Drinking Chai on Evripidou

 ! آپ سَے ملکر خوشی ہوًی

আপনার সাথে পরিচিত হয়ে খুশি হয়েছি৷

That's "pleased to meet you." in Urdu- above, and Bengali- below- turn the corner off of Evripidou and the only thing in Greek is the street signs themselves. I really was pleased! 

The word cut off at the top is φελλοι- corks. This is a shop selling corks,
  jugs and barrels for wine and oil, and rope- all you need for the serious pantry.
After this most Greek of shops, one abruptly enters a little slice of Lahore.

Of course the architecture is the same, but that is all. Even if you are not noticing the limes replacing the lemons and the crazy pretty bumpy bitter melon spilling out of cardboard boxes,

Beautiful bitter melon!

and the shop signs in Urdu and Bengali, and the saris twisting in the breeze outside of basement shops- vivid color everywhere- you can sense the change of neighborhood from the rich scent of heat and curry. And of course, everything sounds different- fluid and mellifluous, and: no yelling. Grace to the ear. I'm here by accident- truthfully, not ten meters from the site of a recent post- ironically advocating pork and hard liquor before 11 am ("Let's meat for breakfast.")- but the neighborhood is well-known. Having said that, no one Greek is here.

Pommegranate molasses, coconut milk, dal. No feta in sight.

Cell phone repair shops are not usually on my (hedonistic) radar. But they are all over the place here- outnumbering barber shops at 4 : 1  (there are lots of barber shops), and I decide to drop off my beleaguered phone for a fix up, and go for tea.

This would seem simple. I know the pastry shop with its glamorous technicolor merchandise in the glass cases.

South Asian sweets are delightful!
My favorite is bright green sandwich rich with a soft fresh cheese.

I ask for a chai. But they serve no hot drinks. The gentleman comes out from behind the counter to indicate a shop down the block and across a large road. As soon as I get across the street, a young man emerges from another cell-phone shop, asking if he can help. I tell him no thank you, I was looking for tea. "Yes, I know that. The man from the bakery just called ahead." This delights me. He shows me to the Greek snack bar next door and I'm thinking "Oh that is so nice- the Greek coffee shop has adapted its menu to its new customers." Then I order a chai. To this, they answer "Tsai?" and pull out some foil-wrapped bags of lipton green tea. Also, there is no milky exotic steam in the air. Alas. Back at the cell phone shop, the man is happy to hear that I really do want chai- sweet, spicy, milky chai- and directs me to a tiny deep pink restaurant with large photo of Mecca on the wall. I am comfortable with my large shawl already about my shoulders (usually it serves me in Orthodox churches), and served with warmth.

Does he have a sweet? No- but with my super-hot, super-sweet, super-milky spicy tea, he brings me a plate of hot basmati with bright green and bright orange tinted (and flavored?) grains of rice scattered throughout like confetti. It is buttery and rich and heaped with sugar that quickly melts in. So hospitable! I learn that the gentleman has been to Mecca and looks forward to going again, and that he has been in Athens for 12 years. 

There remain another 20 minutes before I might pick up my phone. Happily some colorful garments beckon me down the stairs to a basement wholesaler- saris, kaftans, and tourist dresses with meanders all over them like you see at the shops in Plaka. I get a butter pink kaftan for my next visit.

The fluorescent basement was stacked with
fresh-looking cotton garments
and smelled of incense 

Street poetry flourishes- as it of course must-
without a shred of regard for the modesty of its neighbors.

The man at the cell phone shop asks if I minded the wait and I said no, as I have had a fine cup of tea. He follows my gaze up the street and says- "Oh he's my cousin. We came together twelve years ago." I'm glad I didn't ask him in the first place- I'd have missed so much.

Chai:

To make chai at home, just chop up a lot of fresh ginger, and crush 7 or 8 cardamom pods, and add them to a liter and a half or so of water, along with perhaps ten black peppercorns (don't worry- you need some heat to absorb all the milky sweetness) and a whole clove or two. Boil a while to let the depth of their flavors come out and add some milk and some sugar and a couple of spoons of loose black tea or 3 or 4 tea bags, and a stick of cinnamon.This is really the only helpful thing I have to say about making chai- when cinnamon steeps for any length of time, its bright sweetness is replaced by an over-boiled mustiness, so add it soon before drinking, not at the beginning- you just want it to open up like a flower. I think it is best if the chai ends up being slightly darker and milkier and sweeter than western tea (even for those who like their western tea deep and sweet and milky, as I do.). You'd think it would be just the thing for fall and I suppose it is, but I really love it scalding hot in the deep shade of summer.