a tender, fully set white with no raw bits; a fluid but thickened yolk; and no ragged edges. Thankfully, a few years ago my former Cook’s Illustrated colleague Andrew Janjigian mastered a foolproof poached egg method, which I was happy to adopt here. First, I briefly strained four eggs in a colander, which allowed the looser parts of the white to slip away before cooking, ensuring tidy edges in the cooked egg. I seasoned the water with salt and vinegar, two ingredients that help the whites set up more quickly, to ensure that the faster-cooking yolk would still be liquid by the time the whites were firm and cooked through. When the water came to a boil, I took the pot off the heat and then gently slipped the eggs in and let them cook in the residual heat for just a few minutes. I removed the poached eggs with a slotted spoon, gently patting them dry before laying them atop their yogurt beds.

The last component was the spiced butter, a nuanced finishing touch that graces dishes throughout Turkish cuisine, from countless soups to manti (Turkish dumplings stuffed with spiced meat). Making this condiment is, according to Hösükoğlu, “an art”—the butter is melted and then taken just a whisper further, the milk solids taking on a hint of browning and nuttiness as moisture is driven off. “It is something you want to hear,” Altan explained to me, referencing the foaming and sizzling that occurs during the process. That sizzling also signals that the butter is hot enough to rapidly absorb the pigment of the pul biber, taking on the pepper’s brilliant red-orange hue.

In a small saucepan (instead of a skillet, to catch some of the sputtering), I heated a couple tablespoons of unsalted butter over medium heat for a few minutes. Once the butter began to sputter and just smell nutty, I added a teaspoon of pul biber and then quickly removed the saucepan from the heat so that I didn’t risk burning the spice. As I swirled in the pul biber, I watched as the butter took on an incredible red color and then spooned it over each plate.

The dish can then be enjoyed as is, but some add a final garnish of fresh herbs, such as parsley, dill, or mint, or dried herbs, such as sage or mint. Dried mint is my favorite: Though its grassy, vegetal flavors dissipate during drying, the dried herb’s characteristic menthol flavors, which come from a class of compounds known as terpenes, are far more stable and potent than in the fresh leaves. Dried mint also boasts an earthy depth that you don’t get from fresh.

I knew I had finally constructed a palace-worthy plate of çılbır—strikingly simple yet beguilingly complex—and that it certainly wouldn’t be my last. Whether I’m in the mood for something luxurious, comforting, or just quick, at breakfast, lunch, or dinner alike, çılbır fits the bill. I understand now why Hösükoğlu personifies the dish the way she does. “It’s like a good friend,” she said. “It fits all days.”