Slightly Less Ancient Athens

"It tilts. Look."

"No no no- it's the shop that tilts. See how the old the wooden floor is? This is straight. It's the only straight thing in the shop."  We are looking at a majestic four-tired hotel tray of tarnished zinc- listing like a ship- and discussing its price. It's just a ritual; I don't care what I pay for it. The tray is the thing I have been waiting for my whole life to bring me closer to fulfillment and just never knew it- like a very, very minor version of falling in love. Considering the cut glass ice bucket, tongs, and a small silver cup that I bought that day, the tray itself was probably around 55? I could probably have got it down to 40, I think, but then it was July and it was so hot, and also I would have paid a hundred and not minded a bit- love's like that. Three-tiered trays are common enough; a four-tiered tray though, that sets a tone. We like our everyday life to have a tone. The tray is as tall as a toddler; if we lived in New York, it would barely be affordable to keep it filled with pomegranates, lemons, persimmons, and pears. 

After browsing the crustaceans at the Varvakios fish market, I passed a stall on the other side of the street with a charming mid-century amateur oil painting of more crustaceans- a lobster and two crabs. Dishes and tea pots spilled out into the street. The wooden spiral staircase at the back, nearly obscured by platters, chandeliers, accordions, phonograph records, candelabras, and clocks hanging from the banisters and walls, could only just be made out. It makes a full two revolutions before it reaches the main floor. And that main floor was shocking- a corridor and five or six rooms- some of these large galleries- are each filled with heaps of every imaginable thing, with as much order as the sacks of loot of pirates. It is tantalizing, dazzling. Dazzling and dangerous. The walk spaces are narrow, and the goods are piled so high and so deep it seems that not a tenth of them could ever be reached. The ceilings are high too, and tall windows let in some light in the distance. Were it not for this, it would feel like the vault of Bellatrix in Harry Potter, where when you touch anything it multiplies, and soon you are adrift on a swelling wave of candlesticks and water pitchers.

You expect a shop like this to be tended by an old man. Actually, it is a bunch of young guys from Egypt. I don't know how they came to have the shop. They're very genial, and seem to make a good price on the whole, throwing in presents you have at the edge of your pile (little marble dachsunds, for instance). Here are some of the things we have come home with. They make our life more sumptuous every day-

Souvenir spoons from a long-ago trip to Hungary.

Chinoiserie assembled over the course of three visits- they have a lot of it.

We have these tissue-thin etched glasses in two sizes, for water and for wine.

This cream pitcher has a matching sugar bowl. They have a satisfying weight.

No one ever cradles a tea cup and says "Do you remember when that thunderstorm came out of nowhere, and we rushed into Ikea, drenched and laughing, and you found these in plain sight with thousands of others exactly alike?" When you are in a city that has such a story as Athens, it inspires you to have one too, one for everything- to seek things that have stories of their own. 

The Bazaar is directly across from the Varvakios market, on your left as you cross Athinas St. They keep the hours of the market, and then some. After you shop, go for a chai. A sweet slice of Lahore is just a street or two away.

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About me

Hello I'm Amber. I grew up on a beautiful island, far from Greece, but in its ways not at all dissimilar. The island, like any other, had its charming, eccentric, and provincial island ways, and so did its inhabitants. It was completely self-contained- nothing you could ever wish for was more than a half-hour's stroll away. Stores were all family business and every delicious thing was made there, right in the back or behind the counter. I did mostly all the shopping growing up. Fresh mozzarella we would buy still warm- never saw the inside of a fridge. The best sauce was made a mix of hot and sweet Italian sausage made fresh from the Salumeria on Mulberry street. They has a bread there with flakes of prosciutto and some provolone in it- you just ate it like that with nothing. Also the raviolis in their white boxes from Raffettos, they didn't get a change to get cold either. The cannoli at Bruno were filled when you ordered them, so the fresh fried crisp shells wouldn't get too soft. Perfect lox and sturgeon we got from Russ and Daughters, Bialys from Kossars, heavenly pastrami from the devillishly rude old men at Katz's. Striped bass and shrimps came from one of several Chinese fish mongers. In between them were the shops where we bought little aluminum take-out cartons of roast duck or bright red barbecued pork, some bao for breakfast or late tea. Pastry tips, charlotte molds, fish poachers, candied violet petals, that kind of thing, that I bought at Dean and Deluca, the one on Prince Street that isn't there anymore, with the skylights at the back. All of my babysitting money went there. Every single thing we bought had a special place to buy it. I think the only thing we got from the supermarket was laundry soap- everything else, it had a story, a provenance, a person. "Convenience" was simply not a meaningful concept. There were no chain stores of any kind. Nothing we ate was anonymous, and that made every dinner special, luxurious.

This story-book island was Manhattan, and it really was like that- they don't call it the village for nothing. Tribeca, my home growing up, was pioneer territory then- just two inhabited buildings on our block- the rest were sweatshops, warehouses. Everyone knew each other, just like in a small town. That Manhattan, that warm, provincial way of life, just like Max's Kansas City (I was taken there lots as a little girl), CBGB's (I took my own little girls, to see our bands play), Joe's dairy, Vesuvio bakery, and a lot of places that live sweetly in my memory, is gone. So after living in Hamburg a little and then going to graduate school in Architectural history and making hardcore and punk records on West Broadway in SoHo for ten years- at least still getting ravioli at Raffetto's- I realized I had to go looking for it. That sense of community, and the everyday pleasures of the table are really important to me. Having two daughters gave urgency to the search.

Very conveniently, I had married someone from Greece, a country that could offer me everything I pined for. This is not a back to the land story. The sound of roosters is mournful to my ears. I like traffic, and museums, and concerts (the family business stayed pretty much the same- we have a club for live shows here), and slightly grubby ouzeries, after-hours bars and the bakeries that are open on your way home from them. Mediterraneans do their urban chaos loud and messy and sweet, just like home. I also like the farmers' market we have twice a week in my neighborhood, and the central covered market where it might as well be the Byzantium era for all the carcasses swinging from hooks in the heat. I like shopping for food the way I did growing up, where everything has a name. I know the beekeeper who gathered my honey, the guy who distilled my tsicoudia (grappa), the farmer who grew my tomatoes and eggplants, the lady who baked my bread, and another lady who sells me fresh herbs from a milk crate covered with a piece of cardboard- she moves around a lot and you have to go looking for her. I have dined unscathed several times with the with the notoriously lascivious (late 70's) producer of the ouzo we drink. I do not personally know who makes my feta, but the guy with the bodega where I buy it does, just as he knows the egg guy. The butcher knows I like my goat chops pounded thin and my mince ground once not twice. The fishmonger hawks his marked-down wares loudly to strangers, but he whispers to me to keep walking when they are past their peak. The olive oil is ours, from family trees in Crete, kept in bright blue plastic 50 k barrels in the storeroom. Every couple of weeks I pump some out into smaller bottles, a green-gold mayhem, thick oil and the rich scent of olive spilling everywhere.

That sense of urban community I grew up with is here, and there is also something we didn't really have in Manhattan- more intimacy with nature. Here you feel and eat the seasons, know what fish are running when, and are (shockingly) aware of the source of chops and roasts. Knowing who and where your food is coming from brings reverence to the table, and an appreciation that deepens every pleasure. What is luxury if not depth of pleasure? Greece is not a wealthy nation, but it is very rich in things that matter.

Good living is inevitable in a climate of such simplicity and abundance. Happily, the Mediterranean approach to the pleasures of the table translates very easily. I hope here to share ways of savoring the everyday wealth around you- wherever you may be- with recipes (some classic, and all inspired by a Mediterranean lushness and simplicity), entertaining and home-keeping experiments, and experiences that that have made my life more beautiful, with the fond hope that they enrich yours as well.

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