“Food your tastebuds continually thanked you for”
Mi Me Lismonei café/restaurant, Syrrako, Epirus, Greece
With many Greek villages, mountainous or otherwise, there is such an untapped potential, perhaps only visible to those coming from more capitalist-driven countries. Yet this next one was a well-honed treat.
Once again, rounded grey stone petals adorn the whiter stone-walled houses and round cottages, as if large apple sized rain droplets fell from the mountainous clouds, filled with marbled grey paint, and landed on these dwellings, each liquid grey-silver apple overlapping the last and emanating out from impact like American pancakes, slightly risen from the pan. Reminiscent again of the roof style celebrated in Pinakates, these rooves adorn much smaller buildings, without the wooden additions seen in Pinakates.
Instead of feeling abandoned, with a history strong enough you can see it walk past you as you stand on the cobbles looking up the streets, Syrako is very much alive, with many year-round residents. It is more cared for than its sister village of Kalarites, with allotments tended to, farmers meeting for morning coffee, women chatting together in the covered pillared square home to the water fountain (separate from the men generally still). Light reflects off the stone walls of each building, creating such a freshness and brightness not witnessed in many villages on such a scale.
It was at a café overlooking the village square where we enjoyed perhaps the best Greek coffee of the trip (most significantly, on this particular occasion, the flavour and silkiness was achieved without the habitual fine-grained carpet). sitting contentedly on their balcony. It was the kind of balcony and kind of square where you could imagine a speech being orated and the whole village listening. The tall and impressive church to the right of the café and square also demanded attention, its bright white juxtaposed with its vivid spherical fresco painted on the underside of the high arched entrance, large pots welcoming visitors. Below us a woman gathered vegetables and tomatoes from an L-shaped large family-sized allotment which wrapped around the base of the tall house above, roses hugged gates and fences, climbing ever higher and eliminating any barriers between buildings, exuding such a scent only intensified by the warmth of the surrounding air. The view to the mountainous ridges reaching out from the village and leading the eye into a distant sky was enjoyed by this allotment and by ourselves as we surveyed the mystical and magical surroundings. Whilst the proprietor spoke some English, we decided to converse in Greek, in order that I may practice! To accompany our Greek coffees, we chose a slice of hortopita (in the hope that it may drown out the memories of the microwaved spanakopita we struggled through the previous day!) and portokalopita (orange pie). See my Greek coffee at a glance post for how Greek coffee differs from its counterparts.
Before we tucked too enthusiastically into this early-lunchtime snack, we were joined by a group of local farmers, 4 in all, each sporting a shepherding stick. One of these, a large man of middle age with rounded, full, unlined face, fancied himself a racing driver in earlier years (whilst he and his friends laughed that he was a little too large to fit into a racing car these days!). Instead he was satisfied by pointing out to us his land, 2,000 meters above sea level and home to his beef cattle (8 months of the year until he takes them to warmer lowland climes in the winter months of October to March), and the land of his friends on the hills opposite the café, on the right hand side of the village. He had a gravelly deep throated giggle which was hampered by saliva, and a smooth voice. His checked shirt cuddled his tummy, creating creases of tension radiating from the central buttons as he chuckled in conversation. Another, with a full head of white tousled hair, thick and befitting a biblical character, wore an old gilet which I imagined (perhaps the coffee had hallucinogenic capacities!) growing to form a techno-coloured dream coat for his part in a production of Joseph. If he had sheep, I would say his hair resembled their locks! A third man in a striped rugby shirt covering a sailor’s leathery skin was the most vocal and confident and talked intently. They shared small plates of food, almost mezze and we joked that they eat many small meals a day. The check shirt laughed: ‘no’ he says, ‘we eat many large meals a day- that’s why I’ve built up such reserves!’, gesturing at his protruding tummy. They spoke of a young man who moved here in 2000 with 600 sheep and who resides here year-round; his little hut was pointed to casually using the shepherd’s stick. They said he makes the best sheep cheese, and they could ring him now so we could go and try some (it was hard to tell whether they meant the best cheese in the area or in the World… although at the time it was hard to decipher between the two). Conversation turned to some British tourists who recently visited the Syrako (so few international tourists visit these areas, least of all the British, so when they do, they become the talk of the town) and they joked about how there were 2 closely neighbouring tables with 2 separate British families sitting at them but that the diners on each table did not talk to the diners on the other- something they could not fathom! The café owner joined our discussions, often propping himself up against the doorframe in between serving coffees and food.
After continual conversation of which must have lasted ½ hour, we returned to enjoy our edible goodies. The hortopita was fresh, warm and naughtily satisfying, with homemade crispy filo pastry; despite being full of local greens, it would be a stretch to argue for it to be included in 1 of your 5 a day target. The feta within in punched your tongue as much as the spinach and other greens massaged it. The portokalopita was the kind which induces a moment of eyelid-closing bliss; it differed from other examples due to its sticky crust-like top layer, pleasing to the eye and mouth for the resulting combination of textural sensation. The internal layers were soaked with a sweet orange syrup, creating a springy texture, the sweetness dominating the middle of the tongue whilst the strong sour orange injecting the tastebuds, tongue edges and roof of the mouth, balancing out the sweetness. As we slowly enjoyed our way through these treats washed down by cold water, whilst exchanging the frequent next conversational question, comment or answer with our local neighbours, it started to rain; the owner of the taverna began slowly and without panic folding checked tablecloths, collecting them from soon to be dripping tables, as the rain started to create dark spots forming an ever-changing mosaic on the stones, juxtaposed with the lighter grey stone carpets underneath the table canopies. The unhurried nature of his actions gained my attention, thinking of other situations where such weather had inspired such swift or even panicked conduct, to save tablecloths, cutlery from droplets which must surely result in the destruction of all items in their wake.
Habitual of conversations with Greeks in such villages, we were invited to visit the cows and spend the afternoon with them. Unfortunately, due to our schedule, we could not. But there will certainly be a next time and we will make sure to factor in more time to spend here! Syrako really was a treat- it radiated brightness, optimism, and a general satisfaction of its residents with their lot- a rare thing these days it seems! Pecuniary outlay for this particular morning caffeine fuel stop was note-worthily nominal; despite having to yourself views you would expect to jostle for, service of the friendliest and most helpful quality, and food your tastebuds continually thanked you for, prices are still steadfastly Greek. You would be crazy to miss such a delight; in fact, going far out of your way to discover this gem would be an investment worth travelling for.
