Hellenic

George was a gruff man. He never smiled and his words were monosyllabic. Customer service certainly wasn’t his forte. When he placed a plate of food before us, he didn’t bother making eye contact.

He was a bit of an odd looking character as well. Around 5’ tall with squat proportions, he hobbled about the room with three plates in one hand at a time, looking as if he might topple over at any time, providing random guests little piles of taramosalata on their laps.

He is the owner of my neighborhood Greek restaurant, Hellenic, and serves as both host and waiter in his tennis shoes and corduroy pants.

We sat beneath a ceiling dotted with colored lights that looked like flickering stars in a Christmas sky and ordered the mezedes, which meant we’d sit there for two hours while plate after plate of everything on the menu was placed before our hungry eyes.

It was like a dream sequence. Food came in rapid succession. First there was taramosalata, a creamy pink mass of cod roe, lemon juice and olive oil that looked like the ambrosia grandmas make when they mix strawberry Jell-O and Cool Whip, but tasted of salt, cream and garlic; a bowl of tiny shrimp with their heads still on, looking like giant masks on tribal dancers; melitzanosalata, an aubergine dip the color of lilacs, swirled with garlic, yogurt and mayonnaise; smoked salmon slick as a fresh coat of wax on a car and mounds of warm pita bread.

Next came the hot starters – plates of fried calamarakia, golden rivulets of deep fried squid whose flesh was more creamy than rubbery; buttery chunks of grilled halloumi cheese; fat parcels of dolmadakia, tart grape leaves stuffed with rice, minced ground beef and a collection of herbs so secret they nearly whispered on the tongue; and Greek sausage, which had been marinated in red wine then grilled.

There were tiny pieces of barely seasoned souvla, lamb on the bone, which were so succulent and rich with flavor they felt as if they had been sewn into your mouth; tender chunks of chicken, onion and peppers threaded on a skewer just before being grilled, and a greek salad with large wedges of fresh feta, shards of red onion, tomatoes and cucumber in a delicate olive oil and lemon dressing.

At the end there were full bellies and no dessert, but George brought out a plate of Satsuma mandarins. They were sweet and tart all at once, and just the perfect end to a night under the stars.

“Goodnight, George,” I said as I put on my coat.

“Yes,” he managed to mumble, before stumbling off to the kitchen, three plates in his left hand, not once looking back.