Some eat to travel, others travel to eat. Me? I fall into the second category. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t just eat when I travel, I do other things as well, but to me, trying the local fare is one of the great joys of travelling. Every trip, every country has given me at least one genuinely memorable culinary experience.
So on my first trip to Athens, I was keenly anticipating the food. Living in Toronto, I had sampled Greek fare many times in the Greek neighbourhood on Danforth Avenue, so to be at the source of many fine dining experiences, left me in a state of expectation akin to Christmas Eve.
On my first full day in Athens, I got up early, took my guidebooks to breakfast and planned out my day. After deciding on a morning visit to the acropolis and an afternoon in the Plaka, it was time for a decision on a dinner location. Again with the help of the guidebooks, I picked a small restaurant close by. It had much to recommend it, it was close, cheap and the food was good. C C and G. What more could a traveller want? With the question being rhetorical, I didn’t wait for an answer and instead went about my sight seeing, spending the rest of the day with the anticipation of a good meal permeating my subconscious.
Late in the afternoon, I finally made my way back to my hotel. I showered, changed and then strolled back through the lobby. Before I go any further though, let me tell you a little bit about my hotel. I call it a hotel but in reality it was nothing more than a men’s club that rented out rooms. For in the lobby was a bar with a large TV and so every morning old men would gather, drink, and play backgammon. In the evening they would gather, drink, and watch soccer and at suppertime, they would gather, drink, and watch the weather forecast. You are probably wondering why they would watch the weather forecast? A perfectly logical inquiry. And the answer, in a nutshell, was that this TV station employed a weather woman. A gorgeous, lanky individual dressed in a smart blouse and to compliment it, what can only be described as a wide belt. Others might venture to call it a skirt but I do not belong to that school of thought. In my mind, the division between belt and skirt is one of width and this was definitely a belt.
So these old men would sit with their eyes glued to the screen, coaxing, extorting and yes, even praying for a cold front to sweep in from the former Republic of Yugoslavia. Because if a cold front swept in the former Republic of Yugoslavia, it would mean the weather lady would have to stretch to the north and all the old men would experience the pleasure of seeing what evidently they could not in real life. As I walked through the lobby, it was revealed that the weather patterns for that evening were coming in from the east and with that realization, there was a collective groan from the weather aficionados. Tonight God had not smiled on their prayers.
The walk to the restaurant, was a short one and so I found myself there rather early for supper. In fact I was alone. I knew it was early but I had not yet adjusted to Greek time. What do you do? When you’re hungry, you’re hungry. So I went in.
The restaurant was staffed by three people. A middle aged man, the owner I think, whose job was merely get up from his table at the doorway, greet people and then sit back down to resume his love affair with the local wine. There was also an older, wiry man, probably the father-in-law, who was the waiter and finally there was a middle-aged woman working the kitchen, most likely the owner’s wife. As I sat at the table, the old, wiry man appeared instantly. He was able to do this because of the way he sat. He was perched on the rim of his seat, with the result that only very edge of his bum actually touched the chair and his legs were tensed like a spring coil. In this position, his legs could instantaneously catapult him towards any newly arrived patron.
Sadly no one associated with the restaurant spoke any English, so communication was through a combination of gestures, raised voices and monosyllabic grunts. After great exertion, he was able impart that they had no menus and instead I was to follow him to the kitchen area. Once there, through a series of general arm flailing and grunting, I was able to indicate my choice of food. Slightly out of breathe and my arms tiring from the transmission of my gastronomic desires, I headed back to my seat, where once more the wiry, old man appeared. This time I knew immediately the reason for his presence. “Retsina”, I said and he smiled approvingly, apparently also a fan of resinated wine.
Within a few minutes, the wine and the food arrived. I started to tuck in. I ate slowly, leisurely as only a vacationer can do. People came and went as I meandered through my meal. Near the end though, something very strange started to happen. The wiry, old man began to pick up tables and slowly moved them out of the restaurant and into the parking lot across the street. And he didn’t stop, after each trip, he would come back, hoist another table over his head and make his way through the restaurant and across the street. Table, after table, after table, after table. And he didn’t tell me what was going on. Nothing. Not a single flail. So I started to wonder. What could this be? Slowly an idea crystallized in my head… maybe there’s a fire. Not a big fire, something small that doesn’t spread very fast. It seemed like an outside chance but just to be safe, I ate a little faster. By the time I’d finished, the old guy was through with the tables and had started to move the chairs. There is still no sign of a fire, so I took my last mouthful, leaned back and wondered about the old man and the furniture.
The old guy seeing that I had officially reached the end of my meal, smiled, obviously pleased that he could stop moving furniture, and brought me the bill. I too smiled, paid, and then ruminated on the tables across the street. It was then that I made my plan. Reckless in its haste, daring in its simplicity, I resolved to return the next night… only much, much later. That way, if this was something that occurred every evening, I would see the end result. So I left, chuffed with my ability to solve this furniture mystery.
The next day I returned to my hotel in the late afternoon, during the weather report. The old men were asexpected, gathered in front of the TV, praying for a cold front or any weather disturbance as long as it emanated from the north. A collective gasp punctuated the lobby. Their prayers were answered. God, in his infinite mercy, had responded to their meteorological supplications and had blessed the region with a cold front. So many smiles, so much joy, all because of a disturbance from the north. I took it as a sign. The universe was smiling benevolently tonight. These old men had their most fervent prayers answered, so maybe I too would have my curiosity satisfied. I went to my room with a renewed sense of confidence, showered, dressed and slowly made my way back through the lobby. By now, the old men were animated in their conversation, some gesturing wildly, others pointing to their butts. Though I spoke no Greek, I felt confident that I had a handle on their conversation.
When I arrived at the restaurant, it was pretty much devoid of all its tables and chairs. They were now set up in the parking lot across the street, which gave it the air of a patio. A sad, misplaced, car-strewn patio but a patio nonetheless.
I sat down and immediately the old man was hurled from his chair toward me. Knowing the routine, I got up and accompanied him to the kitchen, where I grunted, pointed and gestured my way to a banquet of Greek delights. As I made my way back to my table, the word retsina fell from my lips, and immediately the old man made a beeline to fetch me a carafe of his best pine wine.
As I sat back down, I soon came to the realization that the restaurant did not own the parking lot that they were using as a patio. Cars were still arriving to park. A feeling of déjà vu swept over me as a car pulled up in front of my table. It was like the road hockey games of my youth. I had a tremendous urge to yell ‘car’ and help move one of the nets but there were no nets to be found. There was only myself, my table and a car waiting to park. The old man suddenly appeared and told the driver that there was enough room for him to get by but the driver did not possess the same confidence as the old man, with the upshot being that I grabbed one end of my table and the old man grabbed the other and we shifted it just enough for the driver to pass by comfortably. Once the car had past, the old man tried to help me put my table back to its original position, but I declined, instead preferring to have my table firmly out of the lane of traffic.
It was at this point that a woman arrived with her guitar. She seemed to be something of a local celebrity as she was cheered upon her arrival. As she entered the parking lot/patio, she placed her guitar at an empty table and went into the restaurant, returning quickly with a carafe of retsina. Apparently she was paid in retsina. So the evening worked something like this, she would sing until her carafe was finished, she would take a break, get more wine and then sing on until she polished off the next round, take a break, get more booze, sing some more, get more wine and so on and so on. And the thing of it was, she was not very good. The locals enjoyed her efforts, and cheered her accordingly but as the evening went on, she became less and less able to hit the proper notes, which I assume was as a much a function of her liquor intake as it was her lack of talent.
So cars were parking, she was singing, and soon a gang of homeless cats made their way into the parking lot, ostensibly to scrounge for food. Once there though, several cats turned on their friends and seized the opportunity to stage a coup, which resulted in a melee that was punctuated by yowling, hissing and floating tufts of fur. Then in a final crescendo, worthy of any Vegas show, one of the cars at the back of the parking lot, got stuck in a large hole, a pit really, and as the driver floored the vehicle in a vain attempt extricate himself, he raised the noise level to a deafening and fitting conclusion. It was during this climax of cacophony that I signaled to the old, wiry man using the universal sign of air writing, that it was time to bring me my bill. Satisfied with the meal, the entertainment and the final tally, I paid my debt and wandered back to my hotel satiated by evening of wine, cars and cats.