Greek Restaraunts and Waiters

 

Greek food is amazing. Everyone knows feta and olives but there’s much more to the cuisine. We’ve had roasted anchovies, crispy croquettes, lemony fish soup, and cucumber salads. Dining in Greece is also great because of the waiters. Everywhere we’ve been, except for one amazing bakery run by a grumpy baker, we’ve been treated as honored guests to be fattened and entertained.  

Crispy croquettes

It’s good to travel with Raquel because she eats half of my plate while I eat hers. The best meal we’ve had thus far was veal slow cooked with fresh green beans in tomato sauce and a massive hunk of mousaka. Raquel said the veal was so tender it fell apart when you looked at it, the green beans popped when sprinkled with feta, but we agreed the best was the mousaka. Potatoes and eggplant were roast to perfection then layered with spicy minced meat, house made tomato sauce, and topped with a layer of creamy béchamel sauce and (surprise) a sprinkling of feta. It was then put in the oven just until the top turned all brown and crispy. I know the ingredients and how it was prepared because when our waiter saw that we’d licked our plates clean he thanked us profusely, and when I told him it was even better than my dad’s mousaka, he proceeded to tell us, in perhaps too much detail, all of his secrets for the next fifteen minutes.

Fried fresh anchovies (better than the sardines)

There must be a fraternity the waiters join, and if you speak Greek to them they’re forced to lavish you in kindness. At a seafood restaurant on the island of Kea a waiter saw us looking at the menu and practically dragged us to the back of the place to look at the fresh fish.

Looks delicious! But we just ate.

He didn’t care. He knew we’d be back, we’d seen the fish after all.

We returned the same night and were greeted by the same man. He helped us pick out a scorpion fish (I like to eat strange things, and scorpion fish look strange) and two delicious red fish whose name I have forgotten. The scorpion fish has a texture something like crab and a rich almost meaty taste. Raquel could not stop eating its cheeks. The other fish was light, flaky and crispy with salt and I cannot remember because I thanked one of the waiters in Greek, and he practically fell over in delight. Soon as we finished our fish we were presented Mastiha. I tried to ask the waiter exactly what it was to which he simply asked, “You know Mastih? It is made of Mastih!” It is so delicious that Raquel actually drinks it, perhaps too quickly for when the waiter saw our empty glasses he snapped his fingers and they were refilled. Raquel slid her second shot of this wonderful drink to me (she’s still a lightweight, no matter how good the booze) and I proceeded to become pleasantly inebriated. On our way out we thanked our hosts, efharisto, to which they added, efharisto poly, or thank you very much. A meal and a language lesson. Marvelous.

Amazing rabbit and onions. Notice the
falling-off-the-bone quality

But our best host was a man in Hermopolis. He was thin and goateed and did everything with a flourish, whether it was pouring wine or clearing plates. He recommended the rabbit, and we thankfully listened to his suggestion. It came with caramelized pearl onions and pile of fried potatoes. We rounded out the meal with a bowl of fat fresh beans topped in feta and white wine. The rabbit was savory and decadent and was accented by the sweetness from the caramelized onions which popped in your mouth, braising the rabbit in their juices with each bite. Between morsels of rabbit we scooped up the beans and feta with our fried potatoes and watched our waiter. The only time he wasn’t singing was when he was acting like a monster to make little children laugh, doing pratfalls when he banged his head against the signboard, or clearing a table, an activity he liked to do without a tray, much to the chagrin of the other waitress, who would follow him to be sure he didn’t drop anything. He repaid her assistance by placing a potted plant on her tray anytime she got too close. Maybe it was just the wine, but we found it all hilarious.

And what’s better than a fine meal served with a personal touch? A week of them.

If you enjoyed this post, there's more! Click for a quick Greek lesson to earn free snacks  or for food in Austria!

 

Speak Greek

 

The Bear

“It’s all Greek to me,” I joked, looking at the funny letters that look like ours but don’t sound like them. We were in japan a year, and any attempts to learn the language were met with giggles and embarrassment, so why bother in Greece? It’s not like I’ll be able to get any sort of handle on the language in two weeks, and what will learning a few phrases really do?

Turns out that a few words in Greek have earned Raquel and I all sorts of goodies.

First, a disclaimer. I can’t read Greek, neither can you probably, so my translations are all just the sounds of Spanish. So think adios amigos not goodbye my friends.

We were given our first lesson in Greek from the first restaurant we went to. I asked the waiter how to say thank you, and he told us, efharisto, then spent the rest of the evening teaching us greek spelling on our table cloth. He was great. He’d write down a phrase, then vanish and let us absorb it, then as soon as we’d glance his way he’d be back at the table, checking our pronunciation. After the meal and the lesson I told him efharisto for everything. So impressed he was he brought us mastiha a sweet herb flavored digestif. It was perfect after a meal of spiced meatballs and mousaka. Raquel spent her entire time on the subway telling me how good it made her tummy feel.

The next phrase we learned was yasas, which means cheers and is good for hello or goodbye. We tried out this handy phrase in a little bakery. It earned us free sesame seed crusted pretzels and a big smile from the shopkeeper.

Of course, when learning all of this greek, you may get in over your head. This happened to us in the town of Finikas, when at a Taverna (spelled Tabepna in Greek). We ordered in greek, feta parakolo, or feta please, and the waiter proceeded to interrogate us in his mother tongue. I understood not a word, but the waiter figured this out soon enough and switched to English. Half a bottle of wine later and I was drinking tsipouro with the Frenchmen at the table next to us. Siporo is distilled white wine and I can’t for the life of me figure out why anyone would take something as good as greek white wine and turn it into something as repulsive as tsipouro. Fortunately the waiter noticed my distressed and brought Raquel and I rakomelo, which is the same vile liquor that’s been boiled with cinnamon and honey, and is marvelous.

After that drunken debacle I learned the next phrase. Milate Anglica? Or, you-speaka-da-english? This one earned us chocolate at a coffee shop one day and cheaper cups of coffee the next. Seriously I think they just like spoiling young Americans.

But perhaps the most powerful phrase in my limited vocabulary is roharismo parakalo. Which means simply, “check please.” If you learn anything besides yasas, I’d focus on this one. I always say it at the end of the meal and the waiters seem unable to help but bring us desert. I’ve earned us yogurt with figs and honey this way, a coconut custard that was quite tasty and two pieces of something like flan, one of which was coated in lavender syrup and the other in a pomegranate reduction. Ambrosia, and all thanks to asking for the check in Greek. I think the waiters appreciate an attempt at the language, and can’t help but feed us a little bit more.

The Babe and the Beard

But then again, I could be full of crap. The locals have told us they haven’t seen Americans here in years, and everyone might be being nice just so we’ll spread the good word. Either that or they’re trying to get at my wife. Aw well, at least they know enough to try to get me drunk while they’re doing it.

 

If you enjoyed this post, there's more! Use that Greek at a great restaurant or perhaps while you explore the island of Syros!

Cats in Syros

Our first week in Greece was spent on the island of the sleeping cats. They won’t say this in the guidebooks, but Syros is the land of cats. Tens, twenties, hundreds, thousands.

Do you see the sleeping cat?

At restaurants they stare into your soul with hungry eyes. Order the seafood at your own peril. It is delicious, but nothing calls the cats like fresh roasted fish. I nibbled at my anchovies, and when our waitress wasn’t looking, slipped a feminine feline delicious morsels of salty fish. How could I help it? Her eyes were half hooded, her gaze seductive. Yet, resist I should have, for a second later we were surrounded by her family. Their coats were all grey and striped, their lips all black, and they had a system. It was like something out of a how-to-not-get-pickpocketed guide book. The old uncle who was losing his hair gave directions from the back while the tough ones prowled the perimeter and made sure no one interrupted our little transaction. The curvaceous twins took front and center. They plied us with heavy petting and helped us part with the food we didn’t know we didn’t need. Meow! Try as I might, I couldn’t resist them. I ate bread and the crispy tails of the sardines, while the cats munched on the meaty filets. Curse their whiskers! I’m just happy they weren’t after my wallet.

 

 It’s not just the restaurants either. Everywhere we go, we see cats. In the mornings they sleep atop low, whitewashed walls, warming themselves after the cool night, and in the afternoon they move down into the shade, careful not to expend any energy. They hide in the tall flowering bushes and prowl rooftops, eager to catch a sparrow but cautious to avoid the ever screeching seagulls. A night hasn’t passed without the shrill shrieks a catfight, battling over a morsel of fish or a wounded mouse. There’s even a statue at the church of a sleeping lion. His followers catnap around him, worshipping the idol in their dreams.

 

 

Each part of the island has its own clan of cats. In Kini, it’s the grey striped family I couldn’t help but feed, in Hermopolis, they’re mostly orange. Here in Finikas, there’s a clan of cats with white fur and patches of orange and black on their faces.  There’s a mangy mother, a generation of young, sleek teenage hotties, and a bundle of kittens we can’t get enough of. We’ve woken to the sounds of mewls only to find our hosts’ daughter has wrapped up all the kittens in a towel and is parading them around the house. We’ve tried to keep the mother cat out, for she is undeniably infested with fleas, but she is always quick to sneak in when she smells food. Last night she licked our plates clean of fish clean before vanishing back into the night.

Well, not vanished. She stopped on the porch to spray filthy cat urine all over Raquel’s beach shawl. Ah, Syros, where the cats are cheap, you only pay if a piece of cloth falls from the clothes line.  No worries though, it was nothing soaking it in ocean for an hour couldn’t fix, and this1` is the price of tiny kittens. A territorial mother and stolen morsels of fish.

If you enjoyed this story there's more! Click for the people of Greece or for delicious Greek food.

The People of Greece

Thus far, my favorite thing in Greece, besides the food of course, is the people. Everyone here is boisterous, loud, and almost honest to a fault. Most people are very friendly, but some, well, it’s not that they’re mean, it’s just that they don’t sugarcoat anything for foolish Americans.

Right now we’re staying in the town of Finikas on the island of Syros. There is a bakery in town that is amazing. We’ve gone every day thus far, yet we’re still regarded with suspicion. The first day I sauntered in and yelled a loud, “howdy!” much to Raquel’s dismay. A plump older woman came out and I proceeded to interrogate her about her savory pies.

What’s that?

“Cheese feta.”

Uh-huh. And what’s that?

“Spinach-feta”

Interesting. But what’s that?”

“Zucchini-cheese,” she said as she gritted her teeth.

Raquel interjected before the woman baked me into a pie. “We’ll take a feta and a spinach, thanks!” Outside she told me “You can’t do that!”

How am I supposed to know which one I want?

“Just… don’t ask about more than three, OK?”

I follow Raquel’s rule, but neither the proprietress nor I am happy about it. Too many questions for her and not enough for me. Yet, despite my questions, on the third day Raquel actually got her to smile. She squeaked or chirped when the lady handed us our pastries the woman melted her like a piece of feta in one of her delicious pies. But the next day her scowl was back and fiercer than ever. 

I’m not convinced it’s my questioning though. For she’s not the only person on this island that regards us with suspicion. My mantra when travelling is always, “do I look like a tourist? Do I look like a tourist?” to which, on Syros at least, Raquel responds, “yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, stop asking.” One evening, when sharing drinks with a Frenchmen named Fred at a Taverna, the white wine made Raquel brave enough to ask about our predicament. Fred and his Greek companion were happy to explain.

“No one wears hats here,” the Greek said from beneath the brim of his canvas fisherman’s hat.

“Oui, you look like a cowboy,” said Fred who sported a bright red and blue hat of his own.

Ok, so perhaps a straw hat and a denim long sleeved shirt with suede shoulders isn’t the best choice. But what’s a man to do? I gotta protect my skin and that was the only shirt on the island Raquel liked!

“But why do they stare at me?” Raquel asked, “Is it because I have a tattoo?” That hipster wife of mine. Even in Greece, she can’t help but flash her ink.

The Greek regarded her coolly, “everyone here has tattoos. It’s your skirt.”

All eyes went to my wife’s legs.

“People don’t dress in long skirts anymore. You look like something from history.”

“And that color!” said Fred, “you look like an Indian.”

“Yeah! A cowboy and an Indian!” The Greek said and the pair of them died laughing, not the least bit concerned they had offended us.

And I like that. So come to Greece, relax, and don’t worry. If you do something stupid, the locals won’t hesitate to let you know.

If you like this post there's more! Visit Austrian cafés or a Japanese bar!  

Taboos in Austria

“Are there any cultural taboos in Austria?” Raquel asks.

“Don’t get too drunk on the street.” “But that’s the Austrian way!” Our hosts, my cousin Anna and her husband Mateus laugh amongst themselves and Raquel and I nod to each other, happy to be travelling in a country less obsessed with manners than our year in Japan.

Our waiter brings a bottle of sparkling rose wine and pours everyone a glass.

The wine smells amazing, floral and light. I go to take a sip but Mateus gasps, “Wait! we have to brost!” Ah, of course. I had heard of this but forgotten. The first drink of the evening must always be toasted. Not a taboo, perse, but good manners. So I clinked glasses with Mateus, then Raquel then Anna and her friend while Raquel went the opposite direction.

“DON’T DO THAT!” Anna hissed. “Do you want ugly children?”

What? Of course not, no! I want curly-headed angels! What did we do wrong?

Anna explained, “In Austria, never cross arms when toasting, and always look people straight in the eye when saying brost.”

To not follow this invokes the gods of poor manners and of course curses one with hideous offspring. Yikes. So much for no taboos.

In reality there’s plenty of taboos. The Viennese are proudly unreligious, or at least the ones we met were, and to bring up this most contentious of subjects risks disaster. On Sundays, everything closes. The grocery stores, the shops, everything’s shuttered except the Turkish kebab stands. We, mistakenly, remarked on this Christian tradition, only to be rebuked.

“The businesses just always give the workers a day off!”

Yeah, they do that in Japan too, but it’s usually a Tuesday or Wednesday because they’re slower business days.

“AUSTRIA IS NOT CHRISTIAN.”

Got it. Point taken. Let’s talk about something else.

I think every culture has a right and wrong way to do things, and Austria is no different. Vienna is interesting, because there’s also a proper way to disregard the rules. We went to an amazing ice-cream spot, Tichy’s, an icecream parlor so good Vienna named a street after the owner. My cousin Karl swore it was only for the locals, and if this is indeed true, every Viennese most know of it, for there was a thick crowd. Karl said not to worry, the line moved quickly, all we had to do was queue up, and we’d have our icecream in no time.

Ten minutes later and I’m hemmed in but what feels like a thousand people. I’ve been separated from my wife by a teenage couple fondling eachother and a ten year boy who was given a fistful of cash and shoved between us by his overbearing mother. This is not as simple as waiting in line. This is war. And Raquel and are losing. Somehow Karl and his girlfriend Ranya are already at the counter. We pass our money over the crowd of people still ahead of us, and make our escape.

“I didn’t think you’d beat me,” Ranya says to Karl as they hand us our icecream safely out of the crushing throng of people.

“You never know at Tichy’s!” he says with a wink. No kidding. Its chaos there, yet the Viennese see it as sport.

Same on the trains, to wait for someone to offer you a seat is to stand the entire train ride. People wait nicely at the station, but when those pneumatic doors open, all bets are off. You got luggage? That’s your problem. A kid with you? Standing’s good for the little bastards. But, once seated, not even little old ladies look at you. You’ve earned that seat, and no one’s going to guilt you into standing.

After ten days in Vienna, Raquel summed up the climate quite nicely,

 “There’s a clean order to everything, but everyone cuts in line.”

So go there, taste the sweets, eat the meat, and remember to always, always cut in line.

If you enjoyed this post there's more! In Austria you can explore coffee or delicious meats. Perhaps you'd rather  meet the people of Greece or witness terror in Japan!

Meat in Austria

The sound of crisp, freshly fallen bacon under foot. The playful shadows of the bratwurst branches. The glisten of a thin ham leaf, daring you to climb the breaded Weiner schnitzel tree trunk ever higher. The ham forest is the dream of Austria, to visit here and not embrace it, will leave you hungry.

Leave your vegetarianism at the border. It’s true you could survive off of coffee and sweets, but to deny yourself meat while in Austria makes about as much sense as not visiting the cathedrals. Both are magnificent, ubiquitous, culturally significant, and more fun than preachy vegetarians or atheists.   

Noble ham, why do the poets do not praise thee?
Is it because when they eat their mind gets lazy?

My first taste of meat in Austria came from simple ham. My cousin insisted we get it for breakfast. After a year in japan, I thought that ham for breakfast sounded absurd and gluttonous, but my taste buds disagreed. The first bite of salty, cured perfection brought tears to my eyes. I ate and wept and generally prayed to the Pig Gods for making their flesh so delicious.

And that was just the start of my meat-venture.

Late last Friday night, the rave taking place in a courtyard between two art museums was just winding down. Through twisty streets and hidden staircases we stumbled until we arrived at a dance club inside the emperor’s former stable that served sausages in its hallowed halls.

I sauntered up to the counter ordered a käsekrainer and waited for the guy behind the counter to serve me between his fierce dance moves. Käsekrainer is a sausage stuffed with cheese, and is even better than it sounds. I smeared the juicy meat in mustard, put it on a thick slice of rye bread, and piled fresh horseradish on top.

Perfection, or so I thought until the next day.

 leberkäse, pulled pork, and beer

For that was when I ate leberkäse which translates to liver cheese, though is neither. It is bits of leftover pork and beef mixed together and baked until it has a crunchy crust. I had it cut into a thick slab and served on rye bread with mustard. My cousin insists it’s a man’s food. If this is indeed the case then I am as manly as they come, for that first bite of leberkäse completed me. Its texture is similar to bologna, but with a crunchy crust. The piece I had was studded with pumpkin seeds, and the nutty bite punctuated the smoky richness of the meat wonderfully. Surely there could be no better!

Yet again, I was mistaken.

A buschenschank is where every meat-venture through Austria must end. It’s a small farm or vineyard that only serves house-made food and booze. This means that your bretteljause—a cutting board overflowing with cured meats, fresh cheeses, and hard sausage—is always cold, and can only be consumed with house made wine and schnapps.

I insist you consume the wine and schnapps, for I did not, and I suffered mightily because of the bratelfett. Bratelfett is a mound of rendered fat that is best eaten on bread with a slice of ham and a pile of fresh horse radish. It is rich. It is wonderful. It’s like eating butter made of bacon. I loved it. And hence, I should have drunk the schnapps. For I had only wine, so I awoke the next morning clutching my chest at the pork fat that had congealed inside of my arteries.

There is a treatement: gurktaler apfenkrauter, an herbed liquor that tastes like dandelion whiskey, which, while not necessarily a bad thing, is not the most pleasant way to start a morning. I survived, but many beers were needed to sustain the digestion.

So, come to Austria, explore the ham forest, but be sure to keep a flask of schnapps handy, in case you climb to the most succulent branches of Austrian cuisine.


The dreaded yet delicious bratelfett

If you enjoyed this post, there's more! Check out coffee culture or taboos in Austria. Or keep eating farther east with food from Japan.
 

 

 

Cafes, Pastries and Melange in Austria

 

“In Austria, it’s all about the whipped cream,” my aunt Sharon says as she sips her mélange.

 Mélange, in all its creamy glory 

They serve it with everything in Austria, sacher torte, strudel, coffee, everything. Viennese waiters with too much pride will ask if you want whipped cream with a raise of an eyebrow, a waggle of their mustache, daring you to decline. Say no to the forthcoming mountain of whipped cream, and risk offending them and their centuries old culture, but then again, do as you wish, because your very existence has already pissed them off.

Apple strudel, coffee and cream

The Viennese cafes in particular are equipped with an arrogance so refined its almost breathtaking. One waitress dropped the money we gave her, scoffed at us, and tapped her foot impatiently while my aunt scrambled to pick up the loose bills. Another waiter, when confronted with two loud-mouthed Americans and their traitorous Viennese relative, demanded how long we’d need the table before letting us sit down. Thirty minutes we told him, and he held us to the number, for when twenty minutes had passed and we asked for the check, he waived us away, convinced that we were still enjoying the ambiance and his ice-cold presence.

 

In Graz the arrogance is more under control. My aunt took Raquel and me to a tiny café, and when Raquel asked (GASP!) what one of the pastries was the waitress smiled and indulgently told us the name and ingredients of every fantastic confection behind the glass. And when Raquel decided on the very first one the woman had named, she served us with a smile and a raised eyebrow, daring me to put whipped cream in my coffee.

The coffee in Austria is as delicious as the confections. In Vienna, be sure you order the mélange. It’s no different from a cappuccino, but to order such a refined drink in vulgar Italian risks being ostracized. In Graz ordering a cappuccino doesn’t invoke the same visceral reaction, but to order a mélange tells the server you’ve been to the capital city, something Austrians respect, even if only because they know you’ve strolled through Schonbrunn and dealt with a café far snobbery than theirs.  

Esterhozy, mélange, and poppyseed cake

But worry not intrepid traveler! All said snobbery is worth the confectionary perfection. For to be in Austria and not taste sacher torte or apfel strudel is a sin of carelessness most egregious. To not venture out and sample esterhozy--a slice of almond and cognac invented by angels in Hungary--or the dense mashed poppy seed cake my cousin can’t stop eating is a lapse of judgment as foolish as admiring the grand canyon with one’s eyes closed.

So dine on! Walk into a café, peruse the delights behind the glass, and trust they taste as good as they look. Remember that to fear being snubbed is folly. Those sneers and scoffs of the Viennese are much deserved. Your waiter is old enough to have served Kaisers and Kings. You’re but a tourist taking up space at a table once reserved for royalty.

Want more Austrian adventures? Click for meat, taboos, or here for food from my year in Japan.