I came to Greece to see my family’s roots. And if that old platitude is correct, and we are indeed what we eat, I believe I come from pretty good stock.
I’ve been amazed at how different Greek food is from Americanized “Greek” food. It’s really “clean” feeling, and I have yet to discern whether it is from the lemons or the grass-fed lamb or oregano or the purity of the water on which all is raised, but I can say without a doubt that I’ve never eaten better. For example, lunch consisted of a grilled chicken breast, some feta cheese, and fasolakia, a green bean and tomato dish. To drink, there was water bubbling from the spring less than 25 meters away and available on tap for those not up for the walk.
In Tripi, the air was cool and breezy and the dinging of bells around goats’ necks provided entertainment. Situated up the road about 200 meters is the cave, according to myth, into which the defective babies of Sparta were hurled.
I ate my first fig yesterday, and I proceeded to eat half a dozen today. I sat on the balcony and looked out at the mountains. Feeling a bit like Gerard Butler’s Leonidas, I said to myself “This Is SPARTA!” as I pinched, tore in half, and sucked at the last of the figs while its red sticky flesh glistened in the sun.
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