(previously published in German language in FAZ newspaper)

Every tavern, every real tavern, is at the end of the world. At the end of the day, the tavern is the last thing left, afterwards awaits is only your bed. All roads, even the ornamental ones, ultimately lead to your taverna. Those who go there in order to solely eat have not understood the tavern, those who leave and do not know the landlady’s name have not been her guests. If you don’t have a tavern yet, you’re still on your way.

My own personal taverna is situated in Mikro Kazaviti, a mountain village on the island of Thasos – the northernmost of all Greek islands. It is without doubt the most beautiful taverna in the world because you can see the mainland mountains and the sunset from the veranda. And it is my taverna because I travelled repeatedly to Thasos in late spring to tend a vineyard in Kazaviti – in other words, to take over the growing season from leaf removal to stapling and topping. I lived in the middle of the village, in the winegrower’s cottage, which used to be the cottage of Stamatia’s mother. Stamatia runs the village taverna, her husband Janni herds the goats.

They both left the island at young age, earned sufficient money in Switzerland to return three decades later and build a taverna on the hillside: the kitchen, fireplace room, veranda and restaurant upstairs, their apartment downstairs. Janni took over Stamatia’s father’s herd of goats. Together they cultivate several glorious vegetable gardens, sources of constant abundance – including the one at the mother’s house, which has been rented out to the winegrower along with the apothiki, and is used to store equipment.

The village square is deserted, even the fountain no longer springs, the old village school has long since been demolished and the church is only busy when it is the saint’s name day. Twice a summer the theater is overflowing with dance groups and spectators, otherwise it lies unnoticed in the bend of the road. Mikro Kazaviti’s declared and only center is the tavern. An army of brightly colored cats surrounds it, sitting on the windowsills, steps and wall ledges, confident and certain that something will reliably drop where fresh food is cooked every day. Stamatia and Janni’s marriage has remained childless, which may be why they look after the cat army so consistently. Although Janni sometimes grumbles about the costs and is concerned about the guests, he himself secretly feeds half a dozen at the goat pens. Stamatia also buys cat food and has her two or three favourite ones vaccinated. She sternly told someone from the neighboring village who wanted to have his leftovers packed up to feed them at home: “We also have cats in Kazaviti!”

Altes Fischerboot, Thassos

From the very beginning, Stamatia taught me to get my own beer. I was at homier the tavern, and would I let my own mother serve me? So I have to make my way through the kitchen to the pantry where the fridges are. On the way, Stamatia might lift the lid off a pot and let me guess the spices.

A traditional tavern is characterized by permeability, the boundaries are not clearly drawn and sometimes even abolished. You pop into the tavern as you would visit your family, see who’s there, sit down or watch other people, strangers. The rest is up to you, including whether you eat something and what exactly. On the contrary, looking at the menu only narrows down the options: “Jörg, do you want something to eat? Warm bean salad perhaps… some grilled bread with it? …and meat, you’re getting meat. A knuckle of pork with baked potatoes!”

Marina helps Stamatia in the kitchen and with serving. They both start at lunchtime to process the market purchases, fill zucchini flowers, cook goat meat in the oven or prepare bifteki. I’m never allowed to help, just taste: “So, is that good? More salt?”

The only time I’m allowed to step in is in the evening when it suddenly gets crowded and the pressure is too much. Sometimes I have to translate, explain in English what’s available and what’s not. For example, there is no fresh orange juice here in the mountain village. And the pancakes that a couple from the big city ask for for their offspring are not available either. It seems to me that some of the people who spill up from the beaches into the mountain villages don’t understand the concept of a taverna. But maybe it’s the other way around and the taverna is simply no longer up to date.

Selbstversorgung

Stamatia cooks a bean soup with a flavor profile that has as many layers as an ancient archaeological site. Janni says: “We always ate like this, …every day in winter!” Stamatia’s tavern is rooted in the past, in her youth, when she lived with the nuns in the village, learning recipes and procedures. It is based on a form of activity that will soon be no more. It thrives on the fact that a lot of time is taken up with the rhythms, the seasons and the changing of the crops until something is put on the table. This is just as true in the garden and kitchen as it is in the goat pen and cheese dairy. It makes a world of difference whether the vegetables come from the garden or from the market, the goat meat from Janni or from the mainland. This work is laborious, poor or unpaid and yet demanding. As soon as no one does it anymore, we will no longer be able to enjoy its fruits. We will be served a poor shadow of what was once considered good. Or let’s say normal, because Stamatia shrugs my praise off with her left shoulder. Secretly, however, she likes the fact that I like what she conjures up.

Rebetikon in Mikro Kazaviti

As soon as the door to the kitchen is no longer open but ajar, I realize that things are just as lively inside as they are outside among the guests. The door has to be closed because when it’s full, no one can keep an eye on the cats and they turn into thieves and help themselves. Marina, who is over 70 years old, stands at the grill, turning the meat, Stamatia curses to herself, addresses complaints to the forty saints and the plates at the same time. Minutes later, the door opens again, a hundred aromas spill out onto the veranda and Marina brings half a dozen dishes to the table. Two more tables want drinks, a third the menu, the fourth to order. The door to the kitchen remains open. That’s my signal: “Stamatia! …You, I’ll bring water and drinks, ok?” I quickly make sure that the starter plate is ordered, which is not on the menu, and less than a quarter of an hour later everything is done and I’m sitting down again. I only get involved in transporting plates and taking them out when Marina gives me the signal or there are three of us. Otherwise I would overstep my authority and just get in the way in the kitchen. It’s incomprehensible to me how much, how long and how hard the two women work. And I also have little understanding for how you can let someone over 70 years serve you. Well, Marina needs the money, you can’t really tell her age and she doesn’t think the thoughts i have on the subject.

Der alte Hafen von Limenas

Janni arrives around half past nine, sits down inside and gets something to eat. Once all the tables have been cooked for, Stamatia and Marina sit down and eat too. They only get help in high season, when a young lady from the village takes care of the service – and I sit back, don’t disturb them and have my beer brought back to me: “Mia Vergina, parakaló!” But as long as it’s unclear whether the tavern will fill up, Stamatia doesn’t want to take the strain.

You leave the tavern as if you were leaving from a family visit: not in a hurry, but when it’s appropriate. In Germany you ask for the bill, in Greece you ask your hostess to join you at the table. She arrives as soon as she has time, talks to her guests and then sets about calculating the logariasmó. The result is always just one number, not many different ones, as most German tables require. The carelessness with which someone finally puts cash on the table is directed at the money itself: What is money compared to an enjoyable evening?

Whether I pay and what I pay is never completely settled, but is regularly the subject of a small dispute:

“You’re not paying today, you paid last time.”

“But Stamatia, last time I only had one beer – today it was a knuckle of pork!”

“Well…, that small knuckle..!”

It had been a long time coming, but this year it has come true: Stamatia has leased out the tavern. To someone from Thessaloniki who wants to take over the village square at the same time and expand the business. Stamatia and Janni will move into her mother’s house and the winegrower will have to find somewhere else to live. In the evening, they will both sit outside their house, not in the tavern, because they no longer have one. Maybe I’ll come to visit soon, but only to stop by. Because I no longer have a tavern either and I’m on the road again. I’m sure that the cats will no longer besiege the tavern downstairs, but the mothers house further up.