The Grossest Restaurant Dining Scene Ever
Adeline loves food, a lot of it and often, both at home and out. Usually that goes well, but sometimes it doesn’t. This week she writes about that one time in a Greek taverna when she almost lost her appetite forever.
Now that we’re all polished up and taking our seats at tables to devour roasts, I suddenly had to think of the grossest dining scene ever. So filthy that I might even get a small, sour belch from it myself again. Read at your own risk.
And what I saw there…
You should know that I’m a Greece repeat offender. I try to sit down at a Greek table at least once every summer. To feast on pasticcio (the Greek answer to lasagna), eat grilled aubergines with butter-soft skordalia (which makes you recoil when you experience the potato-to-garlic ratio) and preferably enjoy a salad a day with one of those hefty slabs of feta and those juicy tomatoes (submerged in a little puddle of herby olive oil). I can pretend I go for the rich history, but then I’d be lying through my teeth and doing the rest a real disservice. I love the Greeks, I love the climate, and I’d kill for Greek food. But one time I ate in a taverna, and what I saw there took away my entire appetite.
It doesn’t get more Greek
We like eating on Greek time, because that means you can easily eat out twice a day. You just have to plan your mealtimes wisely. So it was around ten o’clock at night when we sat down at Cavos, a taverna we visit often and love. With those tiny shitty chairs, an overhanging tree, checked paper tablecloths and an army of stray cats. It doesn’t get more Greek, I love it. Owner Minas joined us at the table while we were eating to chat, because it was the tail end of the season and things were quieter in his establishment. Greek wine on the table. A few grilled aubergines. A little pita to scoop up the leftover saganaki with. So far, so good. It was a pleasant twenty-something degrees and we were happy and content. Until another holidaymaker came in for a late bite.
A little embarrassing
For illustration: it was one of our neighbours from across the canal, who had clearly not forgotten to drink that day and had enjoyed baking and roasting himself in the sun. He slalomed and wobbled his way to a table in the middle of the taverna, ordered some of this and that (as far as he still could), plus another half-litre of lager to accompany it, because on holiday you naturally need something wet and something dry. The poor man nodded off a bit (nodding with his mouth open) until his food arrived. Up to that point, it could happen to anyone. It was a little embarrassing, sure, but hey, we were the only ones left and he was on holiday too.
I don’t know exactly what the man ordered, but I do remember that he took a few hearty bites and then proceeded to dump everything back onto the table in steady, rhythmic waves. He puked his plate completely full again, right up to the rim. The sight nearly made me throw up too. At this point I still felt sorry for the man, because God, how embarrassing, and I was mainly glad he hadn’t brought any company, because imagine it happening to you, and his now fairly liquid dinner splashing over the edge of your plate. How disgusting.
Started spooning it empty
But when he then started enthusiastically spooning his freshly vomit-filled plate empty, I genuinely threw up a little medium-light inside myself. Owner Minas was so taken aback that he checked whether the man was all right. But the man waved him away and said it tasted excellent. I believe this was the only day in his life when he seriously considered closing his taverna. In the spirit of getting your money’s worth, the scene continued repeating itself for about fifteen minutes. Eating, a small bout of vomiting, eating again, throwing up some more, a few bites and then he vomited the whole lot back up again. By then there was nothing left that could be traced back to the dish’s original form. No matter how hard the poor man tried to wash his meal down, it just wouldn’t work. He gave up, paid and staggered away into the dark street along the beach.
The story keeps coming back to me, just like the food kept coming back to the drunk (read: completely shitfaced) man. I wish you plenty of roast, no sour belches, and above all, take it easy on the wine. Oh, and we still visit Minas and his Cavos, a tip if you’re spending a week in the sun on Rhodes.
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