Favours.
People-pleasing, mythical bathroom tiles, f***ing plaka and a good meal.
One month until the wedding and I suddenly decided we need wedding favours. I had dismissed this idea months ago as nonsense, but after having a sweet little white tulle wrapped koufeta pressed into my hands in the local supermarket by Dmitris, who works in the local taverna, and who had been married the day before, I went a bit misty-eyed.
I decided to visit the wedding planners in Volos, two very capable and friendly sisters, Fotini and Vasou, and asked them if they could make them for me. I could make them myself but I am practicing outsourcing for our wedding - there is more than enough going on at the house with the building works. Besides, there is so much dust here, the guests will be politely blowing fine layers of plaster off the koufeta. My requirements were quite specific - a semi-dried apricot cloaked in white chocolate koufeta with a hard candy shell in soft pastel colours shaped to resemble pebbles which I had bought in a kafekopteio - a shop selling nuts, dried fruits and sweets last year. Fotini could not find them in the koufeta catalogue and so I offered to go and buy a sample from the shop and trotted off to Venezalos Street to buy some. When I arrived at the shop I could not find the koufeta on display and in my awful Greek I described them to the shop assistant. She told me they did not have them and so I tried to ask if they could order them in for me. I started scrolling through last year’s photos to find a picture of them. I showed her the koufeta and she smiled and told me they did not sell them. Thoroughly confused, I showed her the photo I had taken of the paper bag with the shop address on it. “This is not that shop” she said politely. Mortified that I had just wasted ten minutes of her life she would never get back I cast my eyes around desperately and asked for the first thing I saw….granola in huge glass jars. I then spotted some jars of pistachio cream on the counter “I’ll have one of those too!” I said, thinking at least I can use it, I love pistachio cream in cakes and pastry cream. “No, no!” she demurred. “You must try this instead” and dragged me over to another display of nut butters. “This is better” she insisted, opening the jar and passing me a sample on a wooden teaspoon. The rather loose, slightly claggy but not entirely unpleasant consistency of the pistachio butter immediately adhered to the roof of my mouth, my tongue and the front of my teeth. “Very good!” I muttered, aware that my smile was now brown and gritty, “but not what I need, the cream is better for patisserie”. The assistant would not be put off “No, no!” she asserted. “This is perfect!” I gave in, unwilling to spend any more time buying products I did not want in the wrong shop. Fotini was patiently awaiting my return before closing for lunch. I left the shop clutching the nut butter wondering if they would ever let me buy actual pistachio cream in the future. Heading 200 metres up the road, I found the correct shop with the koufeta displayed in the window and bought a small bag of pebbles.
On my return to the shop, Fotini nearly fainted when I told her the price I had paid for them. “Sit down! We will find a better price” she insisted. I sat. I had actually thought they were quite reasonable but what do I know? I’m used to London prices. Her sister ushered me towards a chair. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked. “Of course not, it’s your shop!” She lit up, literally rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The most famous factory in Greece for koufeta is called Hatziyiannakis, the original and many believe, the producer of the best koufeta. She rang them first, they did not stock them. Fotini and her sister spent the next hour ringing every koufeta supplier they could think of to no avail. Vasou thumped her fists on the table and cried “When there is a problem, I need to find the solution!” Fotini looked sad and said “You must choose another - they are too expensive! These have kumquat! Or strawberries!” They were brightly coloured and I had not tasted them, so I could not muster any enthusiasm for them. I was also slightly weary of being told by everyone what I needed. The apricot koufeta were genuinely delicious and in that moment it occurred to me that I was the only one who did not have a problem with the price and it was my wedding. On the basis that they would think I was an idiot for paying such a high price and that I had now been dealing with wedding favours for two and a half hours, I decided to deflect it onto Adrian “Let’s see if he wants to pay for them” knowing full well he probably wouldn’t give a rat’s arse as they were not particularly expensive. I loved them both for their ferocious commitment to good value but this gave me an escape route and at that point I would have donated a kidney for a cappuccino.
Adonis has not bought enough stone for the stairs. Flat stone in Greek is ‘plaka’. These days, most conversations in this house revolve around plaka of some description; plaka for the stairs, plaka for the roof, plaka for the chimney, plaka for the terrace. Every couple of days Adonis shows me a piece of plaka for the stairs which does not match the stone he previously bought, he is struggling to match it and I am struggling to pretend the stone looks the same when it looks wildly different from the original. I shake my head sadly and he looks despondent. It is like kicking a puppy. Adrian is still away and I am in charge of plaka decisions. Adrian has told everyone “Oti theli e Eleni” (meaning “Anything Helen wants”). This is not strictly true but everybody, including Adrian, enjoys chanting or muttering it whenever there is a decision to be made. As if I have the first notion about stair heights or indeed, most things building-related. Give me a pile of books or pop me in the kitchen. Don’t ask me about plaka. On Adrian’s return, he takes up the mantel of plaka chooser. ‘F***ing plaka! Don’t talk to me about plaka!” he bellows as poor Adonis produces yet another piece of stone to be rejected. Plaka is no longer referred to as simply plaka by anybody here, Greek, Albanian, Polish or English…it is now prefixed by f***ing. Adonis finally arrives with a piece of plaka which bears a passing resemblance to the existing. That will do. “Telia!” (Perfect!) I say, and we all cheer “F***ing plaka!” The international language of plaka.
Earlier in the day, I had been enlisted by Adrian to visit the lady in the tile shop to politely enquire if there was any news on the bathroom tiles (plakati - little flat stones) which were coming from Italy but appeared to be going via Australia. She was not particularly pleased to see me as she was now rather on the spot. After she had listened to me explain that the tiles were now three weeks past the delivery date and this was holding up works, she said “Ring me after 2 pm for an update, or WhatsApp me”. Predictably, she ignored both my calls and my WhatsApp message so on my way home I stopped off at the tile shop again. By the expression on her face, I expected she would welcome a dose of the clap more than me setting foot in her shop again. “Friday, I swear! They are in Patra!” she huffed, thoroughly put upon. This was odd as last week they were in Piraeus - why were our tiles going on a tour of Greece? I realised it was unlikely I was going to find out and so I went home, empty-handed. Thursday night at 10 p.m. Adrian receives a text saying the plakati are not arriving the next day, but the following Wednesday. “F***king plakati!”
However, it’s not all plaka debates here. Spurs are playing Manchester United in the Europa Cup final and Adrian wants to go to Marabou, a taverna in Affisos which will be showing the game. Adonis advises on arriving early to secure a table. When we arrive, Adonis and Julio have already bagged a table for us all. We look around the large and disconcertingly empty taverna. Two ginger cats stroll past as if they are joining us and Woody goes completely berserk. Cats here are his nemeses (I had to look up the plural). There are two men seated at the table next to us having dinner. “Not many Spurs fans in Pelion” I offer Adrian, consolingly. “Well all the Man U fans are in London, anyway!” he snarks. The lack of atmosphere is more than made up for with an excellent meal of aubergines baked in the oven, prawns with spaghetti and Greek salad washed down with with Migas, a local house wine. Spurs win 1-0 and take home their first trophy for 17 years. Adrian is quietly jubilant as there is no one around to celebrate with. My enormous crush on Glen Hoddle circa 1984 doesn’t count apparently. He had opened a trainer shop at the top of our road in Epping, I mean what are the chances? The only thing that could have improved on that would have been Bruce Springsteen opening a bandana shop on the same parade. I wished our milkman were here, or our friend Corinna - proper diehard Spurs fans - they would have been celebrating happily along with him. Come On You Spurs!
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Writing this made me think of these:
The best football song ever, Ossie’s Dream. Chas n’ Dave - it doesn’t get any better than that.