Balkan Miniature in the Zurich Airport

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

By Diana Farr Louis

“Just when I think of releasing the brake and continuing on my own, my minder reappears with a woman who looks left over from a Carnival party. We exchange smiles but I can’t help sneaking stares at her as he speeds us both down the corridor.”—By Diana Farr Louis

ATHENS Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—4/28/2014—It’s well past noon central European time, but only 6 something my time when I limp off the Swiss flight from Newark to Zurich, three hours later than scheduled. Loaded with overstuffed rucksack, winter coat, bulging computer bag and pocketbook, I force a smile for the cabin crew and say, “I’ll be needing a wheelchair.”

“Of course, Madame. It’s waiting for you.”

Sure enough, two are stationed right outside the door and, gratefully, I ease myself into a flat black seat, while a short grey handler solicitously slides my feet into the rests and hangs my rucksack on the back. He wheels me round and pushes me up the ramp, chatting as we climb.

“You going to Athens? What passport you have, Greek or American?”

“Greek. Well, actually, both.”

“Good, Greek. Like Greek better than American. Like Greek women, like to flirt with them. Triandáfyllo tis Aphrodítis. Oraía.”

Rose of Aphrodite. Where did he get that from?

“You speak Greek?”

“Arketá kalá [well enough].”

“What? I not endáxi [OK]?”

He parks me at the top of a long corridor. “You wait here. I bring someone else.”

It feels lonely to be abandoned so quickly, a rock in the stream of fast flowing passengers, who form ripples around me.

Just when I think of releasing the brake and continuing on my own, my minder reappears with a woman who looks left over from a Carnival party. We exchange smiles but I can’t help sneaking stares at her as he speeds us both down the corridor, narrowly avoiding clumps of people and taking sharp turns as if he’s practicing for a wheelchair derby.

Of indeterminate age but probably 50-something, my fellow traveler has big hair, a crown of bouffant white curls like Dolly Parton’s but more so, layers of mascara and sparkling eye shadow, a puffed-up mouth, smeared with purple lipstick and outlined in brown liner that would make Scarlett Johansson look tight-lipped, a long midnight-blue satin dress, and jewels weighing down her soft pale wrists and hands. Rings, some spangled with multiple gold baubles the size of baby peas, mask her fingers, which are tipped with long green finger nails. From under her blue robe poke white-stockinged ankles and white cloth shoes. By her side lies a cane of pastel pinks and reds that looks good enough to eat.

Our handler mentions she’s going to Beograd and, when we pause, I ask, “Beograd?”

She rattles off a long answer in Serbian and looks crestfallen when I reply, “Sorry, don’t speak Serbian.” She does not seem to have another language, at least no English, German, or French. A pity. I want to ask if she’s ever starred in a Kusturica movie.

Our handler stops in front of an elevator where a trio of Anatolian-looking men and a woman are perched on an airport golf cart. The men have those baggy, no-color suits so typical of Turkey. The woman, wisps of white hair curling outside her headscarf, is huddling inside a grey raincoat. My new friend goes over to speak to her and tears start coursing down her creased cheeks. I catch the word “Izmir.” He pats her hand and holds the door so the cart can enter.

As he talks, I study him. His loose grey outfit, his olive skin, his friendly, casual manner. There’s no way he could be Swiss.

“So you’re from Turkey?” I ask. “What city?”

“Constantinople,” he beams.

“Not Istanbul?”

“I say that for you. After all, that’s the original name.”

When Ishan deposits me and the Serbian glamour queen in the handicapped lounge, making sure we’re both comfortable, we shake hands and I say, “Tesekkur ederim,” the only Turkish words I know—thank you for a most agreeable journey. There are worse things than to be a wheelchair traveler.

Recipe

And now, because it it still artichoke season, here’s an unusual recipe from Corfu that calls for seasoning with tomato rather than lemon. It’s taken from my Ionian cookbook, Prospero’s Kitchen.

Stewed Artichokes/Anginares Kokkinistes

12 artichokes

3 lemons

4 heads of garlic, preferably fresh, chopped

4 scallions, chopped

1 bunch fresh dill, chopped

1 big bunch fresh mint, chopped

1 cup/240 ml olive oil

salt and cayenne pepper to taste

12 small new potatoes

1 tablespoon tomato paste, diluted in a little water

Clean the artichokes, removing the tough outer leaves and the chokes. If you’re feeling lazy, just slice them in half and cut out the choke. Rub each cleaned artichoke with a lemon half and then soak in lemony water to prevent the surfaces from browning.

Chop the other vegetables and herbs finely and put them in a shallow pan with the olive oil. Sauté them with a little salt and cayenne until soft. Add the artichokes and potatoes to the vegetable mixture and shake to coat with the oil and herbs. (If the artichokes seem tough, cook them separately for about 10 minutes before adding the potatoes.) Pour the diluted tomato paste over the vegetables, adding more water to half-cover. Simmer covered, shaking the pan from time to time so the potatoes won’t stick, until all the vegetables are tender. If you want to thicken the sauce, swirl in a tablespoon of flour mixed with water. 6 servings.