My favorite city in the world is Istanbul—electric, pulsing with the history and vibrations of countless cultural uprisings: Anatolians, Romans, Byzantines, Seljuks, Ottomans. This salt—despite its opulence—reminds us that uprisers must eat. And no one does herbs and spice more luxuriously than the Turkish people. For them, it was never about wealth. Herbs and spices meant survival, flavor, healing. Foraged in famine, layered in stews, passed through mothers’ hands. A cuisine of power built from the ground up. This herbaceous salt is a modern take on all flavors past: spicy, potent, sharp, grassy, green. Bright sumac—the poor man’s spice—overflows. Parsley, mint, cilantro, oregano—forward and grounded—speckled with citrusy woods: lemon thyme, bay, and a touch of sour with tangy sorrel. Ottoman spices swirl like smoke, evoking the Grand Bazaar that feeds everyone. Based on centuries-old blends, modernized for the herbal kitchen—this is total opulence for the commoner. It suits the sultans, but it represents the people. Much like Istanbul’s Nicole, my favorite restaurant in the world. This is your kebab salt. Your lamb, black lentil, tomato salad, smoked octopus salt. This is how anything becomes Ottoman. While yesterday was long ago, it was always about tomorrow.