Hubris

Christmas In Athens: An Ancient Greek Remembers

Diana Farr Louis

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

By Diana Farr Louis

The iconic Greek family at their dinner table.
The iconic Greek family at their dinner table.

“These are the reminiscences of my husband Harilaos, known to some of you as ‘Joy of the People.’ a rough translation of his name. As a very youthful octogenarian, he does not live in the past but I make him tell his stories over and over.”Diana Farr Louis

Diana Farr LouisATHENS Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—12/16/2013—Crises bring up memories of other crises, and this country has had more than its share in the past hundred years: world wars, Balkan wars, a civil war, dictatorships, and financial upheavals. But there have also been times of relative calm and prosperity, so let’s look back to the kinder, gentler Athens of the 1930s for a dose of Christmas cheer.

These are the reminiscences of my husband Harilaos, known to some of you as “Joy of the People,” a rough translation of his name. As a very youthful octogenarian, he does not live in the past, but I compel him to tell his stories over and over. So, in his own words . . .

Christmas Preparations

“Before the war—I mean World War II—schools operated on a fixed schedule quite different from today’s. They began the year on October 1st and ended on the 25th of June. There were no strikes, no sit-ins, no holidays, and we didn’t even get Saturdays off. The Christmas vacation did not start until noon on December 24th, and we were sent away with homework so that we would not become lazy. When school opened again on January 7th, we would have to present our notebooks. We also had to read a book by a modern Greek author and write down our thoughts on his plot and style.

“My habit was to do the whole 15 days’ work as soon as I got home so I’d have the rest of the holiday free for seeing friends, going to the movies, and a few parties. I’d shut myself up in my room on Christmas Eve and try to do all the work in one day, two at the most.

“But I never reckoned on the head of the household. Who happened to be my father. His name was Christos. Christmas was his name-day and he took that event very seriously. [In Greece name-days are major social events, much more important than birthdays. People used to open up their houses and prepare banquets for all their friends. And, up until the past few decades, New Year’s was the day for exchanging presents, brought by Ai Vassilis (St Basil, not Santa Claus or St. Nick).]

“Just as I was getting settled, my father would pull me out of my chair to take me Christmas shopping. Not for presents, but for food. Because the next day the house would be full from morning to evening with dozens of friends, relatives, and acquaintances come to wish him “Chronia Polla!”—the standard Greek greeting of “Many Years!”—used on any and all occasions. That naturally meant mezedes, oceans of wine, and kitchen preparations. The evening was reserved for a big sit-down dinner for his business colleagues.

“Wine in our house was a sacred ritual. In the basement, there were three or four—I can’t remember exactly how many—enormous barrels which, every September, were filled with grape must brought from The Mesogeia (where the airport now reigns); first by horse-drawn cart and, by 1935, in an open truck. From then on, my brother Alekos was in charge. He was studying chemistry at Athens University and it was his responsibility to make sure the wine was good. I remember his agony every October 26th, St. Demetrios’s day when traditionally the spigot was inserted and the wine tasted for quality.

“The beginning was always dubious, the first weeks fraught with anxiety because the wine always appeared a bit cloudy. By Christmas, though, things had improved and the crystal-clear wine was invariably pronounced the best ever.

“Here again, my father had another peculiarity. The wine always had to be served one pitcher or bottle at a time. He maintained it would spoil, even though he and his friends would empty them almost as fast as they were served. How the wine could have spoiled in half an hour I never discovered. But I was the one dispatched to the cellar to fill the bottle and, when that was finished, to go fill another. And so forth . . . .

“But, back to the Christmas Eve shopping expedition. Our first stop was the so-called German baker’s on Voulis Street, for bread and rolls. After loading me up with a cloth bagful—plastic hadn’t been invented, yet—my father and I walked over to the Central Market on Athinas Street for vegetables, fruit, and meat.

Lambs hanging in the Athens Central Market; the scene cannot have changed much in the last seven decades. It’s still noisy, gory, chaotic, and exciting.
Lambs hanging in the Athens Central Market; the scene cannot have changed much in the last seven decades. It’s still noisy, gory, chaotic, and exciting.

“Here, things became problematic, because the amounts were so large. But there was a solution, a porter—in the absence of delivery vans—who would carry everything back to the house. These men wore big wicker baskets on their backs, attached by thick straps.

“My father would lead the way, choosing okades—the oka was a Turkish measure a bit larger than the kilo—of vegetables and salad greens, tangerines, oranges, apples, and pears for the porter’s basket. To them, he would add a whole lamb, an enormous turkey, and a piglet. I would bring up the rear with my bag of breads. And, when the shopping was finished, the procession would walk the few blocks home.

“My father gave the porter an extra tip and, if I remember well, settled him in the kitchen for a quick meze and a glass or two of wine in honor of the occasion.

“This was the start of a three-day celebration. On Christmas Eve, we usually sat down to a vast sinagrida (an excellent fish of the bream family) from Salamis. Christmas lunch was a family affair, with my grandmother, parents, my oldest brother and his wife, Alekos, and me. At the same time, all morning, dozens of friends and relatives had dropped in to wish my father “Chronia Polla!” and they’d be greeted with bowls of red caviar, thick slices of avgotaraho, endless platters of more ordinary mezedes such as tiny wrapped vine leaves, keftedes, bite-sized spinach pies . . . and endless bottles of wine.

The Central Market fish section is even more alluring than the meats, belying the doomsday predictions that Mediterranean catches are alarmingly low.
The Central Market fish section is even more alluring than the meats, belying the doomsday predictions that Mediterranean catches are alarmingly low.

“After lunch, the older family members retired for a nap and to recover and I, who was too young to drink, went off to the movies with friends. In those days, there were eight cinemas to choose from; only one was off limits because of its shady reputation.

“Along with all the special festivities at home, there was another invisible group backstage. Some of these kept the show going—the cook and the maid—plus the cook’s husband, who lived with us. Then there was a trio of poor women, who just happened to pass by every day around lunch time. They naturally were fed as a matter of course. Added to them were a dispossessed woman from Constantinople who supposedly taught me English, and a charming, impoverished Greek aristocrat (whom we called Bibikos) from Marseille who taught me French. In other words, six extra plates on the table were routine.

“It was a sign of the times that all of us considered this practice absolutely normal and we viewed it as our unquestionable duty to help less fortunate individuals to survive. We were something like a Municipal Soup Kitchen during the holidays. The difference was that, in our case, it lasted all year long. Little did we suspect that in just a few years we would ourselves be sitting round the table with a meager portion of greens and 30 drams (one slice) of cornbread to nibble on.

“Christmas night, the curtain went up again, this time for my father’s business associates. They used to come for the festive table which, after dinner, was cleared for a game of baccarat. This would go on until 2 or 3 in the morning, and most often it was my father who emerged the loser.

“These unrepeatable Christmases of my youth were brought to an end by the War and the Occupation. After liberation in 1944, our former customs slowly began to revive, but they never regained the spirit or lavishness of the old days. Christmas remained a warm family gathering around the table as gradually all of us married and had children. To the point that, in the 50s, when my father cut the New Year’s Cake [which, like the British Christmas pudding, traditionally has a coin for good luck embedded in it], he had to cut 15 slices instead of the former seven. This was the high point of the meal as we waited to see who would get the coin. Everyone accused my mother of deliberately manipulating the cake to make sure a child won it.

“That too was a time of pure enjoyment and happiness, though of a different sort.”

As a special seasonal gift to my readers, I am including recipes here for two delectable Greek Christmas sweets: the traditional Christmas, or New Year’s Cake, Vassilopitta, and Honey Cookies, Melomakarona. Chronia Polla!

Recipes

Traditional Greek “Vassilopitta.”
Traditional Greek “Vassilopitta.”

“Greek New Year’s Cake/Vassilopitta

The use of olive oil rather than butter in this cake from eastern Crete is unusual here—it is not a fasting recipe—but it does not make the cake taste “oily.” Instead, it has a light, spongy texture and a delicate flavor. Any leftovers will make delicious rusks (just slice and leave in the oven at a very low temperature, turning once until both sides are hard).

600 grams (4 Cups) unsifted flour, approximately

3 teaspoons baking powder

400 grams (2 Cups) sugar

120 ml (½ Cup) olive oil

grated peel of 1 lemon

grated peel of 2 oranges

120 ml (½ Cup) milk

120 ml (½ Cup) orange juice

60 ml (¼ Cup) fresh lemon juice

3 eggs, at room temperature

Preheat the oven to 190°C (375°F)

Sift the flour and baking powder together and set aside. Beat the olive oil and sugar together in a bowl at high speed together with the grated orange and lemon peel for 3-4 minutes. Add the other liquids and beat for another 2 minutes. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well each time. Stir in the sifted flour gradually with a wooden spoon until smooth. You should have a thick batter.

Lightly oil a cake tin, about 25 cm (9.5 inches) in diameter, pour in the batter and bake for about 1 ½ hours until lightly browned.

“Melomakarona.”
“Melomakarona.”

“Akrivi’s Christmas Cookies/Melomakarona”

Every Greek housewife makes melomakarona for Christmas. These, from Akrivi Mouzouraki, proprietress of the Albatross Taverna at Gournes near Iraklion, Crete, are special; she stuffs them with chopped walnuts. It is the syrup that makes them sweet; if your sweet tooth is not as pronounced, you can omit it and still have delicious cookies.

 

For the dough:

about 450 grams (3-4 Cups) all purpose flour

½ teaspoon baking powder

240 ml (1 Cup) olive oil

50 grams (¼ Cup) sugar

½ teaspoon baking soda diluted in

120 ml (½ Cup) fresh orange juice

60 ml (¼ Cup) brandy

grated peel of one lemon

Sift the flour with the baking powder into a bowl. In a larger bowl beat together the olive oil and sugar with the electric mixer for 3 or 4 minutes and then beat in the other liquids adding the grated lemon peel at the end. Slowly stir in the flour until a soft dough forms. Remove the dough from the bowl and knead it on a lightly floured surface until it is smooth and malleable. Add more flour if the dough seems sticky. Cover with Saran Wrap and set aside to rest for about 30 minutes.

Walnut filling:

½ kg (1 lb) walnuts, coarsely chopped

3 heaping Tablespoons honey

1 Tablespoon cinnamon

¼ teaspoon ground cloves

¼ teaspoon grated nutmeg

Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F)

Mix all these ingredients together with your hands or a wooden spoon to distribute the spices evenly. Pinch off a walnut sized piece of dough and roll it into a ball. Make a hole in it with your thumb and fill it with some of the walnut mixture. Close the hole and place the ball, which should look like a small egg, onto an ungreased cookie sheet. When you’ve shaped all the dough into biscuits, bake for about 30 minutes or until golden.

Syrup (optional):

150 grams (¾ Cup) sugar

120 ml (½ Cup) honey

120 ml (½ Cup) water

60 ml (¼ Cup) brandy

Boil these ingredients together for 3 minutes, skimming off the foam. Dip the biscuits in the syrup when it has thoroughly cooled or the next day. Sprinkle finely ground walnuts and roasted sesame seeds on top. Makes about 2-3 dozen, depending on how large you want them.

Prospero's Kitchen

Diana Farr Louis was born in the Big Apple but has lived in the Big Olive (Athens, Greece) far longer than she ever lived in the US. She was a member of the first Radcliffe class to receive a degree (in English) from Harvard . . . and went to Greece right after graduation, where she lost her heart to the people and the landscape. She spent the next year in Paris, where she learned to eat and cook at Cordon Bleu and earned her first $15. for writing—a travel piece for The International Herald Tribune. Ever since, travel and food have been among her favorite occupations and preoccupations. She moved to Greece in 1972, found just the right man, and has since contributed to almost every English-language publication in Athens, particularly The Athens News. That ten-year collaboration resulted in two books, Athens and Beyond, 30 Day Trips and Weekends, and Travels in Northern Greece. Wearing her food hat, by no means a toque, she has written for Greek Gourmet Traveler, The Art of Eating, Sabor, Kathimerini’s Greece Is, and such websites as Elizabeth Boleman-Herring’s www.greecetraveler.com. A regular contributor to www.culinarybackstreets.com, she is the author of two cookbooks, Prospero’s Kitchen, Mediterranean Cooking of the Ionian Islands from Corfu to Kythera (with June Marinos), and Feasting and Fasting in Crete. Most recently she co-edited A Taste of Greece, a collection of recipes, memories, and photographs from well-known personalities united by their love of Greece, in aid of the anti-food waste charity, Boroume. Her latest book, co-authored with Alexia Amvrazi and Diane Shugart, is 111 Places in Athens that you shouldn’t miss. (See Louis’ amazon.com Author Page for links to her her titles.) (Author Photos: Petros Ladas. Author Head Shot Augment: René Laanen.)

9 Comments

  • Elizabeth Boleman-Herring

    Dearest Diana and Harila-eh, Dean and I went to the Athens Bakery here in Teaneck NJ today to pick up our Vassilopitta from George and Ioanna, of Andros, and ran into an entire gaggle of transplanted-to-NJ Andriotes. The place immediately morphed into Kapheneion Ellas, and we sat and talked about Andros, stories of Greece pre-and post-Crisis, etc. I also handed out cards so the “children”–my age–could read your latest column, which I know they will love. Expect new readers Toot Sweet!! I love re-running this particular column. I always re-read it with joy, and await further word(s) from Joy of the People. Much love and Chronia Polla! xoxoxoxoxo Elisavet

  • diana

    I just read this to JotP and wish he would be inspired to write more. Keep nagging — it’s certainly a better occupation than reading the newspaper. Thank you so much for this — I loved the idea of Kafeneion Hellas in a Teaneck bakery. Mats moots.

  • Byron Veras

    Dear Diana and Harilae,
    What a delightful rendering of the good old days. I am a close contemporary to Harilae and enjoyed the detailed recollections. Although I was brought up in Alexandria, our life was very similar to your descriptions in almost all aspects barr the wine barrels. Our wine came ready made from the “Gianaclis” winery built with great patience and love by a greek hero.The vines were planted on strips bordering the fertile banks of the Nile; desert land irrigated by an intricate canal system. The resulting wine was, I was told as a toddler, often very palatable.
    God bless.

  • Maisiehoughton

    Diana,s joy in food, simple and complicated , in life itself, also sometimes sweet, often difficult, is wonderful. I hope she knows MFKFisher who is the same kind of writer.

  • Rebecca Farr

    What a wonderful article! Thank you so much for sharing such an awesome and festive holiday tradition!!
    Happy holidays- Ken and Rebecca Farr, Santa Fe, NM

  • Maria Mackavey

    Diana, dear, what a warm, lively, and endearing narration of Christmases in Athens pre-war. Your description parallels stories of Christmases and New Years past that my parents would share with us. I cherish Harilaos’ and that generation’s experiences that have certainly been diluted since WWII. There was an uncomplicated generosity of spirit present in their lives. My father’s parents were poor and both worked (my grandmother as a seamstress and my grandfather as a fabric salesman) and yet, in addition to their 7 boys and one daughter, they had any number of youngsters (relatives from my grandfather’s village outside of Olympia) staying with them in Athens, sharing the same meals and care as the immediate family. I love your writing and I too encourage you to continue to prod Joy of the People to share his stories. We are such grateful beneficiaries.

  • diana

    Maria, Maisie, Byron, Anissa, Rebecca — your words are true Christmas presents to me and to Harilaos. You remind us of the value of stories and your support means so much and is so encouraging. We both pledge that more will be forthcoming. Thank you and happy holidays.

  • Nicholas Pisaris

    I read Harilaos’ childhood account during the Christmas holidays last Dec. but was recuperating from surgery done in Athens on Dec. 23 and did not comment on this wonderful tale of Christmases past. Although today is Palm Sunday in 2014, I accidentally ran across it again and re-read it. It is so well written that I enjoyed it once more even though it is Spring outside and Holy Week is upon us. Blessings upon you both και πολλά φιλία και αγάπη, Nicholas Pisaris