“Perfection”

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

by Diana Farr Louis

ATHENS, Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—4/5/10—Ever since I posted my last column, I’ve been thinking about the Richard Olney quote near its conclusion: “Food and wine must be an essential aspect of the whole life, in which the sensuous—sensual—spiritual elements are so intimately interwoven that the incomplete exploitation of any one can only result in imperfection.”

But wait. Is there a recipe for the perfect meal, never mind the perfect life? A formula for interweaving those three elements equally? And what does “incomplete exploitation” really mean? It sounds almost threatening. Exploitation, even partial, suggests a master/slave relationship, something manipulative, not always to the benefit of the person or thing being “used.” It also sounds dire. Conjuring up visions of lumps in the bechamel or not enough gelatine in the mousse, or perhaps a stain on the tablecloth. As for “complete” exploitation, does that imply a scary attention to detail, absolute precision? In striving for perfection, do we measure ingredients with an eye dropper or with a coffee spoon? Or can we afford to be spontaneous, adding a pinch or a handful of some spice we hadn’t thought of before?

Put this way, that perfect meal appears unattainable, dependent on too many variables, any one of which might be disrupted by the flutter of a butterfly’s wing on the other side of the ocean.

Perhaps this is why my own perfect meals have never been ten-course lunches with exotic ingredients and wines to match.

Instead, when I summon up remembrance of meals past, those that remain the most indelible are the simplest. And they involved an improbable concatenation of events that truly did combine the sensuous, sensual and spiritual, with a minimum of exploitation.

One in particular separates itself from the rest. My life’s companion, whose name translates as “Joy of the People,” and I were sailing with dear friends in the Cyclades. It’s the late 1970’s and we have just anchored in the port of Naxos. The usual August meltemi wind has ceased buffeting us and, although the harbor is rather exposed, our captain, E, has decided we can risk leaving the boat for a few hours and explore the hinterland. Being an excellent and meticulous map reader, he has also picked out a path that will take us near Venetian mansions scattered about the Naxos countryside.

We board a bus that takes us out of town and into the parched hills. Greece is at its driest now, its most khaki-colored drab, and when we start to walk, the prickly pears offer little shade. We are neither English nor mad dogs, but here we are out in the noonday sun. Still we are young and toughened after a few weeks bouncing round the Aegean.

So we think nothing of a few hours’ slogging uphill with an occasional stark gray tower as our reward. We probably do give a moment’s consideration to Venetian Crusaders who ruled the islands from their ramparts between the 13^th and 16^th centuries. The Duchy of Naxos has a nice feudal ring to it.

But, after a while, architectural pleasures wane as rumbling stomachs crescendo. There were no plastic water bottles in those days and we have forgotten to bring a canteen. We trudge on, getting hotter and hungrier, experiencing that “now, what?” feeling. Do we turn around and head back to the port, hoping to hitch a ride? Or press on? Inner Naxos is the domain of farmers, who eat at home; not foolish tourists who should have brought a picnic.

So, picture our relief when, reaching the edge of a village, we see a white wall splashed with brilliant vermilion bougainvillea. And, under it, an open door that invites us to enter. We step into a cool and shade-dappled patio, set with tables and chairs and rimmed with potted geraniums and basil. A man comes out of a dark kitchen to greet us. “Have you anything to nibble?” we ask (tipota na tsimbisoume?)

The proprietor is apologetic. “Very little, but I’ll see what I can do.”

He sits us down and immediately returns with a pitcher of water and four glasses. Greeks are as proud of their water as Scots. In a café, they will give you a glass of water as a chaser for your club soda. We gulp it down and pause to reflect on our luck. The place is beautiful, an oasis, a paradise . . . clichés tumble from our newly wetted lips.

Lunch is slow in coming. But our worries have evaporated. And as they depart, our senses awaken. So that when it does appear, it has our full attention. First comes the salad, a plain white bowl brimming with thick-sliced tomatoes and slivered onions. Never have tomatoes glowed so red, tasted so tomatoey. The crunchy onions are sweet foil for their acidity. And both are coated with a fruity olive oil that could have been drunk on its own.

That is not all. We each receive a plate with two impeccable fried eggs, their yolks as orange as pumpkins. And then a platter of long, thin, crisp fried potatoes. We have yet to learn that Naxos is famous for its spuds. On future trips “Joy of the People” and I will often place two orders: one with the main course; one for dessert. They’re the best we’ve ever eaten anywhere.

Country bread is there, of course, to mop up every drop of oil and egg yolk. But we still need something to drink. The taverna has no wine, not even bad retsina. And no beer, which would have slid down nicely after our walk. Instead, we are given kitro, a liqueur made only on Naxos, from the rind of the citron, which looks like a lemon on steroids.

And do you know what? It was wonderful. We, who would never think of drinking a liqueur until after dinner or possibly before, quaff this clear, not too sweet, chilled nectar with as much appreciation as if it were vintage Pouilly Fuisse.

On that afternoon, we reached a nirvana of sorts. The freshness of the ingredients, the simplicity of their preparation, the kindness of the taverna owner (and his skill in the kitchen), the charm of the surroundings, our physical exertions, our friendship and happiness at finding this spot . . . were all woven together—without any exploitation that I can remember—into sheer perfection. Call it the perfection of the unexpected.