Malabadi, My Neighbor Kitchen

By: Fargo Bcn

This photo shows the painted wall design of the Malabadi Restaurant from 2004 to 2022. The famous Malabadi Bridge inspired the name of the Malabadi Ravintola found in Diyarbakir, Turkey.

I stumbled on Malabadi a year after moving from Paris to Tampere in 2012. Hervanta soon felt like home, but I missed the flavors I grew up with. I often wandered, hoping to find something that tasted like comfort. One evening, as I walked from the library to my apartment, I noticed a warm light on the main street. The sign said Malabadi. It was just a three-minute walk from where I lived. The next day, on my way to the lake for a walk, I stopped in for lunch.

Stepping inside Malabadi for the first time, I was immediately struck by the captivating wall paintings on both sides of the restaurant. I was mesmerized by its perfection. Their vibrant imagery drew my eyes in and made me feel as if I were being transported to a different world—a world where sultans and emperors might sit and discuss peace and unity. The atmosphere felt welcoming, as if the restaurant itself was inviting guests to become part of its story. Opened in 2005, the Hervanta restaurant won me over with its excellent food that truly satisfied me, and with an atmosphere that matched its name: Malabadi, meaning cozy, familiar, and diverse. Since then, Malabadi has felt like an extension of my own kitchen, especially on busy workdays.

For years, I just thought of it as a Turkish restaurant. In 2017, I met the manager, Ramzi, who is Kurdish and from Duhok in Iraqi Kurdistan. Ramzi explained that he was offered to run the Hervanta branch because the owner was busy with their Tammela location in Tampere, which opened in 2015. The owner is also Kurdish, from northern Kurdistan, now known as southeast Turkey.

Faysal Bilmez serves my favorite Kurdish lamb stew at Malabadi Ravintola during a Valentine's lunch.

I didn’t meet the owner until 2024, when I learned that Malabadi Tampere had closed due to business challenges. That’s when I finally met the person behind the name I’d known for twelve years: Faysal Bilmez. He is a native of Amed (Diyarbakir), Turkey, also known as Bakur, or northern Kurdistan, and was born in Silvan, where the famous Malabadi Bridge stands. Faysal’s wife, Susanna, was captivated by the landmark and its stunning historical bridge and took the idea for the restaurant’s name from it.

Faysal became more than just a familiar face; he became a friend and, in a way, a neighbor in Hervanta, even though he lives in Kangasala with Susanna, who helps run the business.

This Valentine’s Day, I chose to celebrate by dining at Malabadi. The restaurant had a peaceful atmosphere, with only a few couples quietly enjoying their meals. The air was gentle and fragrant with spices, and the calmness made the place feel inviting in a different way. It was not busy or rushed like on crowded days; instead, there was a sense of tranquility that allowed me to settle in, take my time, and appreciate the surroundings. I looked over the menu and watched steam rise from the kitchen. I finally ordered my favorite: lamb stew, a comforting dish made in true Kurdish style.

After my enjoyable lunch, I went to thank Faysal personally for the excellent meal. He invited me into the kitchen, smiling and grateful. He explained that Kurdish dishes often use more sumac and dried mint, while Turkish dishes use more smoky paprika and tomato. He told me his family’s dolma is always wrapped in grape leaves and flavored with cinnamon, unlike the versions across the border. During our talk, he let me try his favorite ezme, spicy with pomegranate molasses and fresh herbs. I realized then how the food’s identity came through in every bite, even if the menu says something else.

In the kitchen, I watched him work not as a boss but as a skilled chef—grilling, chopping vegetables for side dishes, and putting together plates that looked as good as they smelled. The sound of sizzling fat filled the air, and knives tapped steadily on the cutting board, their sound mingling with the soft clatter of plates. He moved with the confidence of someone who knows every corner of the kitchen and the care of someone who sees food as a way to communicate. I admired his skill and how quickly he worked without making a mess.

Between orders, we talked about the sad news from Rojava and the ongoing protests in Rojhelat. Talking with Faysal, I saw how open and honest he was. He spoke without intimidation, and his direct, bold expression of his opinions is evident. I admired how sincerely he shared his thoughts, whether simple or complex. We talked about everything from business to politics, and I mentioned something I had noticed in some places before. A few Kurdish business owners in Finland, not just in Tampere, have Kurdish names but present their restaurants as Turkish. And honestly, I’m kind of sad about that.

In Helsinki, for example, I once saw a place called Anatolia Kebab. The sign outside had a Turkish flag, but inside, the owner and staff spoke Kurdish to each other after the lunch rush. The menu listed "Turkish Doner" and "Istanbul Special," but a quiet chat revealed that the chef was from Zakho, near the Iraqi-Kurdistan border. None of this was obvious from the outside, where regulars only saw Turkish signs and pictures of Istanbul by the door. Faysal smiled and answered without hesitation. It’s their choice, he said. He couldn’t speak for others yet, "We don’t deny that we are Kurds; we are immensely proud of our identity, but people think we are the same when we are completely different. Sometimes the branding is just a way to market better." He explained further that choosing a Kurdish business name like Malabadi, Evin, or Heval speaks about their Kurdish identity, but many people don’t know it.

The Kurdish chef and his Cordillera friend: Faysal and I

He answered clearly, without any defensiveness. It made me think about how identity and survival often go hand in hand, and sometimes the sign above a restaurant is just a way to keep the business running. His choice of branding reminded me of my own search for belonging—choosing familiar foods and signs of home to make a new city feel less strange. In our own ways, we both learned to adapt, finding comfort and connection in the small things that help us feel at home.

As the afternoon stretched, orders kept coming, and Faysal kept working—stirring, searing, plating; listening and answering; shaping flavors the way a poet shapes breath. I laughed along as Faysal told his funny stories during his early years in Finland. While he worked, Susanna would come to fetch the orders ready for service. She, too, has her memories, adding delightful details from their 29-year marriage. We enjoyed that priceless moment in the kitchen, just laughing at some scenario from our lives that made us who we are today. Before I left, I learned Faysal’s birthday is the day after Valentine's Day. It felt right to mark the moment with words, the way he marks moments with food.

So I decided to write a short tribute to friendship and the quiet strength it takes to build a life in a new city. Malabadi has been part of my days in Tampere, through cold winters and summers filled with the smell of the lake and grilled meat. It’s a place where I find the taste of home and the courage to create a new one.

Rojbûna te pîroz be! Happy birthday, Faysal. Thank you for the excellent meals, the conversations, and for showing me that kitchens are where stories remain.