Fresh Fruit

Whole fish and local catch sit in beds of ice swiftly melting in the early afternoon sun glaring heavily and unhindered despite narrow streets and vendor’s awnings. The distinct aroma of fish, pungent as they bake in the sunlight releasing odors better suited for the shores of harbors and seas rather than the cobblestone streets of Pangratti’s local farmers market. Old men whose beards are starkly white, pebbled along ancient cheek bones long ago stained a beautiful olive brown by the incessant and inescapable Mediterranean sun sitting at small tables. The old men seem as permanent fixtures in all spots of local flavor. It is like moss growing on the north side of a tree; if there are old Greek men discoursing or playing backgammon then I know I am in a ‘Greek’ place. Gnarled and weather worn hands deftly sort through the mosaic of fresh vegetable and fruits; my eyes follow their movements as they fill bags with peppers, grapes, olives, onions, eggs, and tomatoes and countless other delicious organic treats. Placed between cornucopic displays of green and red grapes of varying sizes are bottles of the growers own wine. And between the bowls of olives—more types and shapes and colors of olives than I could have imagined—rests the farmers freshly squeezed olive oil; a necessity for cooking and a tantalizing novel and delicious delight. With arms weary and sagging by the weight of our newly acquired profusion of produce, Sam and I leave the steep hill and narrow street of the market. Not the fresh wine whose origin sits nestled on the vine that was sold at the market, rather the cheap table wines of local creation serve as our lubricant for the evening, as with most evenings. Tony and Sam passing the guitar between themselves while I huff away at a harmonica and our other flat-mates listen with loose and appreciative motions and an occasional freestyle verse. The song ends and I excuse myself to search for sustenance. A search I remember excitingly that will yield bountiful results. I slice one of the tomatoes, its deep red color leaving me expecting blood to squirt. The first bite doesn’t disappoint and I am intrigued about how the produce, all of it, seems more vibrant in taste. The uniformity and aesthetic appearance of American crops is strikingly missing; the tomato under my culinary scalpel has an odd shape so that it only lies on its side. The local farmers have opted out of cookie cut genetic engineered veggies and instead offer a product of superior quality, flavor, taste and even (in the two weeks I’ve been able to observe) shelf life. Back to the tomato though, a dash of salt and I know that I have found my staple diet while I stay in Athens. I was not content with one tomato so I slice two more and laying them in a bed of the freshly squeezed olive oil I sprinkle salt and pepper. With bread in hand I carry my simpleton feast to my friends. If the tomatoes were not amazing enough on their own, the olive oil adds a depth to the flavor and a level of complexity that pleasures the taste buds with caressing touches of oil and juicy tomato until the climax is reached when a slice of bread, thoroughly sopped with oil is adorned with a final slice of tomato and with flourish like an artist’s brush strokes salt is sprinkled affectionately on top… Today is our last day in Athens for a while; we are leaving for Crete tomorrow. Homework has been piled on and preparations and anxiety is mounting. Having finished what I can this evening (including this blog) and having re-read my words, I can think of nothing more fitting than to sate myself with one last tomato.