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Night 3: Athenian Plaka
The rain just won't let up, so I want to return to a
warm and welcoming country. How about Greece? It's another
night out with a Michael, but this one is female. (I
know so many people named Michael, I have considered
having a party for them and them alone. High concept,
but it might work.) It's a lion of a night, considering
it's April. I was hoping for a lamb. We park too far
away and walk many cold blocks along Woodmont Avenue.
But we're headed for the right destination. Athenian
Plaka is cozy, we get an immediate friendly reception,
and I will have lamb after all.
I love Greece. I spent my last college semester there
in 1969 doing art history independent study; I traveled
from Thessalonika in the north to Rhodes in the south.
It was the first place I had ever been in the world
outside the United States, and it was a great place
to start. Consequently, the food I ate when I was there — which was still the rustic and rather crude stews,
broils and braises of tradition — has a place in my
heart. Figuratively and, I suppose, literally.
Our host tonight is the owner, Peter Katsatos, who
guides us to a table away from the door. When I tell
him what I'm doing — a mealtime marathon — he sits to
chat. I profess my love for his native country. He aims,
with his place, to preserve the warmth and intimacy
of the old-style taverna , a tradition petering out
in Greece. We swap stories — my experiences as a miniskirted
American in Greece during the right-wing junta, his
daring sneak under the ropes to stand again in the Parthenon.
We've both had brushes with the Athenian authorities.
Female Michael, as she is known to my son to distinguish
her from the dozens of other Michaels we know, is not
what you would call a Rabelaisian eater. She's skinny
as a zipper, does not eat meat, and neither drinks,
nor eats food made with, alcohol. She demonstrates a
restraint and self-discipline for which I have awe —
but not much envy. We order fried calamari and a tasting
— platter entrée — something for everyone.
Waiters slide by, many with plates of something flaming
they extinguish with a flourish of fresh lemon. Looks
good, smells great ... maybe next time.
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