Thursday night, after stumbling home from an ill-fated bar of the past, I caught the tail end of a huge BBQ my Greek landlords had thrown. I would love to party like them when I hit 70. I often find them chilling on the stoop with their homies, well after midnight.
Anyway, they had a surplus of food, and they gave me: 1 pork chop, 1 hamburger, 1 hot dog, 1 chicken wing, 1 sausage and 1 grilled ear of corn. They offered me some lemon potatoes but when I tried to serve myself they said, “You too shy!” and ladled me a Zorba-size serving. Five minutes later, as I gnawed on the pork chop in front of my computer, I got a knock on the door. “You want salad?” They brought down a huge tupperware full of feta, cukes and tomatoes from their garden. While I was chowing on the salad, I got another knock. They thrust a half loaf of bakery bread in my hand and said “That’s it!”
I will miss the Greeks.