Tales of the Piano Bar, Part 4

It’s the third Saturday of the month and time again for another story from Mykonos’ Montparnasse Piano Bar, the Greek Aegean’s own La Cage au Folles.  For those who haven’t read the bar’s first three tales, over the past thirty years the Piano Bar is where tourists and locals go to see and be the characters making up Mykonos’ legendary 24/7 in-season lifestyle.  The Piano Bar is the creation of Nikos Hristodulakis and Jody Duncan, and they’re behind the bar every night.  This story is told by Jody, followed by a recipe for their classic Elizabeth Taylor’s Eyes cocktail, named in honor of the film legend who inspired what this tale is all about.

Tale Four: The Camel and the Movie Star.

The recent passing of the great Miss T reminded me of this story, and with her legendary sense of humor, I think she’d have laughed too.

In the early days of The Piano Bar we actually served as a library of sorts—emphasis on the “sorts.”  Two friends of ours were the on-island representatives for what I’ll call Happy Time Tours and if any of the company’s vacationing clients wanted to swap one book for another, the Piano Bar was the place to do it.  We were also the venue for the company’s nightly “duty hour,” when at least one of our friends had to be there to assist clients and listen to their complaints.  Our friends euphemistically called it “the bitching hour.”

It was around my third or fourth season of eavesdropping on the bitching when I noticed the girls had become a bit bored by it all.  They’d been fielding the same questions and complaints for almost as long as I’d been telling the same jokes.  So, I decided to take it upon myself to lighten things up for them.

I suggested to one, let’s call her Brenda, “Why don’t we start a rumor and see how quickly it makes it around the island.”  Obviously, Brenda was as devilishly mischievous as I because she leaped at the idea.

Now, it was the spring of 1989 and billionaire Malcolm Forbes (of Forbes Magazine) had just hosted a mega 70^th birthday party for himself at his palatial residence in Tangier.  He’d chartered a Boeing 747 to fly his guests to Morocco and enlisted the aid of his great friend, Elizabeth Taylor, as hostess for the party.  The event was all over the news.  

Eureka, inspiration for a far-fetched tall-tale to come.

But we needed the right person to get it rolling. Brenda wasn’t the sort to do this and no one would believe the story if it came from me.  [Ed.  You don’t say.] A little while later Brenda’s co-worker, let’s call her Susie, came in to cover duty hour.

BINGO!  It sort of went like this. 

Me:             Susie, did you hear the news? 

Susie:          No, do tell! 

Me:             Elizabeth Taylor is on the island. 

Susie:          You’re joking! 

Me:             NO, she’s here, really. She was in Tangier for Malcolm Forbes’ 70th birthday party.  Michael Jackson was there, too, and Michael gave Malcolm a camel for a present. Malcolm didn't want to keep it, so he gave it to Elizabeth who had it shipped with her to Mykonos.  She arrived here yesterday.   Today, she was on Psarou [Ed. The chicest beach on Mykonos] riding the camel up and down the beach.  It was hilarious!

Susie:          Really?  On a camel? 

Me:             Yes, really.  From what my friends told me she was there most of the afternoon. 

Susie:          Well, I’ll have to see this for myself.

The next evening I’m behind the bar, Brenda is on a barstool, and in walks Susie. 

Susie:          Jody, I went to Psarou today and Liz Taylor was not on the beach, and neither was her camel! 

Me:             I know, with all the talk around town about her being here, Psarou was crawling with tourists.  So, today she went to Plati Yialos.  [Ed. A beach beyond Psarou] It’s a bigger beach and she could ride there without people taking too much notice. 

Susie:         Of course, that was a much better idea.  I'm going to find her tomorrow if it’s the last thing I do.  Brenda, we have flights to meet tomorrow, but after we get the clients settled into the hotels, I’m going to the beach to find Liz.

Needless to say, Brenda and I had to dig extraordinarily deeply into our professional pranksters’ pride not to lose it completely, but not even the glimmer of a smile crossed our faces.

The next day Brenda and Susie were with clients at the airport when an Irish fellow who considered himself the omniscient one when it came to what was happening on the island [Ed.  There are many such sorts] literally ran over shouting,  “Susie, do you know who’s on the island?”

“Elizabeth Taylor, and she’s got a camel with her,” said Susie.

He gave an all-knowing smile.  “Yes, I know, and what’s more, I know which hotel she’s staying at!  She’s at the Rochari in room 202!”

That night Brenda came into the bar ahead of Susie and told me what happened at the airport.  I laughed so hard I think that’s how I got my hernia.  Our non-scientific, but none-the-less carefully planned and executed, experiment proved that it takes no more than two days for the most wild-ass, unbelievable rumor to become fact on Mykonos.

And yes, when Susie stopped in later we told her the truth.  She wasn’t happy at being made the stooge—though I did buy her a drink, make that several—and she definitely saw the humor in our little test.  But, to be honest, to this day I don’t think she believes a word I tell her.  [Ed.  And I’m sure you wonder why.]

There is no cocktail better suited to this tale than our own favorite Elizabeth Taylor’s Eyes.  It’s a simple martini, delicate in flavor, and specific in color:

In a mixing glass, add two or three drops of Blue Curacao.  Add two ounces of vodka, a healthy handful of ice cubes, and give it all a couple of stirs.  Next, holding the glass at eye level, carefully add and stir in a bit of cranberry juice. The amount should be small, and you can gradually add more as necessary. This is the crucial point, for you want to add just enough to give the drink a pale violet color to match the color of Liz’s eyes.  Mix well to chill, and strain into a chilled martini glass.  Garnish with a twist of lemon and offer up a toast in tribute to the magnificent Miss T! 

The proprietors.

Thanks, guys.

Jeff—Saturday

Welcome to Mykonos!

There are some who say the essence of Mykonos cannot be captured in words.  Of course, I’m not one of them.

Dimitris Koutsoukos (left) in National Geographic, many years ago

But in the spirit of equal time, permit me to introduce you to samples from the Internet’s most highly treasured photographic archives of that bewitching Aegean Greek island. They are the compilation of Dimitris Koutsoukos, a tireless advocate for the history and charms of his place of birth.

I’m presenting this without a bit of adorning prose, for this is not about words but about their inspiration.  Word conjuring for this day I leave to the pen of your imagination.

For those wanting to see more of Dimitri’s fascinating work paying tribute to our island, here is a link to his dozens of YouTube videos setting still photographs to music. 

http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=dimitris+koutsoukos&aq=0

 SEASONS OF THE OLD TOWN

 AROUND THE ISLAND

BY DAY AND BY NIGHT

 TRADITIONS

 SOLITUDE

YAMAS!

Jeff—Saturday

 

Is Easter Early This Year?

No, not really.  In fact it isn’t due for three weeks, April 24 to be precise, but I just can’t wait.  I have the Easter bunny bug.  Come to think of it, I don’t think the Greeks even have an Easter bunny but if they do it only lays red eggs, and not that often on the same date as its Catholic or Protestant Easter bunny buddies.

Yes, blood red eggs (kokkina avga) are a tradition in the Greek Orthodox Church, symbolizing the blood of Christ and rebirth—in life as well as season.   The secret of the color, according to some, is to prepare the dye from the skins of yellow Spanish onions.  I guess that means you could say Greece and Spain have been together in the red for a lot longer than just the past couple of years. [No wincing, please.] 

As for why different dates for the same holiday, there are two answers—one easy one not.  The simple answer is that Greeks and others of the Eastern Orthodox faith calculate their Easter based upon the Julian calendar while Protestants and Catholics use the modern Gregorian calendar.  If you want to know precisely how the date is determined, the explanation starts to sound strangely reminiscent of some I’ve heard for Greece’s current financial woes:

“The determination of the date of Easter is governed by a computation based on the vernal equinox (the point at which the ecliptic intersects the celestial equator, the sun having a northerly motion) and the phase of the moon. According to the ruling of the First Ecumenical Synod in 325, Easter Sunday should fall on the Sunday which follows the first full moon after the vernal equinox. If the full moon happens to fall on a Sunday, Easter is observed the following Sunday. The day taken to be the invariable date of the vernal equinox is March 21.”

I think it best we just say that Greek Easter follows the Julian calendar (though both are on April 24 this year) and leave it at that.

But no matter how the date is determined, Easter is by far the main event in Eastern Orthodoxy.  It is preceded by more than a week of significant religious and cultural observations.  And on Mykonos, Easter literally brings the island back to life.

Mykonos in Springtime

In the winter, Mykonos is a sleepy island village with virtually no tourists, no business, few open bars, fewer restaurants, and no clubs.  But come Easter Week everything changes.  Red and yellow springtime poppies burst to life all over the island’s hillsides, and those and still more varieties of flowers embroider the blanket of green covering the nearby holy island of Delos.  There are Church services every day of Holy Week, as well as daily preparations for the feast to come at the end.  Breads and cookies are readied on Monday and Tuesday, baking is done on Wednesday, and eggs are dyed red on Thursday, the day Christ was put up on the Cross.

Tsoureki Easter bread

By Thursday, Mykonos is filled with mainland Greeks flocking to their vacation homes and others looking to participate in a perfect example of spiritual and temporal coexistence: Easter church rituals strictly observed during the day, followed by the island’s as nearly hallowed party traditions through the night.  But that taste of the coming mid-summer craziness is short lived, for if you don’t catch the action that weekend come by in June, because Mykonos is back in hibernation come Tuesday.

An Epitaphios in procession on Mykonos

Evening services on Good Friday start at seven in the old town’s three main churches, Kiriake, Metropolis, and Panachra.  At precisely nine, each church’s clergy and worshipers leave their church in separate processions carrying their church’s epitaphios (the painted or embroidered cloth representation of Christ on a bier elaborately adorned in spring flowers and symbolizing his tomb) along a prearranged route, winding past the other two churches before ending up back at their own to complete the service.  It represents the funeral of Christ, and Mykonians and visitors line the route, some standing on balconies and sprinkling the participants below with a mixture of rose water and perfumes, the rodhonoro used on Christ’s body when taken down from the cross. 

The same three churches serve as the scene of the following night’s Holy Saturday services.  Most generally start heading off to church around ten, but for certain everyone is there by midnight.  For that is the high point of Easter, when church bells ring out across Greece and even total strangers exchange the traditional Christos Anesti and Alithos Anesti greetings that Christ has risen, kiss each other, and light each other’s candles to share the light and joy of the occasion—a light brought to Greece for just this purpose from the Holy Flame of Christ’s nativity cave in Jerusalem.  Worshipers carry the light back into their homes or their favorite restaurants, except for the hearty souls who remain in church for the balance of a service that lasts hours more into the morning. 

Midnight in Mykonos

Mayiritsa soup

Now it is time to challenge each other with the customary one-to-one smacking of those dyed-red eggs for good luck to the winner (mine always cracks first) and devour the traditional mayiritsa soup (made from parts of a lamb you may ask me about if you really want to know), fluffy tsoureki easter bread, and salads to break the forty-day fast leading up to Easter. 

But the big feast, the one everyone looks forward to, comes on Sunday.  That’s when all the work of the week and all the spring lambs find their purpose.  There is church, too, of course, but this day is more about celebrating with family and friends.  And eating.

The star of a Greek Easter Sunday (center)

Dieting starts Monday.  Kalo Paska 

Jeff — Saturday

A Guest Rant, Greek Style

What a ranting week this has been.  Actor Charlie Sheen revealed to the world that he’s exactly what people assumed, Wiki-Leaker Julian Assange took a big, splashy one all over himself, and mega-designer John Galliano decided to publicly circumcise his career down to mini.

I guess that’s why it didn’t come as such a surprise when a friend of mine from Greece—Athens to be precise—decided to tee off in an email to me on life these days in Greece.  But first, a bit of background:

At the foot of the Acropolis

We are living in interesting times, in the full sense of that Chinese curse: confusing, hard to grasp, and incredibly fluid.  No one seems to know where things are headed, so I take that as an opening for my unsolicited observations. 

Wherever I look there are severe public fiscal crises, virulent demonstrations, and endemic distrust of politicians.  Be it Greece, California, Wisconsin, or [fill in the blank].  And the bitching…complaining is far too weak a word…is endless.  And no place is the current state of the world more in evidence than in the eastern Mediterranean basin.

A street in Athens' Plaka

I can’t imagine anyone seriously lumping the U.S. into the Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, et cetera situations—for though they surely share outraged populaces, the reasons and degrees of dissatisfaction are very different.  But lying as it does just across the sea from those North African countries, Greece faces an unfair tarring by that eastern Mediterranean brush.  Greece is first and foremost a democracy and a member of the European Union, but one that allows what many consider beyond the pale public demonstrations.  Yes, Greece faces more serious challenges than it has in decades, but not to a change in its form of government. 

Against that background let me share my friend’s tale of her day in Athens...

My doctor wanted me to have a cardio-stress test, and referred me to another doctor who worked out of one of Athens’ prominent private hospitals—the sort supposedly offering better care for its patients than public hospitals.  It was raining when I got there and the parking lot was full.  I had to drive around for twenty minutes to find a space then walk a very long distance back to the hospital.  Admittedly, by then I wasn’t in a good mood. 

Not the doctor in the story

Smokers were massed immediately outside the hospital’s main entrance creating a fog of tobacco smoke for all to pass through.  So much for the country’s anti-smoking efforts.  I was directed up to the cardiology area, a place crammed with entire families offering support to their patient family members in a manner and volume reminiscent of a party.  I squeezed past the partiers to get in line.  In Greece, lines such as this often seem to require two employees to wait on one customer.  Why that is I do not know.  But it encourages those with just questions to step in front of everyone else and make the wait for those in line even longer.  Finally, it was my turn. 

Sort of.  The secretary told me I must first pay and handed me an almost illegible photocopy of a form to take downstairs to the cashier...and then come back and wait in line again.  At least she said it with a smile.

I went, but there was no cashier at the cashier station, only broken computers with plugs and wires pulled out.  I asked around and was sent next door to another building to pay.  There I found living, breathing people, but with two serving one and line jumpers asking questions.  Everyone seemed struggling for attention.  That’s when I wrote a SMS to the doctor who’d put me in the middle of all this—and who, by the way, did not give me a receipt for my cash payment of her fee (so much for Greeks paying taxes)—telling her, “I’m out of here.”  I wonder whether the experience itself was intended to be my true stress test?

But wait, there’s more. 

I left the hospital at 1:30 and hurried to the post office to mail a letter to the United States.  Post offices here close at 2 PM, no matter how long you’ve been waiting in line.  I was relieved to find it empty except for one customer and two postal workers. 

The free clerk was sitting in a chair and I asked if he could help me.  He seemed offended at that, and told me to “take a number.”  After my morning at the hospital I actually found what he said funny.  I took number 122.  The display screen read 119.   The clerk sat there doing nothing but watch his colleague wait on the other customer.  Number 120 came up—even though there was no 120 or 121 to serve in the place—and the clerk wandered off to make a joke to a woman in a backroom.  He walked back and sat down in his chair.  Number 121 came up, no one stepped forward but the clerk still did not move.  Finally, 122.  It was now my turn.

Not a Greek postal worker wave.

I walked over and handed him my letter.  He said, “Oh, you need stamps, and I don’t have any.  You’ll have to go to the other line.”  By now there were several people lined up at the other window and it was almost 2 PM.  No way they would let me ahead of them, my being number 122 or not.   The clerk reached to toss my letter over to his co-worker.  I grabbed it and said in English, “Stop, I have stamps!!!” 

Speaking English caught him off guard and he suddenly became more responsive (as if Greeks weren’t deserving of his attention).  He weighed the letter but had to ask his co-worker for the rates to the U.S.  Rather than telling him she took her time handing him a list of international postage charges.  He told me the price.  I stepped aside to let a young Greek man behind me take his turn as I put my stamps on the envelope. 

The poor guy asked for stamps.  He was met with the clerk’s “I have no stamps” line, delivered with a “why would you expect to find stamps in a post office attitude,” as the clerk went back to sitting in his chair. 

Delphi

I burst out laughing, and asked the young man if he wanted to buy stamps from me—and cut out the post office.  He laughed, too.  What else can you do in these times, enduring such everyday struggles for services that most developed countries take as a given.  There is much to love about my country, but my day epitomized what is very wrong with it.

***

Thank you for that front line report from Greece.  Now, back to Charlie Sheen…

Jeff — Saturday