“Have you ever been in love?”
“Gus, why are you asking me these questions?”
Gus shifts his body so that he is looking into my eyes. “I just wonder if I really know what love feels like. I want to know what it feels like when you are totally overcome with love for another person.”
“What about Callie?” I ask with trepidation. “Don’t you love Callie that way?”
Gus looks away. “Callie is great. I love her, but we’re so different. I wonder sometimes what it would be like to be with someone . . . Greek.” He takes my hand and places it on his chest. “Can you feel the blood pumping through my heart? Can you feel it in your skin if I need something more?”
I leave my hand on Gus’s chest and close my eyes. I try to sense with my body if Gus is “done.” But he isn’t a pan of moussaka, and I can’t tell if he needs more spice, less oil, or time in the oven to brown. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell.” I take my hand and place it on my own heart. “I know that I need something more, though.” Gus nods and puts his arm around me, and we relax against the back of the elevator.
“Aren’t we supposed to be scared right now?” Gus asks.
“I am scared. I’m always scared,” I reply.
“Where’s that butcher knife when you need it, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, what’s for dessert? I want something sweet.”
“Yogurt with honey, walnuts, and pomegranate. And Mrs. Papadakos’s box of See’s chocolates.”
“Hey. Maybe we’ll eat the pomegranate seeds and we’ll be delivered from this underworld,” Gus jokes.
“See, Gus, that’s the problem. We don’t live in mythology or the ancient world. We’re only modern-day Greek Americans trying to survive without all of our legendary tricks. We can eat the pomegranate seeds, but they won’t deliver us from Hades. We’re stuck here.”
“Well, if the old myths don’t work in the new world, then let’s try chocolate. It always makes me feel better.”
“Gus, you sound like a girl,” I slur, not even caring that I sound drunk.
“Does that make you like me better?”
“Yeah, it does,” I say, yawning.
I half-open my eyes when the firemen finally pry the elevator door open, finding Gus and me asleep in a pile, the remains of our feast spread over the burgundy silk lining of Gus’s jacket and the box of chocolates still unopened.
ROAST PORK WITH POTATOES
“We dig in with gusto, licking the garlicky lemon pork juices from our fingers.”
3–4 pound pork loin
3 cloves garlic, sliced
2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil
Juice of two lemons
Salt
Pepper
Oregano
4 large russet potatoes, peeled and cut into eighths
Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
Put the pork loin into a large baking pan. Cut slits into the pork loin and insert the garlic slices into the cuts. Drizzle olive oil and lemon juice over the pork and then sprinkle with salt, pepper, and oregano, covering all surfaces of the roast. Toss the potatoes in a bowl with olive oil, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and oregano until they are well coated. Arrange around the pork loin in the baking pan. Bake for 45 minutes and then turn the potatoes. Bake until the potatoes are tender when pierced with a fork, and have developed a nice crispy exterior. The meat thermometer should read 170 degrees after approximately 90 minutes.
Let the succulent meat rest for 10 minutes before devouring it, so it will be juicy and moist.
The Next Step
Everyone seems to feel a bit rearranged after the adventure at Mrs. Papadakos’s apartment building. I’m in the living room behind the sofa playing a game of peek-a-boo with Manny. I wonder how I find myself spending so much time with this family since Mrs. Horiatis’s arrival. I’d expected to see Callie less, was bracing myself against missing Manny, and anticipated feeling left out and dejected. Instead, I’m being wound tighter and tighter into the family, something I would have normally avoided.
Mrs. Horiatis is sitting on the couch in front of the TV set watching The Greek Hour on public access television. She seems to be largely ignoring the presence of Callie, who is seated on the far cushion of the couch, gamely attempting to watch the program that exemplifies perhaps better than any other means of expression the downfall of our glorious ancient Hellenic past. Callie is sitting casually, but every few minutes or so she readjusts herself or a cushion, or offers Mrs. Horiatis another glass of 7-Up or a cup of coffee until the old woman finally shushes her, pointing to the TV screen.
After ten minutes of fuzzy, outdated music videos from Greece, the host of the program introduces Paul Smith, a man who would provide Greek cooking lessons from his houseboat. He resembles Santa Claus with his rotund stature and full white, bushy beard and ruddy complexion. He speaks with a British accent. Callie interrupts my game of peek-a-boo with Manny to alert me to the upcoming lesson. I poke my head up from behind the couch long enough to assess the skills of the jovial old man. As he fingers a plump eggplant and discusses the gender differences of the fruit, my eyes begin to narrow.
“Did they say whether he’s Greek?” I ask.
“I’m not sure . . .” Callie trails off, concentrating hard on his gesturing hands as he begins to slice the eggplant.
I rise from behind the couch, place Manny in his mother’s lap, and leave the room stomping loudly as the old man points to the seeds inside the firm flesh. Entering the kitchen, I’m surprised to find Gus sitting at the counter drinking his coffee and reading a newspaper.
“Don’t you have to work today?” I ask gruffly.
“I work every day, but right now I’m taking my doctor’s advice and am trying to relax,” Gus replies sarcastically.
I grumble under my breath while reaching for the refrigerator door handle and then slam it closed.
“And no offense, but you’re kind of spoiling the mood here,” Gus adds.
“Do you know what they are showing on The Greek Hour right now?” I demand.
“One of three things: footage of archeological discoveries in Greece, old-ass music videos, or ads for all the Greek businesses in town. Why? Did you see the ad for my real estate firm? It’s a pretty good picture of me, huh?”
“They have some old white hippie with an affected British accent who lives on a houseboat showing how to cook Greek food.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So? Who is watching this program?”
“Oh, come on. You know who watches the program.”
“Right. The only people who watch that show are old Greek ladies looking for some connection to home. What are you drinking?”
“Coffee and Jack. Don’t tell Ma.”
“Don’t you think it’s kind of ironic or insulting that they would put up an old hippie to show our mothers and grandmothers how to make Greek food? What does he know about making Greek food that we don’t know?”
“Yeah. But she’s still sitting there watching, isn’t she? Any taste of the homeland, no matter how moldy or ridiculous, anything with Corinthian columns or the Greek flag.”
“Well not just any taste of the homeland. Callie’s dishes have been perfect, but your mother won’t even try—”
Gus interjects. “Want a sip of my coffee and Jack? It might help you relax.”
“Nothing bothers you, does it?” I accuse, as I eye his steaming cup. “Why don’t you put some whipped cream on that?”
“Cause then it would look like a foofy coffee drink versus a medicinal tonic that is getting me through the days around here surrounded by demanding women.” As if on cue, Mrs. Horiatis calls out, “Constantino! Constantino!”
“Yes, Mana?” he replies and takes another gulp of his coffee and Jack.
“Hurry up! Come here!”
We walk into the living room just in time to catch the last few seconds of an ad for a Greek restaurant in the city. Mrs. Horiatis turns back to look at us
where we are standing behind the couch and smiles enthusiastically.
• • •
“I have an idea!” Mrs. Horiatis had been trying to decide the next steps in her scheme to help Gus and Xeni fall in love. She couldn’t let the love potion go to waste or count completely on magic. She had to capitalize on the good start it’d given her. “Gus, I want you to take us all out for dancing tonight!” she stated, pleased with herself.
“Dancing? What do you mean, Mana?” he asked reluctantly.
“Take us to Mythos tonight. We’ll have dinner and dancing. They have a live band on Saturday nights. All of us.” She squeezed Xeni’s elbow over the back of the couch and winked.
Xeni paused. “Oh, thank you so much, Mrs. Horiatis, but I don’t dance. But that’s a great idea. You’ll have fun.”
“I insist that you come with us, Xeni!” Mrs. Horiatis demanded with a smile.
“I’ll stay here and watch Manny,” Xeni offered. “He’s too young for nightclubs.”
“Don’t be silly. In Greece, children come to nightclubs with parents all the time. We’ll all go.” Mrs. Horiatis countered.
“Well, I guess we could bring Manny with us . . .” Callie offered.
Xeni shifted her weight and tried another tack. “Oh, you are so generous. But I really have nothing to wear. You go have fun without me.”
“I’ll lend you something to wear, Xeni,” Callie offered. “Why don’t we get ready together? I’ll do your hair and makeup. It’ll be fun!”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. But nothing too slutty. Xeni has natural beauty,” Mrs. Horiatis added, with a lift of her eyebrow.
“I don’t know if I’m up for going to Mythos tonight, Mana . . .” Gus attempted to interrupt the women. “I have an open house tomorrow, and I’m still worn out from that elevator thing yesterday.”
Mrs. Horiatis turned toward Gus, staring at him intensely and expanding her chest with breath, her tongue on the roof of her mouth, but before she could expel her response, Gus backed down.
“All right, all right. Whatever you want, Mana. But let’s get a sitter for Manny. I’ll bet the music doesn’t even start until after nine.”
“Okay! You’ll thank me later, Constantino. We’re going to have a beautiful, unforgettable evening, you and Xeni and the rest of us.” Mrs. Horiatis glowed.
Beauty Before Comfort
That Mrs. Horiatis has a way of getting her way all the time. It doesn’t seem to matter that neither Gus nor I want to go to Mythos. Or be together for that matter! Why do Greek mothers always get their way? And at the same time get nothing? They get nothing they want, so they make their children give them everything. They eat us alive.
I am trying to be upright and proper, a good example for Manny, and here I sit in Callie’s bedroom before her dressing table and mirror, staring at the gardenia perfume sitting on the glass top. Trying not to remember the sight of her body sparkling with droplets of water and flower petals. Trying to act as if nothing unusual happened between us. The sheets of her bed are rumpled and stale from her nights sleeping by Gus’s side.
Callie is in the closet picking out clothes for me to wear. She is humming a song low under her breath and has a tiny smile turning her lips upward. She asks me if I want to take a shower before I get dressed. I grab the bottle of gardenia perfume and spray it on the inside of my wrist, my elbow. I smell fine. I smell redolent of thick-petaled flowers, creamy and bursting.
She selects something for me to wear. A lavender blouse with a low draped neckline and no sleeves, and a matching narrow skirt that flares at the knees. I refuse. A black halter dress with no back. Never. Reluctantly, she offers me a dress that she’s worn and hasn’t had time to take to the cleaners. It smells like her, like strawberries and musk and cinnamon. I slip it on over my plain bra and panties behind the closet door. I emerge a different woman. In clinging crimson jersey, I feel like someone else. I sit in the chair before the mirror, one shoulder exposed as she stands behind me and brushes my hair. I can feel each strand of hair tugging against my scalp with every stroke of her brush. The tension between my hair and her hand tightens and slackens, and I find myself breathing in rhythm with the motion of her hand. She abandons the brush and pushes her fingers through my hair, her fingers pressing against my neck, my crown, and resting on my temples. She drags her fingers back through my hair and pulls it up. My neck is weak, and my head follows her direction, lolling from side to side. Finally, she pulls my head back until I’m looking straight up and all I can see is her face, her lips. Her hands hold me steady as she comes closer. Her breath scatters over my skin. Her lashes on my cheek. Her lips grazing my mouth. She sinks to the floor behind me and I stay there head hanging back, lips parted.
Mythos
Gus played with his car keys as they all stood outside of Mythos in the brisk San Francisco night air. Even though he had reluctantly agreed to bring the ladies to the nightclub, there was a part of him that was looking forward to the music, the food, and the ouzo. Gus flashed on his nights at the Grapeleaf and El Monsour and other belly dance spots in the city, and the undulating bodies and delicious food he enjoyed there with his bare hands.
“Ah, we all look very nice!” Mrs. Horiatis exclaimed. She looked each of them up and down, nodding and smiling. “Gus, you look so handsome in that black jacket with your hair combed back. You make your mother proud!”
“Thanks, Ma.” Gus replied, a little embarrassed, but pleased by his mother’s praise. They did all look very nice. Callie looked beautiful in a silver halter top with a long teal skirt. Gus noticed that she was fingering her silver purse and that she almost seemed nervous as she smiled, looking back and forth between Xeni and Gus. Xeni hung back a few feet, in a crimson dress that framed her blushing face and loose hair. Gus realized that Xeni was actually very pretty. As if she could read his thoughts, she abruptly grabbed a rubber band from around her wrist and pulled her hair back into a tight bun, spoiling the effect. Gus turned back to his mother who wore a royal blue dress with a sequined flower brooch at the neckline and sturdy black sandals. “Are you ready to dance?” she said as she twisted her plump body into a feisty little turn.
“Okay, Ma. Let’s go in.” Gus chuckled as he followed his mother inside. She entered the restaurant as if she were royalty, pausing at the door and waiting for the maître d’ to come and do her bidding. He held his breath as she took in the surroundings, the blue and white paint, the mural depicting bouzouki-playing musicians, the hanging plastic grape vines, the Corinthian columns, and the small stage and dance floor.
“Home away from home. Isn’t this nice? Eh, Constantino?” and she sighed a deep breath of satisfaction.
“Yeah, Ma. It’s nice,” he muttered, relieved that she hadn’t found anything to complain about.
Mrs. Horiatis turned to the maître d’ and proclaimed, “A table by the dance floor, please, and a bottle of champagne!” Gus exchanged a look with Xeni behind his mother’s back, half-bemused by her display of grandiosity and half begrudging her excitement at all the Greek kitsch.
“Does this remind you of your childhood?” Gus asked Xeni in a low mumble.
“Yes, except that we had many more pictures of the Parthenon and maps of Greece displayed at our house,” she replied as they shared a snicker. But at the same time Gus understood his mother’s excitement. Though cliché, the symbols of their culture did warm him. Gus sat next to Xeni at the table and enthusiastically mocked and appreciated the decor as they peeked from behind their menus.
Callie sat across from Gus and Xeni, next to Mrs. Horiatis. Gus stopped his joking when he noticed Callie, her silver halter top shimmering in the blue atmosphere like a fish, looking lithe and lost. She had seemed a bit out of sorts lately, though Gus chalked it up to the pressure of constantly trying to please his mother, who seemed to have eyes only for Xeni.
“I wonder what Manny is doing right now,” Callie said as she fingered the blue cloth napkin in her lap. “Probably curled up in
his bed with his favorite stuffed giraffe?” Gus thought that he might have seen a glimmer of tears in Callie’s eyes, but lost his train of thought as his mother suddenly exclaimed, “Skordalia!”
“Mana, skordalia is pure garlic,” Gus protested.
“I know, I know! It’s so delicious. I can’t wait to eat it.” Mrs. Horiatis scanned the menu for other favorites. “What do you want to try, Xeni, honey?”
Xeni looked out from behind her menu. “I think I’d like to start with the ochtapodi xidato, saganaki, and a plate of the fried smelt. And for dinner the grilled baby lamb chops. And a salad of course.”
Gus whistled. “You don’t mess around.”
“What are the first three dishes you mentioned?” Callie asked.
“The first is a cold appetizer of vinaigrette-marinated octopus. Saganaki is a special cheese that is grilled then flambéed with brandy. The smelt is a small silver fish that you can eat whole; even the bones are tender,” Xeni replied from behind her menu.
“I’m going to order the stuffed peppers and a few appetizers that we can share,” Mrs. Horiatis announced.
“I’m gonna order the New York steak. And some ouzo,” Gus sighed and rubbed his stomach. “How about you, Callie?”
Callie looked at each at them and then back down at the menu. “I think I’ll order the pastitsio. I worked so hard to learn to make the béchamel sauce. Do you remember that afternoon, Xeni? I love all the alternating layers of pasta and meat spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg.”
Xeni looked up at Callie. “That sounds good, Callie. Nice choice.”
“I’m sure it’s not as good as yours . . .” Callie murmured.
“Oh, I don’t know, tried one pastitsio, tried them all. Try something different,” Gus interjected as he tore into the basket of bread sitting on the le. Seeing the women turn their heads sharply towards him, he backpedaled. “Oh calm down. I’m just kidding.”
The Feasting Virgin Page 17