“My Big Fat Cretan Easter”

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

by Diana Farr Louis

ATHENS, Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—4/19/10—The invitation to spend Easter with our nephew in Crete came right after Christmas. Precisely when most Greeks start planning for their favorite holiday. Every corner of the country has its own versions of the beloved rituals, but I was sure Easter there would be in a class of its own. Crete is to the Greek islands what Texas is to the rest of the lower 48—bigger, wilder and, occasionally, outrageous.

I knew the food would be superb. For although K., our nephew, is from Athens not Heraklio, and a scientist, he cooks better than many a Cretan hausfrau. His German wife, A., is the first to admit that she’s useless in the kitchen. So, in a most un-Greek and certainly un-Cretan fashion, the man of the house was in charge.

And he’d been slaving over a hot stove well before we arrived. Not only had K. planned menus for eleven people for five days, he had made two versions of many dishes, with and without garlic—catering to two relatives who can’t abide the tasty bulb.

All our meals leading up to Easter were meatless, eggless and milkless. They should have been cheeseless, too, but we’re not quite pious enough to do without. During Holy Week, even the most obstinate carnivores are shamed into fasting. In the old days (like the 1970’s), you wouldn’t find a taverna anywhere in Greece that served meat during Lent, never mind in Big Week or “Megali Evdomada.” And in Crete, the “birthplace” of the Mediterranean Diet, many inland tavernes simply close. Ironically, it’s as if a meatless meal is not worth serving.

So, K. had cooked and cooked. He started with 4 kilos (9 pounds!) of wild Cretan greens (horta). Some of them went into a crustless pie the night we arrived; the rest were just boiled and served with his own oil and his own lemon juice. Greeks love horta—it’s one of the few things we’re passionate about that is actually good for us—but greens in Crete are somehow more delectable than they are anywhere else. On Wednesday, they accompanied a tabbouleh with cherry tomatoes; on Thursday they sat next to a to-die-for cuttlefish stew. Something K. had tossed together: “I only add onions, oil, tomatoes, red wine and dill. And usually garlic.”

On Good Friday, it’s the custom in Heraklio to snack on grilled octopus. Sadly, apart from a smattering of Venetian forts and late 19^th-century buildings, the city is an unsightly hodgepodge of cheap modern construction. But when there’s a makeshift barbeque on every corner and the sweet reek of charring tentacles hangs in the air, aesthetic niceties lose importance. And when you’re savoring chewy flesh with a shot or two of raki (Crete’s version of “White Lightning”), Heraklio’s flaws vanish altogether.

Those bites were merely a prelude to lunch. Tradition dictates lentils on Good Friday, but K. recoiled at boiling lentil soup without a head of garlic. So we had to put up with smoked salmon and boiled shrimp (no mayonnaise, of course), the last of the luscious horta, and a salad of raw (garlicky) greens. We would not eat again that day.

Heraklio was empty when we returned at 9 p.m. to watch the epitaphios processions. K. and A. had no competition for the bench on their usual corner, where we would be able to watch three congregations pass by, each following a bier of Christ, decorated with white flowers. A new, cloying aroma wafted over the street—like bad air freshener or a department store’s “scent of the day.” We watched amazed as a lone woman tipped gallons of rose water onto the asphalt.

At last, at around 10, the first procession emerged from church and  . . . turned in the other direction. The second did pass us, with a choir singing lustily and off-key, followed by the third congregation with a drum-thumping marching band, more suited to the Fourth of July than Good Friday. A loudspeaker crackled ominously and some of us slunk away. It is never as moving as I hope it will be.

On Saturday evening, bending tradition again, we dined before we went to church. The rule is to “break your fast” with a velvety egg-lemon soup made of lamb’s innards after the Resurrection service. But our older members had no intention of waiting up till after midnight. K.’s sublime mageiritsa, so lemony and light, tasted even better for being sinful.

Round 11 p.m., we set out for Kalesa, the nearby hamlet chosen for its typically Cretan mass. Outside the church, just big enough to hold 20 to 30 people, lay a large pile of twigs and branches. On top of them sprawled a scarecrow, an effigy of Judas, hanging from a collapsed scaffold. As we approached the courtyard, A. hustled us as far from the woodpile as possible. Seconds later, an explosion ruptured the calm. Normally, the firecrackers don’t start till the priest has declared “Christos Anesti, Christ is Risen” at the stroke of midnight.

This was no firecracker. It was a round black ball with a fuse, like something from a comic strip, and it set off a chain reaction. The firecrackers buried among the twigs began sputtering, flames licked at the branches and then rose ten feet into the air. It wasn’t even 11:30, but the priest obviously decided to speed things up. He rushed out of the church, followed by his meager congregation, circled the church three times with indecorous speed and scurried back inside. Meanwhile, the bangs, booms, hisses and crashes accelerated and were joined by ratatat-tats. From an automatic pistol or two! It seemed as if the young men engineering all the noise had declared war on the liturgy. And perhaps on the Prince of Peace.

Sleep did not come easy that night. Spasms of gunfire, rockets and fireworks continued until 2 a.m., and left our dog quivering under the bed. By lunchtime though, our appetites were well ignited and we tucked into the best lamb ever (Isn’t it always? Just like the Thanksgiving turkey).

Except this time, it came out of wood-stoked outdoor oven, not off the spit—in two versions: garlic-studded and not. So succulent, tender and tasty were both we may never grease our spit again. As for the potatoes, they were faultless.

In the end, the fattest things about our Cretan Easter may well have been ourselves. Filled to bursting on our nephew’s fabulous fare. And enough local color to last till next year.