Page 56 of All You Need is Greece

‘I love it. I have always loved dogs, but living in a first-floor apartment, it wasn’t really possible to keep one.’

We finish our drinks, and head down a side street, before arriving at a restaurant with a dark-brown wooden door, set in a stone archway. Small windows with metal grids are set into the thick, sandstone walls, giving it an almost medieval feel. A metal sign bearing the name Apollo Taverna hangs outside, reminding me of an old inn.

Marco pushes open the heavy door, and at once the smell of garlic hits my nostrils. Inside, the thick stone-walled room has dark beams, and wooden tables set with red tablecloths and chunky cream candles at the centre. It’s cosy inside, and buzzing with atmosphere, as chatter rings from every table that is full of diners.

‘These smells are almost as good as a little Italian restaurant I know back home,’ says Marco, once we have been shown to our seats and he orders a bottle of red wine and some water.

‘What do you recommend, now that you have had a chance to sample some Greek food?’ he asks as he peruses the menu.

‘I don’t think you can beat a good moussaka, although I know you like beef. So perhaps a beef stifado? Then again, the mixed mezes look good,’ I say, glancing at the menu. ‘I don’t know, really I love all of the food, and it certainly smells good here.’

‘I like the sound of the beef stifado,’ he says, snapping his menu shut and pouring us each a glass of red wine that a waiter has just set down on the table. I opt for a baked chicken dish with aubergines and a béchamel sauce that sounds like a twist on a moussaka.

‘How’s the restaurant back home?’ I ask Marco as another waiter arrives with a basket of bread.

‘Good. Busy, as always. I worry my parents are working too hard, though, as they are both approaching retirement age.’ He picks up a piece of warm crusty bread and butters it.

‘I’m surprised you were allowed the time off,’ I remark.

‘It has been a long time since I took a break, and the other staff are more than capable without me, as long as good food is coming out of the kitchen.’

Marco works front of house in the busy high street restaurant in the town, which is often the venue for people’s celebrations and milestones. He is also a trained sommelier. His mother and father prepare the food in the kitchen, along with an apprentice, with one or two locals working as waiting staff with Marco.

‘Do you think you could find a good chef to maybe take the reins in the kitchen from time to time?’ I ask, as I take a sip of my delicious wine. Marco has a sister who works as a nurse and has no interest in being involved in the restaurant business.

‘Not while my parents still have breath in their body, you know what they are like. It helps that they have an apprentice from a local catering college, though, as he is a talented young chef. I am sure he will learn a lot from my parents.’

Our food arrives then, and Marco makes appreciative noises as he devours his tasty-looking beef stifado, presented in a glazed terracotta pot, as is my chicken dish. When he finally pushes his plate back, and dabs at his mouth with a napkin, he is nodding and smiling.

‘That was fantastic. I’m stuffed,’ he says, taking a sip of water.

‘Mine was gorgeous too.’

I made short work of the chicken and aubergine dish, rich with herbs and a delicious tomato sauce with a hint of cinnamon.

‘It’s a shame, as I was looking forward to a dessert. I think I spied some sort of custard pie on the dessert menu.’

‘You could have some ice cream. Or maybe a coffee?’ I suggest.

‘You suggest ice cream in Greece to an Italian?’ He grins. ‘Surely nothing can beat a gelato.’

Marco has told me many times of his first trip to Italy, when he sampled every flavour of gelato known to man and almost made himself sick.

‘Perhaps I will just have a shot of ouzo to finish off. Would you like one?’

‘No, thanks, I’m not really a fan,’ I confess, or more accurately I have been unable to touch the stuff since the evening in Malia.

We are debating our choices, when a waiter appears and places a small piece of baklava down in front of us, topped with crumbled pistachio.

‘Compliments of the house,’ he says, and it’s a perfect size to round off the meal just nicely. Marco orders a Greek coffee then, and I finish off with a cappuccino.

‘What a great choice of restaurant,’ I say, when we head outside into the now dark cobbled street, a street lamp leading the way as we walk. There’s an alleyway that leads towards the harbour, and suddenly Marco takes me by the hand, and pulls me into it.

‘I’ve been dying to do this all evening,’ he says, as he presses his lips against mine, and I lose myself in his kiss. The sound of a group of people heading our way has us pull apart and walk on, holding hands. As I look up at his handsome face, I think I feel happier than I have in a long time.

THIRTY

‘So where to now?’

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