Fauna

Semolina, eggs, and the daily dough

Semolina and eggs set the rhythm before service at Fauna in Ataşehir, Istanbul. Emrah Coşkun and İbrahim Tuna run the kitchen, and Tuna in particular works as a master craftsman, a perfectionist with little tolerance for a rushed table. The restaurant’s own center of gravity is handmade pasta, built from semolina and eggs, then drawn toward Turkish ingredients rather than held inside a purely Italian frame. Nothing is prepped in advance. Each dish is made to order in an open kitchen, which is why the room asks for patience rather than speed, and why the line has to answer to a method rather than to a rush. The chalkboard says as much before a guest sits down.

The pasta is made for this room

Fauna’s craft starts with dough made daily, not bought in as a convenience. The house works in an Italian-Turkish fusion register, using organic local produce and fillings that pull the pasta toward the place around it: lamb ravioli, lamb shank tagliatelle, âlâ domates pasta, Obruk cheese ravioli, and Karayaka lamb with walnut. The point is not novelty. It is the bench work of turning semolina and egg into a vehicle for Turkish acidity, dairy, lamb fat, and tomato. A bowl of tagliatelle can carry a lamb shank in sticky jus; ravioli can take bold fillings and still keep its edge al dente. Fauna has kept this scale for 20 years, growing from five tables into a 22-chair restaurant without losing the intimacy that makes the pasta visible. The kitchen’s discipline is tied to freshness: dishes are prepared to order, and the menu favors shared plates over a fixed tasting sequence. Even the minimal beverage program keeps attention on the plate.

An open kitchen and 22 chairs

The room is small enough that the kitchen is part of the dining room’s weather. Fauna sits in Küçükbakkalköy, on Istanbul’s Asian side, with an open kitchen, communal seating, and a conversational noise level that suits a restaurant built around lunch and patience. The atmosphere is inviting but pared back: a refined neighborhood room rather than a staged dining room, intimate enough that the movement of pasta, pans, and plates stays within sight. The 22 chairs matter because they make scale a craft decision. A larger room would change the dough, the timing, and the way fresh preparation holds under pressure. Here the pass can still feel bench-side, with the work close enough for the guest to read its pace. The restaurant’s chalkboard language has made patience part of its public character, but the real instruction comes from the room itself. Nothing about it encourages haste.

Why the small scale holds

Fauna’s standing rests on persistence as much as notice. The restaurant appears in the Michelin Guide with a Bib Gourmand and in Gault & Millau with 2 Toques and a Flavor Ambassador award, and its pasta program has run for 20 years. Istanbul has many rooms built for volume; Fauna has kept faith with 22 chairs, an open kitchen, and dough that still begins with semolina and eggs.