Hey boys and girls, I've got a fun idea. Let's make a list of stuff to do in Cyprus. Yaayyy.
1. Slow roast your flesh on the beach.
2. Go scuba diving and watch hot chicks swim overhead.
3. Make lists of stuff to do in Cyprus.
4. Bitch continuously about the lack of stuff to do in Cyprus.
5. Eat a meze thus rendering numbers one and two on this list impossible for fear of harpooning by the Japanese.
Yep, nothing screams "you fat bastard" like a Greek meze, I've never seen so much dead stuff in one place apart from that time I thought cleaning the slaughter room at an abattoir was a viable career path. The unit of quantity "fuck load" was specifically created in order to describe the sheer amount of food delivered to your table during this culinary marathon, it's enough to make your digestive system want to curl up in the foetal position and weep.
When the Cypriots eat a meze they take hours. They drink, talk, eat, drink some more. The focus isn't really on the food, the food, which is merely incidental to the conversation, is delivered to the table on plates to be shared by everyone, σιγά-σιγά (siga-siga), slowly slowly which is pretty much the national motto except when they're driving in which case the motto is Drive As Fast As Possible With Your Main Beams On Whilst Texting.
In contrast, if you hand a Brit a plate of food it's like someone fired a fucking starting pistol. All conversation stops as everyone focuses on the meal in front of them, head down, shovelling fork fulls into their mouths, snarling at anyone who gets too close to their plate. Chewing is optional. No, the British don't like to share food, we don't see a meze as a tasty spread to be picked over whilst enjoying the company of friends and family. Nope. We see the 18 or so appetiser sized dishes listed on the menu and in our heads it's simply, "Challenge accepted."
Allow me to explain the death by meat product that is the μεζέ. Vegetarians, look away now.
It starts off easily enough with salad, breads and dips and olives. You sip your Keo or your glass of cheap Cypriot plonk, maybe sample an ούζο (ouzo) if you fancied scaring the fuck out of your taste buds, or if you were considering melting your liver that day you may give the zιβανία (zivania) a go.
Ah, zivania. The older Cypriots like to buy a small bottle of this devil's bile in the bars and share it, sipping it slowly from shot glasses and again, this is where we differ as a culture. Be honest, if someone hands you a liquid in a shot glass, approximately how long does it last? It's a perfect mouthful sized vessel, who in hell sips slowly from a mouthful sized vessel? So yeah, my first encounter with zivania resulted in some interesting facial contortions from me and laughter from the kindly Cypriot gentlemen that had given it to me. To be fair they'd tried to warn me as I shot the whole damn thing back in one but really, I'm a backpacker, I haven't met an alcohol yet that can't be skulled in a drinking game.
And I digress. Of course I digress. I always fucking digress. I seriously need to sign up for some kind of digression support group... Aaaand again...
So anyway. Things are going well at this stage, you're conscious of the fact you shouldn't fill up on bread which is kinda hard when the dips are so fucking awesome and you have a minor addiction to olives, especially when they're sat in some kind of incredible liquid which could only have been conjured from love and magic.
After consuming your body weight in hummus, tahini, τζατζίκι (tzatziki), ταραμοσαλάτα (taramosalata) and various other paste things, the dead stuff starts arriving. Maybe it'll be a slice of ham with grilled χαλούμι (halloumi), the awesome cheese that squeaks against your teeth when you eat it and kinda makes your brain itch... or maybe that's just me... whatever.
Perhaps you'll get meatballs, or them mean little things that look like alien eggs. Σεφταλιά (sheftalia), they're called and as soon as you get your head around the fact that nothing's going to jump out of them and impregnate you with its spawn then... what...? Seriously? Just me again? Dude...
But conversation is flowing and animated and centred around just how fabulous and flavoursome the food is.
Aaall good. You're enjoying the variety of flavours, the company is fantastic, the alcohol compliments the cheerful mood. The chops arrive, along with σουβλάκι (souvlaki) which is lumps of some kind of substance that used to have a face impaled on skewers, and for some reason they deliver a plate of chips to the table which you glare at and will yourself not to pick at.
You're slowing down at this point but isn't that the whole thing with a meze? Siga-siga, slowly slowly. It'll be fine, you'll just start taking smaller bites, nibbling instead of throwing stuff down your neck as if you were raised by wolves, chewing every mouthful properly. You're determined to see this through. You try and sneak some of your share onto a friend's plate and hope they won't notice.
More courses arrive. Holy fuck, this meal just doesn't give in! You start to sweat. Your stomach doesn't understand what's going on and is quite frankly fed up of your abuse. You ignore its complaints because screw you stomach, digestion is overrated anyway. All conversation has ceased as everyone picks forlornly at the piles of food still to be eaten, then the waiter asks you
if you'd like the final courses now or if you'd like a break. Bless him for noticing the broken stares of the British. Pleading for mercy, you undo the top button on your trousers and your fat makes itself at home on your lap. The atmosphere is tinged with relief, knowing that whatever comes out next will be the last of the torture... I mean, meze. Not long to go. It's nearly over.
Apparently you have half of Cyprus' livestock stuck in your teeth so you use this period of grace wisely by attempting to remove it with toothpicks. You've barely finished banishing that last bit of bovine from between your molars when the waiter brings out the final three dishes. He does tell you what they are but the only one you recognise is beef stifado and in all honesty you couldn't give a flying fuck what the rest of it is because it just looks like mountains of doom. You skewer a piece of stifado with your fork and put it in your mouth. You chew, chew, chew... chew... chew... oh fuck it. You've lost the ability to swallow. You coax your throat open which has gone on strike in a bid to protect your intestines from exploding, you force the mouthful down and contemplate the last two dishes to be sampled. Go on... only two more... you don't have to eat it all, just a taste... go on... its only wafer thin...
No. Bollocks to it. That's it, it's all over. You throw your hands up and admit defeat. You mop up your sweat and tears with your white napkin, a symbol of your inferiority to food products that used to have a soul. You waddle out to your car, remembering to save whatever scrap of dignity you have left by sucking in your gut and rebuttoning your trousers. Next time, you promise yourself. Next time, it will not win. You turn to shake your fist at the restaurant one last time, but for all your bravado and promises of revenge there's no escaping one simple fact.
Meze 1, Claire 0.
The British Vs The Meze
Saturday, August 06, 2011
Πρωταράς, Famagusta, Cyprus
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