The Last Supper

By Jerry Stamatelos

My girlfriend and I stood idly by as we watched undiscriminating arkfuls of tourists scurry and disappear into the winding alleys like ants at the entrance of their nest. No one fit the description of my friend’s uncle from the locals, who upon witnessing our predicament, had approached us for rooms. When all that was left at the port were a few drowsy stray animals and an increasingly irritable companion, the time for decisive action had come. I didn’t have a contact phone number nor could my friend be of any assistance as he was out of town that weekend. I presented my case to a waterfront kafeneion (café) where a kindly and obliging customer agreed to escort us to our prearranged accommodations.

We sluggishly meandered through a web of narrow white alleys as the Good Samaritan’s leisurely pace gave us the impression that he was in no hurry. We had already stalled but we took comfort in the fact that we had found what we were looking for.

"Vasili!...Vasili!..." shouted all at once our neighborly guide, startling us. A pot-bellied middle-aged man stampeded his way through a passageway laced with climbing vines. "These two are for you." Vasili remained behind for a few moments seeming momentarily befuddled as he motioned us towards the back of his whitewashed home.

We were led through to an intimate yet spacious, shady, vine-covered terrace contoured with potted plants that revealed a tremendous garden party in full swing despite its unorthodox hour by Greek standards. There were about a dozen pairs of eyes gazing up at us in concert.

"Kalispera," was all we could muddle up for our rude inopportune intrusion. The plentifully endless array of mouth-watering edibles and their accompanying aromas could certainly satisfy any and every grumbling stomach, and without fail set mine growling within seconds. And all this amidst a redolent, full-blooming garden with excitable budgies in cages drowned by the pleasantly chaotic Greek music. It was a well-tended little oasis, with a restful white against blue decor. Undeniably, a feast for the senses! I could certainly understand and forgive Vasili for losing track of time.

"These two will be staying with us for a few days," Vasili elucidated just as we started feeling out of place. "What’re your names?"

"Mine’s Jerry and this is Helen," I replied shyly.

"Jerry?...Jerry? What kind of name is that? It sounds like a desert or something. What’s your real Greek name son?"

"Gerasimos," I answered in a manner reminiscent of grade school reprimands.

"You won’t mind if I call you that then." He made room next to his place at the head of the table, arranged two chairs there and gestured us to sit.

"Thank you very much for your kind offer but we should be getting to our—"

"Nonsense! You’re our guests. We’re celebrating my daughter’s and niece’s name day today. We just got started. Not accepting my invitation is almost like insulting a Greek’s mother, and you know what that’s like eh?"

Rambunctious laughter echoed throughout the terrace. I’ve learned in the past that refusing a treat of any kind by a Greek is a faux pas, but we both felt rather uneasy about barging in on a close-knit family affair. Round-the-table introductions proceeded our best wishes to everyone. We were greeted with good nature and a touch of bemusement. All the while, Vasili’s obedient wife took special care in putting every possible sample of mezedhes (hors d’oeuvres) on our plates. No dinky dishes tonight! Thankfully we were both weak from hunger.

For starters, there were overly generous portions of cod’s roe dip, tzatziki, stuffed vine leaves, meatballs, cheese and spinach pies, olives and feta cheese accompanied by three crusty loaves of homemade bread. I’m no power eater, but I could certainly pace myself with the best of them when the moment arrives. My girlfriend on the other hand, with her enduring macrobiotic diet, was sure to be knocked out after this warm-up round. Everyone at the table graciously slowed down their pace so we could catch up.

"Eat! Eat! Moderation is for monks!" Vasili roared after examining and evaluating our progress at this stage. He saw fit to express his mild disapproval and provide a much-needed encouragement to our spiritlessly dignified deglutitory habits.

After the entrees were gobbled up, the empty plates were conveniently placed on the floor to make some well-deserved room for the charcoal-roasted lamb, to be presented once again in its usual celebrated form.

The air was rich with the basting of olive oil, lemon juice, and the seasoning of oregano.

Two colossal oval plates were strategically placed on either end of the table next to the abysmal garden salad bowls.

I watched in amazement as the ravenous vultures of the rectangular table preyed on their carcass. To my utter stupefaction, the setting satisfied even my girlfriend, the fussiest of eaters, who got into the act.

"I consider these kinds of meals like a last supper, just like Christ did, who knows anyway eh?" Vasili’s audacious statement was immediately followed by tensely hurried synchronic knocking of wood from every aghast celebrant.

Homegrown red wine flowed without restraint, and came somewhat of a shock to my untried palate. Talk was at a premium and centered around the excellence of the food. Vasili and his wife proudly accepted the comments. In fact, most sounds coming from the feast were a symphonic tempo of repeated and impatient chomping. My girlfriend dropped out of the race as soon as guilt pangs started to unscrupulously set in for satisfying those subconscious bulimic tendencies. She was oblivious to the fact though that a certain ogler wished she could have been on the menu.

"Eat! Eat!" Vasili would blurt out spewing chunks of well-torn meat cubes in the process to keep me from falling behind the rest of the pack. After the focal point of the gluttonous gala was over, the table spilled over with a polychromatic seasonal repertoire of pink-fleshed watermelon, golden honeydew melon, peaches, apples and oranges.

The final temptation, when all the whims had been catered to, was to satisfy the voracious sweet tooth with sinful mouth-watering baklava and muddy Greek coffee washed down with therapeutic ice-cold water. Not much of a coffee drinker, I politely passed on the latter but melted to the resistance of the former as my better half busily spurned advances.

We had dined boisterously, imbuing food and drink with the spirit of celebration to its maximum. Vasili’s cheerful informality and their straightforward, guileless approach to having fun was a welcome surprise and eventually made us feel much more at ease. However, exhaustion from overeating was ready to send us to our beds, so we graciously thanked all for the overly lavish hospitality.

This was Vasili’s cue as he grunted "You’ll sleep in my house because I don’t have any available rooms this weekend."

My lady and I looked at each other puzzled, and then at Vasili. "Didn’t your nephew John get in touch with you about us coming?"

"I don’t have a nephew John."

I’ve been there on two separate occasions since then at roughly the same time of year, and all that has changed is my lady companion, much to the chagrin of a perennial hormonally imbalanced nephew.

I’ve even recommended a choice friend or two and given them explicit instructions. I assured them that if they got lost or there’s a misunderstanding, somehow Vasili would find them...or they would find Vasili!

Jerry Stamatelos shapes young minds at a private coed school in Montreal, Canada, translates literary text from the Greek and mainly contributes articles on Greek Canadian and Greek American affairs to the English language press worldwide. He is also taking a stab at longer fiction, by working on a novella.