In Athens, we stayed in the downtown area close to Kotzia Square. It’s walking distance from the local fish market, the hardware market and local spice vendors, so a fishy mist weighs down the air, mingled with the opulent, nostalgic aroma of mastic (a spice used in the manufacturing of local brandy and ouzo).
“Remind me to buy mastika for mom; she uses it for rice budding and soups,” I cry to my husband as we attempt to cross the congested two-way street, a mission that would become increasingly tedious by the day.
I was 27 weeks pregnant when we went on our “babymoon” to Greece. It was one last voyage as “me” before I became the mother of Sultan, or Adam, or “Souvlaki” (kebab) — my husband’s newest addition to our quirky baby name list.
At this point, eating was the only thing I could do with ease. I was always hungry, and everything else seemed out of reach for a pregnant woman, anyway. Drinking, swimming, parading on the beach, sun-bathing and shopping all became activities that raised question marks in the eyes of the masses. “But this is a small!” wondered the sales lady at Attica Department Store as I tried to buy a summer dress.
“Food, food it is,” I tell myself as I finally settle on this trip’s obsession, and bid my sightseeing plans goodbye.
I had read about Greece’s bleak economic saga prior to the trip, and was both sympathetic and concerned, coming from a place going through its own historically charged moment. But on arrival, I found that the tourism industry was stubbornly continuing as normal amid an air of perseverance. And so I also stubbornly pursued my mission to keep the gates of bliss open — despite the familiar bad traffic and the many discomforts of traveling while pregnant — with a steady schedule of gastronomic feats.
The old tavern of Psaras in the heart of Plaka has been delighting foodies since the late 19th century. As my husband consults Google Maps on our first walk in Athens, I enjoy getting semi-lost in the narrow alleys of the old market, tracing the white stone steps that lead to food heaven. Wooden tables, white tablecloths and middle-aged, white-haired, mustachioed waiters welcome customers upon arrival.
The menu is succinct: Aegean specialties, mostly fish. I opt for Greek salad and fried octopus croquette as an hors d’oeuvre (which brings disturbing memories to my hubby of the 30-cm-long grilled octopus leg I inhaled whole in Santorini days before). Seafood pasta is the main dish of choice.
The food is downright voluptuous, but its delivery is so simple that the meal is more of a sacred experience than a profane one. I swallow big chunks of cucumber and tomato delicately scented with thyme, with the zing of capers, the earthiness of excellent-quality olive oil and the pungent, milky flavors of dense blocks of feta cheese washing over my palette immediately thereafter. Next, I pry open the mussels in my tagliatelle, releasing their garlicky, orangey-fresh juices into their succulent bath of tomato sauce.
I’m wiping my lips, sated, when I notice a waiter exiting the kitchen with a plate of watermelon and feta. I don’t know who passed the habit to whom, but it seems the Greeks share our summery, thirst-quenching sweet-and-sour treat. Hallelujah!
After the seafood, gyro would become our next Greek infatuation — what could go wrong with pillows of soft, pudgy bread cuddling juicy, shredded meats deeply slathered in nutmeg, cumin and sumac, and nestled with seasoned onions and chopped tomato? Nothing, it turns out. Although both typically Greek and cousin to the Arab shawerma, some say this “opa” of aroma and texture is originally Turkish — yet another case of uncertain food paternity.
If I ever find myself anxious or feeling left out as a pregnant woman on summer vacation, one gyro and a generous serving of watermelon and feta brings me back home. There’s a reason why, on every corner of Monastiraki Square, you can spot northerners with a fat gyro dripping tzatziki sauce on their “I ♥ Greece” shirts. It’s an instant source of comfort.
There’s something soulful about staying in the heart of a city. Although we were temporarily lured by the freshness of the upscale Athenian suburb Glyfada, downtown possessed the aromas and hues of the gods. We spend most of our time immersing ourselves in the hustle and bustle of the flea market, fighting for space with shoppers on Ermou Street and constantly inhaling the delightful smell of souvlaki (hence the proposed name for our future son). The street vendors, old bars and stuffed vine leaves are all obvious reminders of Egypt, but it’s really the special, tarnished grandeur of Athens, its particular sweet melancholy, that makes it feel like home away from home.
The center’s most colorful point is Brettos, the chromatic bar and distillery of the old market. In 1909, Michael Brettos made his first bottles of mint, cherry and mastic liqueur here, using a secret family recipe for premium-quality brandy and ouzo. But despite its historical importance, the place remains humble, and the friendliness of the staff makes Brettos a staple in our daily routine in Athens.
Every corner holds a surprise. Aside from the ceiling-high display of colorful, back-lit liqueur bottles — which draws in tourists like moths to flame — ancient wooden counters, old alcohol ads, moldy barrels of brandy and a hand-made ouzo distillery all help create an anachronistic charm.
As I sip on my luscious cocktail of grenadine, banana, pineapple, kiwi and orange, I skim through the 12-page menu full of flavors. Mastika liqueur seems the most intriguing — unlike other blends, the mastic-infused drink is blandly colorless, yet grand, aromatic, deep and very smooth.
Looking up from the menu, I deeply breathe in a bewildering smell of old downtown bars in Alexandria. Like Sting was an Englishman in New York, I am a pregnant woman in a bar, and I like it.
I ♥ Greece.