Mastering the Art of Greek Drinking

Our happy corner of the Mediterranean has a reputation for Dionysian chaos. This is just a half-truth. A Dionysian joie de vivre does set the tone of everyday life- with that, there is plenty of drinking. But none of that drinking is chaotic. Drinking, in fact, is probably one of the least chaotic things about Greece. The relationship to alcohol here is refined, elegant- a defining aspect of culture. What makes it special? 

In Asmomatos, Lesvos, with friends.

First, this is a sociable culture, and drinking is a sociable activity. Drink is parallel to conversation, not an end in itself. As this is Greece, there will probably also be something to eat- our next point:

- Traditional Greek drinks- raki, tsipouro, tsicoudia, wine, retsina, and- perhaps especially- ouzo- are classically enjoyed with food. Why do I say especially ouzo? It's very name is linked with food- an Ouzerie is a type of restaurant where you have a variety of small plates with ouzo; ouzo mezedes are the meze (small plates) that are made to enjoy with ouzo. Ouzomeze (spoken as one word) is your order in a classic Kafeneio- where a glass of ouzo automatically comes with a small plate of bites (an olive, a smear of tarama, an anchovy... ). This also applies to international drinks- cocktails. Cocktail bars generally have no kitchens, but the snacks they bring- even if just mixed nuts and potato chips although very often there are cucumbers, carrots, olives, cubes of cheeses, breadsticks- are better and more plentiful than you may be served in other countries. 

- Alcohol is not stigmatized and marginalized in Greece. Children can be sent to the kiosk for cold beers if we run out during a barbecue. My daughters had wine on a field trip to a vineyard in grade school ("Oh, not much mama- just a sip."), and they have beers with their teachers on the weekend trips they take in High School. The happy result? - a slow introduction to drinking, in a social context. You may see a drunken teenager in Greece, but not often, and rarely are they dangerously drunk. It just doesn't have that juvenile thrill of the forbidden.

-There is no "open container" law- you can get a whiskey at the outdoor cinema, and you can get a cold bottle of retsina and some plastic cups at the kiosk, and sit on the ground at the waterfront. A group of university students enjoying the sunset together this way is a happy sight.

-Lastly, and most importantly, it never seems to bring out the worst in people. Convivial, jovial groups get a little bit loud, and there is more laughter. As to fighting and public vulgarity? - very, very rare. 

(Amid so much to admire, one improvement is vital- both education about drunk driving and enforcement are deeply wanting.)

The nicest part about drinking in Greece is that the easy flow of alcohol, the nearly constant raising of glasses, is anything but chaotic. There is order, and grace- custom continually reinforces drinks' place of bringing the group together, of commemorating the moment, and celebrating life.

Mastering the Art of Greek Drinking:

- Whatever the drink (wine, tsicoudia, beers, ouzo), you don't just start drinking. 

- Don't worry, you will not go thirsty. After everyone's glass has been filled, there will be a general "γιάμας!" ("our health!") to start things off. Thereafter, sip from you glass as you like.

- Well, not exactly as you like- there will be some mandatory drinking when a new round of toasting is occasioned, such as:

• If anyone new joins the party, we will all toast afresh when their glass is filled for the first time.
• Whenever anyone's glass is refilled, it is not uncommon for them to toast with the fresh portion. This happens a lot- glasses are generally small, and so refilled often, perhaps to this very purpose. You can fill your own glass, but fill the empty glasses of your neighbors first. Who fills whose glass? Just as you wish, but it much follows the pattern of society in general- gentleman often fill ladies' glasses, and you fill the glass of your great aunt.
• From time to time, someone will simply be seized with the impulse to toast. This is particularly the case at a large table- a party of six are often engaged in the same conversation; a party of seven or more, you will likely be engaging with your closest neighbors. A toast reunites the group.
• Is there a happy event coming up? There will be more toasting still.
• Is this all sounding like too much? By all means, do join in every toast. Just don't take a mouthful- wet your lips with the glass.

(As glasses are raised in one of these impromptu toasts, there is a quick scan- any glasses needing a refill get one now.) These occasional toasts bring a large group back together. Although rising from your chair to chime glasses with someone otherwise out of reach is not mandatory, it's very much in the spirit of things to do so, at least some of the time. At other times you meet the eyes of those seated far away and raise your glass to them. 

Sound complicated? It quickly becomes natural- in fact, it is difficult to unlearn. Visiting San Francisco, I was half through a festive meal and parched for my first cool sip of white wine. But what was I to do? No one had toasted yet, and I was not the host and also the youngest by a generation. I looked around and saw everyone drinking at their own pace. Much as I wanted a sip myself, taking it without ceremony did seem unhappily occasionless.

That is perhaps the the key to letting just the right amount of Dionysus into our lives- making an occasion out of every day.

For more on Greece's iconic national drink, read about:

The Essentials of Ouzo

The Culture of Ouzo, Lesvos Style

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Pearls, Swine, and Lamb Chops.

If you can't see the sea, then you order lamb or, preferably, goat, especially if you have been hearing the bells around their necks all day, spying them grazing on wild shrubs and grasses and herbs and such. We've just stopped at a cherry orchard to ask some men chatting by the fence where we should go if we want some lamb or goat. It's not 300 yards up the road- a tidy restaurant with fresh sheet rock and old men. Just to make sure, I confirm before sitting down that they have goat and they say that indeed they do, so I sit down and start in on an aperitif of chatter, as I already know what I am ordering; I'm ordering goat. 

After a time, one of the older gentlemen comes to the table and sits down and we exchange some greetings. He is warm and very lively, with an extraordinarily broad and bushy mustache; it would turn heads on a large man. On this gentleman, who is unusually compact and wiry, it is astonishing. It's not clear whether he has come from the neighboring table just for a chat, but after a bit he begins to tell us what they have*- pancetta (this is magnificently meltingly fatty delicate slices of pork), patties of minced meat ("bifteki"), and kokkoretsi. Judging from the flocks sheep covering the hillsides this last one will be a good choice- a tangle of organs, generously seasoned, bound in a salty coil of small intestine that hopefully will have crisped and colored deeply as it turns for hours on the spit. (It's not for everyone.)

"And the chops? Lamb, goat?" I say I had only just then been assured that there are chops. A brief silence follows as his face drains of any readable expression. "I can't imagine why the cook would say we have chops. She must have misunderstood you." We move on to the salads. He says they have the usual salads. In fact there are two- cucumber and tomato, and cucumber and tomato with feta. On returning to the unsettled matter of the main courses, he goes through a very thorough and not untempting explanation of each. Having listened in silence, I can only bring myself to soberly remark: "It is a shame about the chops. You say you have none." There's an uncomfortable pause as either chagrin or pride at length gets the better of him (I do not know yet which, but I shall.) 

"Well..." he begins. Ah there now, at last we are getting somewhere. "We do have mutton." I smile with satisfaction- I do love a chop. It's not so simple though; apparently he will not yield them so easily as that. "But it is mutton. Do you know mutton? It can have quite a chew to it." "I'm sure they will be fine," I say.

Indeed, they were fine. Their time on the grill had coaxed the most expensive-looking lustrous brown out of the surface; the maillard reaction has never begat a more becoming or more tasty exterior. Amply salted in advance, that strip of fat that clings to the one side of the bone had fried itself up in the hot smoke into an airy crisp of herbaceous, wild-tasting bacon.

It was an excellent meal. 

Toward the end the gentleman came back with a grand dish of cherries. They were his own, from that very same orchard just down the road. We told him how we had admired it. Encouraged, he could not but then boast of his fine herd of two-hundred and seventy(!) sheep. The very great extent to which he had been holding out became clear, and equally clear that it was pride, not shame, that had got the best of him- he could not help showing off the excellence of his domaine. You know that expression to not cast pearls before swine? He just needed to make sure his mutton were not cast before swine. And who of us would not do the same?

*The absence of a menu is not uncommon. It simply means that they are offering what they thought best and what they have on hand, The price will also be entire as expected.

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Buona Figura

What's better than Black Coffee?
The frozen fish guy playing Nina Simone singing "Black Coffee" at 9:30.

"Oh... no. She'll want to go to the market with you so you show her the best stands." I have only one housewife friend- Kiki. She perceives the intricacies of the situation at once. The possible damage to my relationships at the weekly market would elude my other friends (who though lack for no savoir vivre in night life, where the guidelines are actually roughly similar). My mother-in-law is moving to our neighborhood and this- this out of a dozen possible foreboding musings- is the first thing out of her mouth. "She's going to bother your vendors...."

The thing is, to keep up a buona figura in the market you need to be ruthless, and charming. You have to be vigilant about quality, but you also have to be happy to spend to get it. Ruthless she is- I remember the first time I went with her- this is more than 20 years ago. She reaches into a bag that has been padded by the vendor (another piece or two he adds to round up to an even kilo or two) and pulls out a piece- "were you selling this as a tomato?" She was right, of course. But this is not the whole story.

She does good sometimes- for instance (this is also some 20 years ago) it's the third day in a row that the bakery in Chania (Crete)- one with an enormous wood oven turning out not just dark thick-crusted loaves loaves but also baking the meals of the neighborhood*- has given me bread still gummy in the middle. The first day it could be a fluke. The second day, my mother-in-law said- "Maybe they know foreigners eat softer bread, you know like that packaged, squishy bread we saw in the States." The third day, she marched me over to meet her former kindergarten classmate, the latest generation to run the family bakery. The woman said "Ah." She gave me an unabashed glance up and down, to register who I am. "We thought she was a tourist."- this by way of a completely reasonable explanation for giving me the last choice of loaf. Of course, it never happened again. And suddenly, I didn't wait in line so much either. It's like when the bouncer unhooks the velvet rope at a club everyone wants to get in to just for you, but much more important. I could live the rest of my life without seeing the inside of another club. But the right loaf of bread? That matters.

Instant gratification- cheerfully stocked shelves.
These are at a bodega on 24th street in Mission, SF.

When you're buying packaged food, who you are is not so important. It's a uniform product, sitting on a shelf, and it takes no discernment to select it, no charm to get the best one. It makes for an easy purchase, and at heart an unsatisfying one. But most of the things we have in our kitchens- our loaves and our fishes- are not uniform, and who you are is in fact very important, or at least it is in this part of the world.

Building your figura in the marketplace takes a little time. There are a lot of shoppers- experienced ones- matrons armed with metal carts- and you need to distinguish yourself over the course of several visits. It's not too difficult- the matrons are often pretty vicious. A smile, a little admiration, really stand out.

The Buona Figura comes more easily to some.

This goes both ways- you're not just distinguishing yourself, but also sizing up the vendors. Over the course of months and years, you'll have a routine of regular stalls. Along the way, you will necessarily have discarded several vendors- cheapness, wiliness, poor manners. It's important to be decisive about this. There are a lot of fish in the sea, and being ruthless about character is not so much a right as it is an obligation. These people are there for hours every week, same spot, they know who buys from who, and they know why. This is, after all, the agora**... the stage of public life; you've got to play your part.

Once you have your routine though, you can free up the charm a little. The people selling you this very important stuff have been up for hours and hours, doing backbreaking work while you were still too drowsy to think even about making yourself a cup of tea. Market originally is only for producers- farmers selling their produce, beekeepers, poultry guys, etc. Many stands are still run by producers, and a little connoisseurship never goes unappreciated. Admire. Apart from getting the best stuff, it is this that makes market a really satisfying experience. 

Kosma- a farmer with a small selection of
organic produce (the only one), with his:

"Κολοκυθάκια" = zucchini. "Παραγωγός" = producer (farmer).
They'll be a Boureki later in the week (Cretan dish). 

Many of the vendors you keep will sell the same goods. For instance, I have only one pumpkin lady, but several tomato vendors. I spread out my custom in an informal rotation, based on what looks best. Then I always greet the others. One of the tomato guys has this exquisite variety from late April (when it costs more than fish, and I'm happy to pay) until June, when the variety finishes. He comes to both markets so I see him twice a week during that season, and I buy heavily. To not stop by until the next April, that would just be tacky- like only dating a guy when he can borrow his dad's car.

Pretty Argyro, with fat melons...

and creamy luscious squash:

And when I buy, I buy fair- getting a representation of what is on offer. No rotten peaches, but not just the biggest peaches either. You can't be greedy. You also can't be cowed by the other shoppers: it's fine to admonish them charmingly for hogging the bin. I may pick carefully, but I pick swiftly as well and- this is important- no unseemly squishing and groping. Sometimes I tell the vendor "you know best." I get things nicer than I would pick out on my own***. They do know best, and they never unload the substandard stuff on a respectful customer. And if I don't need all perfect, I say so- no sense taking only his pretty salad tomatoes if I'm going to grate half of them into a pulp an hour later. Fair play brings out the vendors' generosity. It also ensures you always get first pick when you need it, and- most importantly of all perhaps- that none of the lovely things go to waste. Lastly, if you like having something special available, then you have to buy that thing. Only one vendor sells thyme and tarragon, so I get them, whether I think I need them or not. They always find their way into something in the course of the week.

The practiced hand of an elderly gentleman samples some tarragon.
That's his wife, getting out her wallet.

What do I get out of this? Well, the contact is nice. These people have a huge impact on my family's week, on the beauty of the table. And they know it- if something went over big, I tell them about it the next week. They also know how to get the best out of their goods- preparation tips, storage tips. The beet greens someone else had cut off always get stuffed into my bags as a parting gift, along with big handfuls of samples. Then of course there's the vip room of produce- items in limited supply they keep back in the truck and don't put out for just anyone. I get this stuff.

Babbis and his boys- beautiful produce, great service.

A buona figura is also an insurance policy. It's not just getting the best of everything and a friendly exchange; it's the vendors not treating you like everyone else. My head was recently turned by a very fine price on some small red mullets. As I looked back at them over my right shoulder, the fishmonger caught my eye, then glanced quickly upward - the Eastern Mediterranean's subtle gesture of 'no.' "Those aren't for you, my girl..." he said under his breath, then continued to hawk.

Pavlos, who sold me the bass in Rich Catch of Fish.
That's his daughter smiling in the background.

*this is a charming thing- mostly of the past but still going on- bakeries with large wood-burning ovens will bake alongside their loaves your homemade meal- your stuffed tomatoes, your leg of lamb with potatoes, etc- and you pick it up a couple hours later. How heavy those hot sheet pans laden with food are as you carry them not to the table but down the street and around the corner in the midday sun! But the smell- it smells so much nicer than it would from your electric oven- full of woodsmoke, plus whispers of your neighbors' dinners was roasting next to it.  They charge little for this valuable community hearth.

**Agora means marketplace- think of our word 'agoraphobia'.

***If the produce is artfully stacked, avoid this. Glancing behind the facade of the pyramid, one often finds considerably less appealing pieces- much smaller, blemished, unripe, overripe, etc. These beguiling structures are often the tools of the wily vendor.

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Boutique Shopping, a la Ellinika

Just as the idea of CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) was really catching on in New York, we left and came here to Greece. Not a bad trade, because if you want to, you can stick to the same basic premise- support your local agriculture, and love what nature gives us. Loving what you have and making the very best out of it happens everywhere in life- we don't pick our parents or genetically engineer our children, weather seems hard to control.... Endless choice on the other hand is not always so liberating. Imagine two choices- you can be in kitchen with nothing in it and a big stack of money and you can make anything you want- anything that exists in the whole wide world. It sounds great but when you think it through it's really just panic and frenzy, with a little gluttony thrown in. Or- you can see what the season gives you and use this as a focus for your inspiration. he birth of basically any classic thing we like to eat.was this- ingenuity, hunger, and not least, gratitude for the beautiful tasty things of the earth and the sea; it comes from someplace real.

I always thought the chief challenge of seasonal living was not so much the deprivation of unseasonal luxuries but of ingenious use of the bounty, sometimes of the glut of one single thing. More than once I have read of residents of a small town joking that the only reason people lock their cars in the night is to prevent someone from putting zucchini in them. Our "zucchini" is fresh anchovies- when they are running, they're 1 or 2 euros a kilo (that's 2.2 pounds!)- it seems thankless to pass on such an inexpensive and delicious protein. We enjoy them fried (and eaten) whole, then as boquerones, then boned, filleted and fried up to be put up en saor (this is so delicious).... If they weren't so plentiful, I'd not have had the fun of thinking of so many things to do with them.

To share the fun of this approach, I took this picture of everything I brought home from the Monday outdoor market, where I went with nothing in view save buying whatever was bountiful and perfect. Price was of course another factor (the real purpose of this series of thoughts is to share the beauty and dignity of good living when means are very limited), and, rather than being a limitation, was the most helpful guide to flavor and quality. When something is cheap it's often because there is a lot of it, and if there is a lot of it, that's because it is at its peak. But once you have identified what is at peak, then go ahead and spend a little: find the cheapest thing (apricots! tomatoes!), but buy the best (and maybe most expensive) of it. I tried for a mix of vegetables, fruits, and herbs, and this is what I came home with:

(That's a bowl of firm eggplants there at the back, and a nice stack of thin cucumbers is hidden behind the fennel and mint.) 

It isn't only for sharing with you that I arranged my haul on the outdoor table- I actually usually do this, to sort things (firm tomatoes from soft tomatoes for sauce, nectarines that need to ripen from those to eat today....), day-dream about what to make with them, and, well, to sigh and gloat. I don't remember the last time I bought fresh flowers- it would be unfair to put them next to that tower of glowing glorious fruit.

After day-dreaming, I think the still life on the table will probably become the following dishes:

Stuffed peppers (the peppers and the firmest tomatoes and the fennel and parsley and basil) (see Gene Kelley and the Perfect Week)

Tabbouleh (tomatoes, mint, parsley, cucumbers) (see A Love Like Salt)

Tzatziki (cucumbers and dill)

Eggplant Parmesan (the eggplant, the softest of the tomatoes, and the basil)

Acqua cotta

Panzanella (the super-sweet cherry tomatoes and the old bread I know i have) OR

Gazpacho (same, plus some cucumbers)

Galette of red nectarines and apricots

Cherries on their own (but if they get a little worn I will pit them and make a cobbler)

More cherries poached in syrup with a vanilla bean

White nectarines on their own, day by day as they yield to a gentle squeeze- these are the queen of summer fruits for me.

To be fair, they won't become those things on their own. We'll also need these:

(Olive oil, day-old bread, three-day-old bread, flour, cornmeal, salt, arborio rice, butter, onions, garlic, cracked wheat, and some zucchini left over from last week)

And we'll need some cheeses too but I haven't bought them yet. The pantry items are mostly inexpensive, and all easy to find. It's an astonishing number of dishes for such a modest cost and such an enjoyable spree.

(Of course, Greece offers unbelievable produce for a unbelievable price. That is one of the chief reasons I live here- this everyday beauty. Everything on the table cost me 17 euros. But you can do this anywhere: sure you can have something in mind about what you want to BUY or cook, just make sure you look at what is already around- plentiful, fresh, and well-priced. I do this same thing when I am not in Greece. In Oakland, California, I shop with my mother at the 99 cent store first- they have nice seasonal surprises like 99 cent bundles of asparagus or 99 cent bags of little red and yellow peppers, etc. We get what's fun, then we so over to Mi Tierra, the Mexican supermarket on San Pablo Avenue, to get whatever else is fun and fresh, then we go to across the street to the cheeseboard and splurge on a delicious local cheese, which we don't feel so bad about since we started out our day at the 99 cent store. We go home, invent something inspired from the haul- a grand mixed salad with cheeses and nuts, a vegetable galette or pasta, etc. Then we drink wine and watch Mr. Selfridge.)

I'll make the dishes and share them with you- I fell behind this week but there was all this fabulous produce then all the excitement with the World cup match.

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Dirty

There's such a lovely emphasis on giving. Who doesn't love to host and to share? There couldn't be a novel thing to say on the topic. Generosity, warmth- these are virtues we all admire.

One day I went to buy my herbs from the same lady I buy them from whenever I am in town. I have to seek her out- she moves around a bit. It's a good selection- cilantro, black basil, arranged on cardboard atop a plastic crate. It was lunch time, and she warmly pressed some of her lunch on me. It was not a finger food- pastry or such- but a sopping wet food, hard to eat out of hand- picked cabbage. And what hands- her own had (hopefully) touched many coins, and mine, well, I've never turned down an invitation to prod the pink gills of a fish on ice. After all, i would never dream of touching food before sterilizing my hands. Except now, unwashed, unhungry, and yet grateful for a share of this lady's lunch. In accounts like this, it is usual to describe the unexpected food as a revelation, a delight. It was dreadful- sourish and undersalted, its cool juices stinging my winter-dry knuckles and seeping into my cuffs. Long after a cheerful goodbye I was still dutifully gnawing at it as I made my way around to the winter produce, thankful for the thought, if not exactly the thing the thought was embodied in.

It should make sense to consult your own wishes in accepting an offer of anything. But it doesn't. It's not about what you want, but rather the flow of generosity. Not taking is suspending the pleasure of giving, and the whole circulation of good will comes to a stop. This means: Yes to endless cups of coffee, some of them cold, some of them dirty, Yes to hiding uneaten pieces of cake in your bag, Yes to exotic delicacies that may freak you out culturally (testes, bugs, reptiles....), and of course Yes, always Yes, to the kindness of others.

At the Exploratorium in San Francisco, I participated in the most astonishing experiment in perception (read no further if you want to try it- it's at the top of this post) Viewers were to watch a short film of a part of a basketball game, and to see who made more baskets- the red shirted team or the green. I counted the baskets carefully, and therefore knew not only who was ahead, but also the precise number of baskets scored by each team. The next question was whether I had noticed anything unusual. I had not, and was invited to view the same film a second time. During the entire game, an enormous man dressed in a gorilla suit had been wandering among the players and getting in the way.

Why am I mentioning this? Because I want to know- if I missed that, how is it that I have never once missed noticing the dirt under someone's fingernails as I am being handed a glass of water? I do not know if it is possible, or even wise, to become more observant, but surely it's wise to be often much less so. In my case, my thirst would be better quenched, and the much nicer feeling of gratitude would replace my hysterical squeamishness.

If we are to be judged one day I think it will probably not be on the opulence of our dinner parties, but it very well may be on the grace with which we drink from a dirty glass.

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