For years I was a closet Hellenophile who lingered among the kouros and koure statues in the MMA and marveled at the Parthenon marbles in The British Museum (while wishing I could see them and others in Athens); listened to Melina Mercouri (whom I once later met in a Congressman's office one night of Vietnam Way protests); bought and used a Greek cookbook (folks loved my time-consuming moussaka); took classical literature, history, and art courses in college; kept a small phial of water from Delphi on my chest of drawers; studied Classical Greek as an adult; and dreamed of becoming an archaeologist.
Now I am lucky if I can find a single Greek cookie or a nearby Greek festival.
But today, I had a delightful near-Greek experience.
Between doctors' appointments, I browsed along Chattanooga's Frazier Avenue, where something I had not noticed before attracted my eye: a quaint little building with rotting cupola topped by a metal cutout of a 1920s open touring car.
I couldn't resist, so I walked downhill to look at the facade.
Between snapshots, I heard "Hello!" A shirtless fellow in white painter's pants and large cross necklace smiled and said, "It's going to be a restaurant!" He took me inside and gave me the tour of what will be his new Greek take-out business. He has done all the work himself, and it shows -- not in lack of skill, but in pure charming white-washed-and-blue Mediterranean style. "Seven years I've been here," Mike said, "and I decided to put my money in my food instead of someone else's."
He then told me about Greek salads and American ignorance, about getting his Green card and lawyers, about the lack of help from the Greek embassy and the support of the Turkish embassy ("our enemy," he said, with his hands making ghost quotes), about Greek Orthodox Churches in which no one speaks Greek, and about his plans for courtyard grilling and dining in the future.
"It used to be a garage, 1934," he said. "But it is going to be 100% Greek soon! Come back!"
And that I shall.
Opa!
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