We had just finished a delicious meal of beautifully prepared traditional Greek food at a gorgeous taverna located in the heart of a small, peaceful village.
Set slightly to the edge of the taverna was a table with four chairs, where three local men were each enjoying a cold Greek coffee frappe and a cigarette or two or three…The fourth seat was occupied by the waiter (also the taverna owner) who joined his friends for a chat, a drink and a smoke in-between serving customers.
At intermittent stages over the course of the evening, a bell was rung in the kitchen. This prompted a delayed reaction from the waiter/owner where he would slowly rise from his seat, stroll inside, collect the food, serve the customer and then return to his position at the table with his friends to resume the conversation.
Don’t get me wrong, he did an excellent job in his role as front of the house. He was friendly, helpful and attentive and his relaxed demeanour was welcomed with a casual, homely approach that was perfect in this local family taverna.
As our meal came to an end, I pondered on what was going on in the kitchen. In the relentless heat of 30+ degree temperatures, juggling the timing of all the orders, the women were cooking the starters and main courses. Earlier in the day, the women had no doubt prepped vast quantities of vegetables, including countless tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, aubergines and courgettes for the array of mezze dishes. In advance of service, the women would probably have spent hours baking moussaka, boureki and pasticio. And we haven’t yet even considered dessert production. I was exhausted just thinking about the late evening hours that would be spent washing up and cleaning in preparation to begin the whole process again the following day. Factor in bringing up children – that’s a handful.
‘Who is paying?’ asked the waiter/owner as he brought the bill over to our table. Standing patiently beside the table waiting for our answer, he wore a slightly dishevelled look as if he’d just got up from a relaxed afternoon in front of the TV and had been disturbed by the doorbell.
‘He is,’ I replied indicating to my husband, who happened to have the cash in his wallet having been to the ATM earlier in the day. Another meal, it might be have been me paying: a joint account and together 30 years, it makes little difference who puts the money down at the end of a meal. On this particular evening, it was my husband who happened to have the cash.
In response to my answer, the waiter replied, ‘Ah, it’s always the man. The man, he always pay.’ Musing on the implication of his remark, I smiled outwardly in polite passive agreement, whilst inwardly chuckling at what I perceived to be the irony of his comment. He may have had to momentarily vacate his seat at the table with his friends but there was a hidden hive of activity in the kitchen. 😉
Let Luce! 