Ever smelled charcoal and onions together and felt homesick for somewhere you've never lived? That's Adana. After four years criss-crossing Turkey, I can still pinpoint the exact moment it ruined me: a nameless ocakbaşı in Ankara, 2023. metal seat, no menu, just endless skewers until the Adana landed. Fifty-fifty lamb shoulder and tail fat, ground so fine the paste—salt, onion, red urfa—turned it sunset-red. Charcoal popped. One bite, and the onions hit sharp, then mellow as the fat melted. Jet-lag gone. Life split: before, after. From there I chased it—Istanbul carts, Fethiye beaches, a rattling Togg down to the actual city of Adana. Not postcard pretty. Cotton fields, clangy factories, ninety-degree nights that glue your shirt to your back. But every corner pumps cedar smoke. They say Ottoman shepherds started it: tough goat leg, tail fat, sabers for skewers, juniper coals. Water's soft, air's dry—so the fat doesn't run off, flavor stays locked. Gaziantep fights for the crown, Urfa yells louder, but Adana just stays quiet and keeps winning. Fun fact: I once wrapped half a kebab in foil for a red-eye. Whole plane smelled like onions. Stewardess wanted to charge me extra luggage. Lesson? Eat it hot, eat it whole, never skimp on fat. Back here, Phoenix was starving for real meat. So Mon Cheri happened—one street, one grill, no fusion tricks. We grind shoulder and fat while it's cold, fold in Ancu urfa paste, shape ridges so the outside blisters before the inside dries. Slide it off, hit it with ezme, lemon, parsley, sumac onions. Sit on the patio, iced Turkish tea in hand, Scottsdale traffic humming behind you—gone. You're leaning against a truck in Adana again. Search Phoenix kebab, Scottsdale patio eats, First Avenue hidden gem. We'll pop up. No dad jokes. Just lamb. And if you're hiking Camelback or killing time near Fashion Square, detour here. One bite and the Seyhan River starts bubbling two blocks over. Bring a friend—tell them the chef once got frisked over onions. We laugh about it now. Grill's hot. Order two. – Lexi Mon Cheri, First Avenue, Old Town Scottsdale.