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In Pursuit of a Lamb
(Forget the Fleece, a Young Boy’s Odyssey for the Glory That Was Greece)
Roast lamb and chicken livers, done Greek style are favorites of mine. There is, you see, a Greek side to my family, by marriage. My mother’s sister had married a dark handsome Greek, appropriately named Gus, so my mother has learned to love the ethnic influence. When I was old enough she lost no time in taking me to the Greek tavernas in Vancouver. The best ones were near the docks on Powell Street and Clark Drive. The food was highly seasoned, huge portioned and family style. You could taste the spirit of the country in it.
The sailors would all start to arrive from the ships around 10 o’clock and the retsina and ouzo poured freely. The bouzouki band would strike up a hasapiko and the room exploded in rhythms that made your hips gyrate and your fingers snap. Soon there were shouts of “Opa! Opa!” everywhere and glasses being smashed on the floor. Oh, this was a heady time for an eleven year old. I loved it.
The place also doubled as a bordello. At any given time we would find ourselves with a different waitress, who would just carry on looking after our table from the previous girl. “Mama” who owned the joint, was usually there in a tight fitting knitted red dress which showed off her effulgent curves markedly. She was at least sixty with thick black hair in a bun, and a few pounds of gold of a religious nature cascading down between her Charybdis and Scylla-like bosom. I wondered how many sailors has been lured there and crushed between them!
She stood at the till happily ringing in every item broken or ordered, but always smiling. She had the biggest red lipstick smile I had ever seen. When we left she would grab my cheeks in a pinch with her scarlet fingernails, and in broken English mention how proud my mother must be to have such a good son. “Efaristo, Mama, efaristo” (Thank you, Mama, thank you.) We’d say, and then tip generously to keep relations favourable. On busy nights we’d always get a table near the dance floor.
Having had this early introduction to Greek culture allowed me to have a great appreciation for the food fest that would start with my aunt’s family. My aunt’s husband Gus had bought a restaurant, after the war, called the “Shasta”. It was the place to go, for dinner with the whole family, or on a date. I still run into people who remember it fondly. It had lines on the dining room tables, but also a long counter with stools for the fast diners. Waitresses came in aprons and caps and you ordered good solid comfort food.
Over the years he taught my aunt to make Greek dishes and soon she was producing them flawlessly. We inherited a few “yayas”…(Greek for grandmother), all dressed in black. They would be rolling phylo dough and stretching it over floured pillows, leaf after leaf. It was a social event like a quilting party. While making all kinds of pastries and baked goodies for the coming festive event they would sip on thick Greek coffee with rosehip jelly stirred in, and talk about the births, deaths and marriages. The tradition hasn’t abated even though the “yayas” have passed on, so has uncle Gus, and so has the Shasta. But my aunt and her children still produce the best moussaka, aganaki, dolmades, and spanikotira pita anywhere.
However, it was always the roast lamb, rubbed with olive oil and rosemary, loaded with garlic cloves, roasted slowly, oh so tender and succulent, that has stayed the most potent in my memory. I’ve tried for twenty years to capture that certain ‘doneness’ she effects, and still haven’t managed. Close but not quite.
Whenever I visit them I love to sit back and watch my aunt and cousins cook, while I listen to the “Never on Sunday” soundtrack. This movie, made in 1958 (my year of birth) starred the famous Melina Mercouri. She was my first great love. When I first saw the movie- there she was, blond and sultry, exuding sex appeal. Aphrodite re-incarnated- I was hooked, smitten; I was ten!.
My Goddess Melina (it was always Melina for me, never Marilyn) sings the title song, both in English and Greek. I had played my own album until it was worn through, so it was with great delight that I discovered my aunt owned one too. There it was, almost twenty years old, but in mint condition. With trembling hands I reverently put it on the turntable, pushed the start button, picked up my pre-dinner ouzo, and took a gulp. The music swelled, her voice filled the room in lyrical Greek. I was transported to Piraeus, where in the movie, she swam naked from the dock every Sunday. “Oh, you can kiss me on a Monday, a Tuesday…but never on a Sunday, for that’s my day of rest” Her smoky, dulcet tones created such a frisson all over my body. I had to dance, kick my feet, snap my fingers, shout “Opa, Opa”!
My reverie was soon broken. The glory of Homer and dancing with Melina had to wait. LAMB was being served.