My girlfriend and I stood idly by as we watched undiscriminating
arkfuls of tourists scurry and disappear into the winding alleys like ants
at the entrance of their nest. No one fit the description of my
friend’s uncle from the locals, who, upon witnessing our predicament,
had approached us for rooms. When all that was left at the port were a few drowsy stray animals and an increasingly irritable companion, the time for
decisive action had come. I didn’t have a contact phone number nor could my friend be of any assistance as he was out of town that weekend.
I presented my case to a waterfront kafeneion (café) where a kindly and obliging customer agreed to escort us to our prearranged
accommodations.
We sluggishly meandered through a web of narrow white alleys as the good samaritan’s leisurely pace gave us the impression that he was in no
hurry. We had already stalled but we took comfort in the fact that we had found what we were looking for.
“Vasili! ... Vasili!” shouted all at once our neighborly guide, startling us. A pot-bellied middle-aged man stampeded his way through a
passageway laced with climbing vines.
“These two are for you.”
Vasili
remained behind for a few moments seeming momentarily befuddled as he motioned us towards the back of his white-washed home.
We were led through to an intimate yet spacious, shady, vine-covered terrace contoured with potted plants that revealed a tremendous garden
party in full swing despite its unorthodox hour by Greek standards. There were about a dozen pairs of eyes gazing up at us in concert.
“Kalispera,” was all we could muddle up for our rude inopportune intrusion. The plentifully endless array of mouth-watering edibles and their
accompanying aromas could certainly satisfy any and every grumbling stomach, and without fail set mine growling within seconds. And all this
amidst a redolent, full-blooming garden with excitable budgies in cages drowned by the pleasantly chaotic Greek music. It was a well-tended
little oasis, with a restful white against blue decor. Undeniably, a feast for the senses! I could certainly understand and forgive Vasili for
losing track of time.
“These two will be staying with us for a few days,” Vasili elucidated
just as we started feeling out of place.
“What’re your names?”
“Mine’s Jerry and this is Helen,” I replied shyly.
“Jerry? ... Jerry? What kind of name is that? It sounds like a desert or something. What’s your real Greek name, son?”
“Gerasimos,” I answered in a manner reminiscent of grade school reprimands.
“You won’t mind if I call you that then.” He made room next to his place at the head of the table, arranged two chairs there and gestured us
to sit.
“Thank you very much for your kind offer but we should be getting to our—”
“Nonsense! You’re our guests. We’re celebrating my daughter’s and
niece’s name day today. We just got started. Not accepting my invitation
is almost like insulting a Greek’s mother, and you know what that’s like, eh?”
Rambunctious laughter echoed throughout the terrace. I’ve learned in the past that refusing a treat of any kind by a Greek is a faux pas, but
we both felt rather uneasy about barging in on a close-knit family affair. Round-the-table introductions proceeded our best wishes to
everyone. We were greeted with good-nature and a touch of bemusement. All
the while, Vasili’s obedient wife took special care in putting every possible sample of mezedhes (hors d’oeuvres) on our plates. No dinky
dishes tonight! Thankfully, we were both weak from hunger.
For starters, there were overly generous portions of cod’s roe dip,
tzatziki, stuffed vine leaves, meatballs, cheese and spinach pies, olives and feta cheese accompanied by three crusty loaves of homemade bread.
I’m no power eater, but I could certainly pace myself with the best of
them when the moment arrives. My girlfriend, on the other hand, with her enduring macrobiotic diet, was sure to be knocked out after this
warm-up round. Everyone at the table graciously slowed down their pace so we could catch up.
“Eat! Eat! Moderation is for monks!” Vasili roared after examining and
evaluating our progress at this stage. He saw fit to express his mild disapproval and provide a
much-needed encouragement to our spiritlessly dignified deglutitory habits.
After the entrees were gobbled up, the empty plates were conveniently placed on the floor to make some well-deserved room for the
charcoal-roasted lamb, to be presented once again in its usual celebrated form.
The air was rich with the basting of olive oil, lemon juice, and the seasoning of oregano. Two colossal oval plates were strategically placed
on either end of the table next to the abysmal garden salad bowls.
I watched in amazement as the ravenous vultures of the rectangular table preyed on their carcass. To my utter stupefaction, the setting
satisfied even my girlfriend, the fussiest of eaters, who got into the act.
“I consider these kinds of meals like a last supper, just like Christ did, who knows anyway, eh?” Vasili’s audacious statement was immediately
followed by tensely hurried synchronic knocking of wood from every aghast celebrant.
Homegrown red wine flowed without restraint, and came somewhat of a shock to my untried palate. Talk was at a premium and centered around the
excellence of the food. Vasili and his wife proudly accepted the comments. In fact, most sounds coming from the feast were a symphonic tempo
of repeated and impatient chomping. My girlfriend dropped out of the race as soon as guilt pangs started to unscrupulously set in for
satisfying those subconscious bulimic tendencies. She was oblivious to the
fact though that a certain ogler wished she could have been on the menu.
“Eat! Eat!” Vasili would blurt out spewing chunks of well-torn meat cubes in the process to keep me from falling behind the rest of the pack.
After the focal point of the gluttonous gala was over, the table spilled over with a polychromatic seasonal repertoire of pink-fleshed
watermelon, golden honeydew melon, peaches, apples and oranges.
The final temptation, when all the whims had been catered to, was to satisfy the voracious sweet tooth with sinful mouth-watering baklava and
muddy Greek coffee washed down with therapeutic ice-cold water. Not much of a coffee drinker, I politely passed on the latter but melted to
the resistance of the former as my better half busily spurned advances.
We had dined boisterously, imbuing food and drink with the spirit of celebration to its maximum. Vasili’s cheerful
informality and their straightforward, guileless approach to having fun was a welcome surprise
and eventually made us feel much more at ease. However, exhaustion from overeating was ready to send us to our beds, so we graciously thanked
all for the overly lavish hospitality.
This was Vasili’s cue as he grunted “You’ll sleep in my house because I
don’t have any available rooms this weekend.”
My lady and I looked at each other puzzled, and then at Vasili. “Didn’t your nephew John get in touch with you about us coming?”
“I don’t have a nephew John.”
I’ve been there on two separate occasions since then at roughly the same time of year, and all that has changed is my lady companion, much to
the chagrin of a perennial hormonally imbalanced nephew.
I’ve even recommended a choice friend or two and given them explicit instructions. I assured them that if they got lost or there’s a
misunderstanding, somehow Vasili would find them--or they would find
Vasili.
