You haven't tasted bread like this because bread like this doesn't exist. Just the smell of it is making me high. It smells so strong that I can't taste my espresso. I'm reporting from the island of Paros, and while it may not be the most impressive of the Greek islands (I don't know, it's the only one I've seen), it's lovely enough not to be real. I'm floating a little bit.
The bread is very soft, but barely doughy. In fact, if it's consistency is so perfect that it seems if it were baked a second longer it would be dry, and a second less, undercooked. It defines all of the other breads I will eat and bake in the future; it is my new standard. There is a flavor which I know but cannot place at first. Then I understand. The mystery flavor is made of two parts: the scent of lingering sesame seeds from the bread baked previously (or from the floor of the oven), and the taste of the oven itself, which definitely has a stone (not clay) hearth. Now I understand why this is Mona's favorite bread, the best bread of the island, (and I think it must be one of the best breads in Greece as well). It is because it is baked on the stones from the island itself. When it comes to food, you can't get any more deep-o than that. The bread is unbelievable, inconceivable, but the concept is perfect. Can I intern here?
I'll have to make a friend on the boat I'm about to take because this is too good to eat alone. It's very lightly sour. The texture is not just soft, but springy, with small holes. The inside pulls away from itself in clean pieces like mozzerella cheese. It's not flakey but it dreams of being flakey, as if it admires its cousin, the brioche, but knows it is not a brioche. I bought two different kinds--a white and a wheat loaf. Miraculously, the wheat loaf has the same light texture as the white, just barely rougher, with seeds. They are both full of god.
The bakery is called Ragoussis, it is in the city of Parikia, and it is the self-proclaimed "bakery of the country bread-of the sandwich-of the croissant-of the sweet."
Tuesday 23 February 2010
Sunday 14 February 2010
The inside
I'm tired. My feet are sore. And, moments ago, I was so covered in sweat and kitchen grease that the shower I took transported me to another planet. I've been working at "Astra!" restaurant for one of the busiest weekends in Greece (Carnivale). What is special about working when traveling is that you get to feel the inside of a country. On this holiday, I don't just get the party, but the party in the kitchen, with the immigrants, washing dishes and laughing because tourists are terrible, the world over.
There's a Greek pretty-boy named Paris working here who hits on anything that moves--he is what is known as a common European sleaze--but the kitchen crew is fun. Gosha is a bright, funny Polish woman, and she and I share a bond by default: we are the only women we see all day. We communicate with our eyes about certain--for lack of a better word--truths that women hold dear in their hearts about men. (Europeans love the gender war). Ilir is an Albanian kid whose feathers never ruffle, and who excels at un-ruffling everybody else's. He is simultaneously 4 and 47 but is really 23. Gosha gets stressed very easily, and Ilir is impossibly calm at all times. I fall somewhere in the middle, and no one ever understands what I am saying. This makes me feel strangely adolescent, except that I'm mostly amused by my situation, instead of being infuriated.
There is something that infuriates me here, consistently, but it is not language or loneliness. It's what I see as being an attitude problem about the situation we are all in. All of us. I'm talking about this approach: because it isn't happening to me, it isn't happening.
As I said, I'm lucky to work as I travel because I get to see the inside of the places I go. But there is a dark side to the inside here, and it has to do with three things: water, garbage, and class.
Water. There's this myth that the concentration of environmental evil lies in cities. Environmental evil (or good) doesn't have to do with where you live--it has to do with the choices you make. Spyros is one of two brothers who own the restaurant and hotel I work at. His English-speaking Athenian friend visited us for the second time and Spyros opened a bottle of wine. The three of us sat down to watch a National Geographic documentary about the growing water shortages--hmm...that doesn't sound right, does it?--in South America.
I was lucky on two accounts, and unlucky on one. The documentary was in Spanish (with Greek subtitles) so I could understand most of it and I was in the presence of a fluent speaker of both English and Greek. I would be able to participate in a conversation about a documentary, and potentially get to know my employer a little bit! I was unlucky because Spyros doesn't talk very much. What he did finally say was that he was concerned for his business. If the world was running out of potable water, and therefore, if the world was going to war, how would he still run a restaurant? Who would come? How would he survive? These are perfectly legitimate questions. But in context, they were also sort of fucked up questions. Because there was an immense amount of water waste that went on in that place. I adored Gosha, but when we were cleaning the inn's rooms, she would run a tap for a mop bucket, and forget about it, leaving it running on full. Ilir was often told to power wash the stones free of harmless little dead leaves. I guess so that everything looked pristeen for the richies who visited us. When there was nothing to do, we re-cleaned rooms that were already clean. I don't even want to go into our bathroom cleaning methods, which were horrendous. I didn't understand how Spyros could worry about his livelihood, based on the water problem, and not understand that he was part of it, part of the organism and part of the system, and he could affect it.
To understand Spyros mentality (which, to be honest, I can't, or refuse to, on principle, understand) it's important to know that one of the cleanest rivers in Europe runs through Papigo. I would routinely drink straight from it on my walks and I've never tasted water like that. It made me feel tingly and bright. The Voidomatis has straight up fountain of youth stuff going on. Papigo, and Greece in general, is a healthy place to live. But maybe when you never see or feel places where the meat and vegetables are not fresh, and the water has chlorine in it, or worse things, or there is no water at all, you don't know how fucking rich you are.
Garbage. Hotels and restaurants generate an immense amount of waste. Restaurants, because they are busy, have the "now" mentality. As in, how can I eliminate as many things as I can as quickly as possible right now? And the answer is the trash can. Something a chef might wrap in plastic if he was home, he chucks away at his restaurant. Just because whatever it is is in his way. I would've loved an answer on why they didn't compost. We filled up a 50 gallon trash bag almost everyday, and the most of it was filled with organic matter. The worst part is that they had a garden.
Class. I displaced Ilir. When I arrived at Astra, Ilir was in Albania. Gosha and I cleaned out a little room off the hallway that functioned as a cleaning closet and an office. The room had a foam cot shoved in the corner and everywhere else there was papers, soccer balls, extra pillows, slippers, etc., etc., etc. We moved all the crap, got rid of the cot and its mangey blankets, cleaned the room thoroughly, and built some IKEA furniture (a bed, a desk, a small bureau) that Spyros had bought. Spyros even gave me a fluffy duvet and some rugs for the floor. It turned out to be a lovely little room in which, for two weeks, I devoured books like a fiend (my only source of English).
Four days after I moved in, Ilir arrived. I have no idea where he spent the first few nights, but on his 3rd or 4th night in Papigo, he came into the hall/office outside my bedroom, unrolled some bedding on the floor, closed a curtain, and went to sleep. The next day I asked him if the room had been his and he said, "Ma-u-ra. No problema. Ilir sleep. No problema." I double-checked my suspicions with Gosha. Indeed, the little room with the cot had been Ilir's. But it had only been made pleasant for me, the American. I insisted that Ilir take it back, or share it with me, but everyone (including Ilir) insisted that he sleep in the hall. I felt very uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as Ilir. It was freezing in the hall.
One day Ilir and I were sent to clean the rafters of the hotel rooms. Apparently an Athenian tourist had come to rent one of the suites, pointed to the dust on the rafters, and left. We got a ladder and climbed onto the rafters and went around on our elbows and knees, rubbing down the beams and hitting the corners with wet rags. We did six rooms. They were large. It was fun at first, because it was so ridiculous, but by the end we were both rubbing our knees and sneezing. Working for rich people is by far one of the strangest feelings in the world. I didn't feel like I was selling out, but buying in. Vomit. All over your Dolce and Banana whatever. Ilir's cheerful disposition was my saving grace, and it also depressed me.
Can you see how class and garbage are related? And how water--water is the thing that should be so simple.
There is something that infuriates me here, consistently, but it is not language or loneliness. It's what I see as being an attitude problem about the situation we are all in. All of us. I'm talking about this approach: because it isn't happening to me, it isn't happening.
As I said, I'm lucky to work as I travel because I get to see the inside of the places I go. But there is a dark side to the inside here, and it has to do with three things: water, garbage, and class.
Water. There's this myth that the concentration of environmental evil lies in cities. Environmental evil (or good) doesn't have to do with where you live--it has to do with the choices you make. Spyros is one of two brothers who own the restaurant and hotel I work at. His English-speaking Athenian friend visited us for the second time and Spyros opened a bottle of wine. The three of us sat down to watch a National Geographic documentary about the growing water shortages--hmm...that doesn't sound right, does it?--in South America.
I was lucky on two accounts, and unlucky on one. The documentary was in Spanish (with Greek subtitles) so I could understand most of it and I was in the presence of a fluent speaker of both English and Greek. I would be able to participate in a conversation about a documentary, and potentially get to know my employer a little bit! I was unlucky because Spyros doesn't talk very much. What he did finally say was that he was concerned for his business. If the world was running out of potable water, and therefore, if the world was going to war, how would he still run a restaurant? Who would come? How would he survive? These are perfectly legitimate questions. But in context, they were also sort of fucked up questions. Because there was an immense amount of water waste that went on in that place. I adored Gosha, but when we were cleaning the inn's rooms, she would run a tap for a mop bucket, and forget about it, leaving it running on full. Ilir was often told to power wash the stones free of harmless little dead leaves. I guess so that everything looked pristeen for the richies who visited us. When there was nothing to do, we re-cleaned rooms that were already clean. I don't even want to go into our bathroom cleaning methods, which were horrendous. I didn't understand how Spyros could worry about his livelihood, based on the water problem, and not understand that he was part of it, part of the organism and part of the system, and he could affect it.
To understand Spyros mentality (which, to be honest, I can't, or refuse to, on principle, understand) it's important to know that one of the cleanest rivers in Europe runs through Papigo. I would routinely drink straight from it on my walks and I've never tasted water like that. It made me feel tingly and bright. The Voidomatis has straight up fountain of youth stuff going on. Papigo, and Greece in general, is a healthy place to live. But maybe when you never see or feel places where the meat and vegetables are not fresh, and the water has chlorine in it, or worse things, or there is no water at all, you don't know how fucking rich you are.
Garbage. Hotels and restaurants generate an immense amount of waste. Restaurants, because they are busy, have the "now" mentality. As in, how can I eliminate as many things as I can as quickly as possible right now? And the answer is the trash can. Something a chef might wrap in plastic if he was home, he chucks away at his restaurant. Just because whatever it is is in his way. I would've loved an answer on why they didn't compost. We filled up a 50 gallon trash bag almost everyday, and the most of it was filled with organic matter. The worst part is that they had a garden.
Class. I displaced Ilir. When I arrived at Astra, Ilir was in Albania. Gosha and I cleaned out a little room off the hallway that functioned as a cleaning closet and an office. The room had a foam cot shoved in the corner and everywhere else there was papers, soccer balls, extra pillows, slippers, etc., etc., etc. We moved all the crap, got rid of the cot and its mangey blankets, cleaned the room thoroughly, and built some IKEA furniture (a bed, a desk, a small bureau) that Spyros had bought. Spyros even gave me a fluffy duvet and some rugs for the floor. It turned out to be a lovely little room in which, for two weeks, I devoured books like a fiend (my only source of English).
Four days after I moved in, Ilir arrived. I have no idea where he spent the first few nights, but on his 3rd or 4th night in Papigo, he came into the hall/office outside my bedroom, unrolled some bedding on the floor, closed a curtain, and went to sleep. The next day I asked him if the room had been his and he said, "Ma-u-ra. No problema. Ilir sleep. No problema." I double-checked my suspicions with Gosha. Indeed, the little room with the cot had been Ilir's. But it had only been made pleasant for me, the American. I insisted that Ilir take it back, or share it with me, but everyone (including Ilir) insisted that he sleep in the hall. I felt very uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as Ilir. It was freezing in the hall.
One day Ilir and I were sent to clean the rafters of the hotel rooms. Apparently an Athenian tourist had come to rent one of the suites, pointed to the dust on the rafters, and left. We got a ladder and climbed onto the rafters and went around on our elbows and knees, rubbing down the beams and hitting the corners with wet rags. We did six rooms. They were large. It was fun at first, because it was so ridiculous, but by the end we were both rubbing our knees and sneezing. Working for rich people is by far one of the strangest feelings in the world. I didn't feel like I was selling out, but buying in. Vomit. All over your Dolce and Banana whatever. Ilir's cheerful disposition was my saving grace, and it also depressed me.
Can you see how class and garbage are related? And how water--water is the thing that should be so simple.
Thursday 11 February 2010
From sophisticated wine...
...comes sophisticated dreams. Hello everybody from Papigo, Greece. The air is nice in the mountains, very fresh and dry and clean. The wine is also dry and clean. And now I will dive in.
The sky is always robins' egg blue (verging on lavender at night), and when the sun goes down, the snow--just above my head--turns pink. I can walk in any direction and it is guaranteed to be a beautiful day for a walk. The views are socks-knockers every time. As for the town of Papigo, it is 100 percent made of stone. Very quaint. Almost too quaint. As with fairytales, or gooey couples in public, I want to barf a little, even as I appreciate them. It's sort of labrythine in design, but it's way too small to get lost in. Or, it depends on the definition of lost. The time it takes to find your way back (to where?) is small. And I like to discover Papigo in the dark. There are about 12 street lights--dots in the center--and afterward the cobbles fall into darkness. At each tip of the village the cobble road turns to a dirt road, but before it does there is a little circle of cobbles separating the village from the rest of the world. This creates a Brigadoon-like quality. Again, barf. If it is possible to feel inside a place, it is how I feel here.
I'm working at an inn and restuarant, and the social situation is all at once strange and exhausting and hilarious. The inn is owned by two brothers who don't speak a lick of English. As we know, I don't speak a lick of Greek (we can both say 'thank you', 'good morning', 'good night', and 'I don't understand' in each others' respective languages, and each day we gain a few more words). Kostas is shy and awkward around me, but Spyros is always winking and making me espresso and putting strong alcoholic beverages in front of me, some of which I really don't want. There is also a Polish woman named Gosha living and working here. She's been here for five years. She learned Greek when she came, but she speaks very little English. Her story is a little crazy. She came to work in Greece through an agency. When she arrived in Athens, they sent her to an address, a whorehouse. So she went back to the agency to complain, and they ditched her, so she found work cleaning, and then eventually made her way here. I know this because tonight there was an Athenian visiting the restaurant--an old friend of Spyros--and he told me. Spyros is funny, he has a bad sense of style/use of hair gel like an Italian man, but he is always watching the Discovery Channel and National Geographic, so I know he is more intelligent than he looks.
Gosha is dieting. Most especially, she's not eating bread, so we're not exactly kindred spirits. When I first came we were having a really hard time communicating. In the beginning, she was very abrasive with me, and I took it personally. There are always other ways to communicate besides language, and I didn't understand why she wouldn't enter these games with me. But then I realized that even though Spyros and Kostas are always around, it is really Gosha who is in charge, who does all the cooking and the cleaning (which is a lot). As someone on holiday, coming to work for my bread at a picturesque mountain inn, I came with ideas about what that should feel and look like. I didn't realize I had ideas, but I did. But this is not Gosha's holiday. This is her job. She misses Poland. She misses her sisters. She misses speaking Polish. Actually, we made a new development yesterday, because even though there are always people around, I am isolated, since no one here speaks English. The first few days I was quiet and unhappy. And then I realized that it didn't matter if no one understood me, because if I spoke, I would feel better. And so I started sounding like a crazy person, but Gosha caught on. And since I don't understand Greek or Polish, she can speak Polish to me, and it doesn't matter. It's very cathartic.
The sky is always robins' egg blue (verging on lavender at night), and when the sun goes down, the snow--just above my head--turns pink. I can walk in any direction and it is guaranteed to be a beautiful day for a walk. The views are socks-knockers every time. As for the town of Papigo, it is 100 percent made of stone. Very quaint. Almost too quaint. As with fairytales, or gooey couples in public, I want to barf a little, even as I appreciate them. It's sort of labrythine in design, but it's way too small to get lost in. Or, it depends on the definition of lost. The time it takes to find your way back (to where?) is small. And I like to discover Papigo in the dark. There are about 12 street lights--dots in the center--and afterward the cobbles fall into darkness. At each tip of the village the cobble road turns to a dirt road, but before it does there is a little circle of cobbles separating the village from the rest of the world. This creates a Brigadoon-like quality. Again, barf. If it is possible to feel inside a place, it is how I feel here.
I'm working at an inn and restuarant, and the social situation is all at once strange and exhausting and hilarious. The inn is owned by two brothers who don't speak a lick of English. As we know, I don't speak a lick of Greek (we can both say 'thank you', 'good morning', 'good night', and 'I don't understand' in each others' respective languages, and each day we gain a few more words). Kostas is shy and awkward around me, but Spyros is always winking and making me espresso and putting strong alcoholic beverages in front of me, some of which I really don't want. There is also a Polish woman named Gosha living and working here. She's been here for five years. She learned Greek when she came, but she speaks very little English. Her story is a little crazy. She came to work in Greece through an agency. When she arrived in Athens, they sent her to an address, a whorehouse. So she went back to the agency to complain, and they ditched her, so she found work cleaning, and then eventually made her way here. I know this because tonight there was an Athenian visiting the restaurant--an old friend of Spyros--and he told me. Spyros is funny, he has a bad sense of style/use of hair gel like an Italian man, but he is always watching the Discovery Channel and National Geographic, so I know he is more intelligent than he looks.
Gosha is dieting. Most especially, she's not eating bread, so we're not exactly kindred spirits. When I first came we were having a really hard time communicating. In the beginning, she was very abrasive with me, and I took it personally. There are always other ways to communicate besides language, and I didn't understand why she wouldn't enter these games with me. But then I realized that even though Spyros and Kostas are always around, it is really Gosha who is in charge, who does all the cooking and the cleaning (which is a lot). As someone on holiday, coming to work for my bread at a picturesque mountain inn, I came with ideas about what that should feel and look like. I didn't realize I had ideas, but I did. But this is not Gosha's holiday. This is her job. She misses Poland. She misses her sisters. She misses speaking Polish. Actually, we made a new development yesterday, because even though there are always people around, I am isolated, since no one here speaks English. The first few days I was quiet and unhappy. And then I realized that it didn't matter if no one understood me, because if I spoke, I would feel better. And so I started sounding like a crazy person, but Gosha caught on. And since I don't understand Greek or Polish, she can speak Polish to me, and it doesn't matter. It's very cathartic.
Friday 5 February 2010
The Greek Chic, the Italian Schmuck (you thought I was going to rhyme Italian with stallion?) and other stories
Beyonce is everywhere the radio is. This is nice--there's a comfort to hearing something so familiar and distinctly American--and not nice, because I want to hear Italian music, Greek music, etc.
I'm in Greece, and yet, I am not done talking about Italy. I'll miss even the things I hate. The brash baristas and the men posturing, everyone smoking in the places they shouldn't--bathrooms, bus stations, beaches--everyone yelling in the street and the inability of Italians to move out of the way and all of the Italian brats and all the terrible music. Italians are wasteful--driving a few blocks to the bar instead of walking, using plastic plates and cups when there is company, and even when there's not, putting on the TV as soon as they get home, and then not paying any attention to it. The men walk like they are saying "I'm a man, I'm a man, I'm a man," (to themselves more than anyone else). In fact, I once heard a man muttering this to himself. Because of the behavior of Italian men, Italian women can be aloof and silent, even to other women. And it takes a whole room of Italians to decide the best way to cut a cake or wash a dish. Everybody has three or four cents to put in. In the street, everyone is so completely absorbed in his or her own world. No one sees you, or will admit to having seen you, so no one moves aside. Americans are always hyper aware and even self conscious of the world around us: we are always wondering what other people are thinking and doing and if we are passing ourselves off okay. So at first, the Italian ego is a hard thing to process. But I think it's beautiful. It's not arrogance, it's confidence. Italians appear to be a disorganized, bumbling mass, and perhaps this is true. But it is only because they are all following their own paths (and therefore colliding). Finally, Italians are ridiculous and I love them for it.
The French understand, maybe best out of all people, the game and absurdity of the wonderful joke that is life. You can listen to it in the way they speak, and feel it in their cinema--perhaps it is why they smoke so much--but I think it is the place that their special brand of humor and enjoyment of life comes from. And sometimes, it also makes them very serious. The Italians, on the other hand, are full of nonsense. Simple-minded, like children, all they want is for everyone to take pleasure, and the three main derivatives of pleasure, according to Italians, are food, sex, and the sun, in that order. This is why the 3 most commonly said things in Italy are "Mangia," "l'amo," and "Impossibile" (when it is raining). Basta. I need to talk about the country that I'm in.
Greek people have the sense of humor, good looks, and relaxed energy of the Italians, but with the sophistication of the French. I know: the best of both worlds. You thought it wasn't possible. Also (this is really hard for me to say), Greek food is better than Italian. It's more varied. Athens as compared to Rome. What is the value system of a culture? Walking around the Acropolis and the very lovely new Acroplis museum, I felt a strong sense of respect and education--not at all like what I described in my visit to Rome and the Colleseum (see post: "Roma o Napoli..."). Perhaps it's because the Acropolis is a site of old temples, whereas the Colleseum was a slaughtering house, but I think it has more to do with the place the site holds in contemporary culture. The Acropolis is a point of gravity and pride for Athenians. The restoration has been undertaken to preserve a structure, but also a symbol and reminder of Greece's roots: intelligence, discipline, and ritual. It is a kind of cultural weight, and the restoration reflects this.
Rubbish in Italy.
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