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Guest contributor: Hampton Watkins
In the Summer of 2003, freshly graduated from high school and thrown abruptly into the real world, a few of my friends and I decided to take a trip to Greece. Not only did this trip include island hopping from well-known destinations such as Athens, Crete, and Patmos, our journey also consisted of everything we were not allowed to do in the states. We were young, we were innocent, we were foolish, and above all, we were ignorant. Five 18-year-old males: testosterone coursing through our bodies; all of us thirsting for something new and never expecting to find a hunger for a culinary expedition. Our adventure begins.
After almost a week of binge drinking, partying, staying up until wee hours of the morning, and a tiny bit of sightseeing, we were exhausted. Before our final voyage back to port in Athens, one island remained: Mykonos. Well known for the views, robin’s egg blue colored steeples crested upon whitewashed churches, and breathtaking sunsets, Mykonos is one of the most sought-out islands of all of Greece. We step off of the cruise ship hung-over, donning sunglasses covering our bloodshot eyes, and a bit queasy from our breakfast of chalky bismuth liquid and antacid tablets.
Seven hours later, we’re tired, sweaty, and above all, hungry. Numerous restaurants lined the cobble-stoned street of the island as we gazed at menus that contained not letters but symbols that look as though you’re staring at an alien language. We had no idea what we were up against and worst of all, we lost our tour guide (who was also doubling as our translator). Two more blocks of intrigued meandering we stumble into what I would call a large plaza. About three or four restaurants containing plastic tables and chairs line a semi-circle stone wall that looks out onto the Mediterranean.
Wanting to go no further, we sit down at a table close to the stonewall looking over a long pier with a child that couldn’t have been more than twelve on the very end of the rickety wooden dock. Supposedly, Mykonos was famous for the sunsets and being about that time for the sun to be setting we agreed to stay and eat. Immediately after our decision a young girl brings us water and speaks rapidly in Greek. Noticing the astounded look on our faces, she smiles slightly and returns in a few minutes with a stocky, greasy, hairy, English speaking (thank God) man that claims to be the chef. He explains some of the Greek specialties to us and we finally stop him with the simple word “Calamari”. Calamari is what we will have: crispy, breaded rings of succulent frozen squid served with a classic marinara sauce and a lemon wedge is what we were expecting. “Calamari it is!” he exclaims in great fervor.
After downing a few glasses of water, we notice our “chef” has joined the young boy on the pier. After a few minutes of hand waving-laden conversation, the two begin hefting a rope attached to a large metal cage containing a large white object still dripping with seawater. Unbeknownst to us at the time, this was the beginning of our meal.
After watching the chef and young boy tote the cage to the end of the pier closest to the restaurant, another young boy runs out of the back of the restaurant with a large wooden plank and lays the soon-to-be cutting board beside a large grill. The chef retrieves a knife from inside and proceeds to clean this sea creature on the wooden plank, not 15 yards from us. After a gruesome show of hacking and chopping, the chef throws the white mass on the grill. While our meal is sizzling, the chef throws fresh parsley, lemon, and white wine over the grill in a magnificent display of flame and blaze.
Five, maybe six minutes later we’re staring at a creature from the likes of the Discovery Channel that has somehow ended up on our table. The chef smiles, tells us to enjoy, and quickly retreats back to the depths of what we can only imagine to be the kitchen. We look from the plate to each other. This is not the calamari we were used to.
After quick debate we all decide to try a bite at once. Everyone grabbed their knife and fork, cut a piece off, and held the squid close to their mouth. “Here goes nothing”. All of our worried faces looked up at each other and immediately turned to surprise. No one said another word until after we all went in for another bite. The flavor was amazing, to say the least: four ingredients playing in perfect harmony and dancing gaily on our palates. The freshness of the Mediterranean infused in the tender flesh of the squid, the brightness of the lemon, the mild, peppery flavor of the parsley, and the juiciness of the wine: heaven.
The chef appears after our meal beaming and simply says, “Calamari” and walks back to the kitchen. We have no idea how to react. The feeling we experienced after that meal was like none other. Euphoria of neurons racing through parts of our brain that we didn’t even know existed. We have been opened up to a whole new world.
I still keep in touch with my friends from that journey to the Greek islands even though we all eventually attended schools in different states. We talk about the drinks we had, the girls we met, the parties we attended, and especially, the meals we ate.
It is my belief that that one faithful meal, no matter how simple or humble, on the shore of Mykonos while the sun was setting behind us brought me to where I am today. Now I appreciate food. I savor food. I cook food as though it is the only thing I have ever been destined to do. I love food.
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