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A Taste of Greece
Jun 23
My father had clipped an article from the paper about the Athens Market Taverna on F street in downtown San Diego. A Greek peasant at heart, he is always looking for a taste of Greece, an interaction, or even an opportunity to use a Greek word or two. Reminiscent of the movie “My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” he uses Greek words with waiters of any nationality for the rare chance that a word or phrase may be understood. This acts as a gateway to a warm banter that usually charms the unwitting recipient. Accompanied with emphatic hand gestures, the wait person usually figures out what he wants with only occasional food order mistakes. The article said that owner Mary Pappas’ ninety-one year old mother still makes the Kourabiethes cookies at the restaurant. This was a sure sign of authenticity.
We arrived at the restaurant and my father entered, walking with and waving his cane instead of the usual walker (his Greek pride got the better of him). Mary’s nephew Niko, greeted us at the table, my father offered him to sit with us and he did. Unfortunately, he did not know much Greek, but gave us the story of the whole family. His Yai Yia, Soula, was actually 91 and really did make the cookies. She had four daughters, all of whom own restaurants in the San Diego area. This one was the original “istiatorio” started by Mary after emigrating from Greece in 1961. The family was originally from the Peloponnese peninsula and retain strong connections there.
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We were there for an early dinner, so Niko had time to speak with us. The exchange was warm and genuine with doses of friendly Greek hospitality. Niko excused himself when our first course arrived: Tiropites, phyllo and cheese triangles. Nicely presented and well balanced the only thing lacking was an edge that a sheep or goat cheese would impart. The rest of the meal came out promptly. My father had his favorite Avgolemono soupa and I had a salad, followed by a vegetarian Moussaka that we shared. The soup was a little salty but the elder Greek deftly dipped his bread to balance that out. The salad had good, fresh greens and Moussaka was nicely seasoned while being balanced with green beans, potatoes and rice. It was pleasant meal that evoked childhood memories of Greek relatives and gatherings. Mary arrived at the end of the meal as we polished of the delectable hand crafted Kourabiethes (toasted almond cookies dusted with powdered sugar). A Greek beauty in both looks and personality, she gave my father the opportunity to unleash his Hellenic core. She tried to persuade him to have a shot of Ouzo or Metaxa brandy, but he turned it down claiming it would not be good with his medicines. Her response was “mother is 91 and does not take any medications—why should she?—she feels good!” My father rapped his knuckles on the table in true Greek style coming back with an emphatic “bravo!” Thus the banter continued for fifteen to twenty minutes, a long time in a restaurant that had become busy. When Greeks meet this way, the friendship is timeless and without fears or boundaries. Expressing oneself through the generosity of food, wine and conversation is a national pastime and important part of a zest for life that is unique to Greece. Reluctantly, we said our goodbyes to Mary and Niko walked my father out to the curb while I pulled up the car. For us, the food was good, but the real gem was the warmth and enthusiasm both during and after service. It was a true taste of Greece.
My father and I in Crete in front of a restaurant that specialized in wild harvested vegetable dishes
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