Standing by the lake in Aghios Nikoloas on Easter Saturday night as midnight approached, the noise was horrendous. Fireworks and what I assumed to be guns were exploding everywhere. There was no way of escape.
The effigy of Judas dangled over the water – a pretty impressive sight as the blazing body swung back and forth. I let out a blood-thirsty shriek, probably at the relief of not yet having been trampled to death, blown up by a bomb masquerading as a firework, or blown to bits by some mad Cretan farmer’s gun. Then suddenly all went quiet, and the crowds began to drift away to their chosen tavernas for the post midnight feast of hard-boiled eggs, salad and the much anticipated roast lamb. We had survived so far at least.
The four of us had decided on a Dutch restaurant, by way of a change. The owner, who seemed to be in world of his own, led us to the upstairs room, from where there was a spectacular view of the lake.
‘Do you have any kroketten?’ I asked, putting on my best Dutch pronunciation. I remembered how delicious they had tasted, breaded and deep-fried.
‘Cocaine?’ answered the spaced-out owner. ‘Yes, that’s not a problem.’
We refused his kind offer and instead enjoyed a choice meal at our leisure, including kroketten and some raw herring, before heading back to our hotel rooms.
The next day, Easter Sunday, we rose late, and looked forward to enjoying the day. Again down at the lake, we expected the crowds to be milling about, and the air to be filled with the smell of roast lamb. Even groups of people dancing in the streets.
Instead, to our shock, the place was completely deserted and silent. Not a shop or a restaurant was open. Not a soul in sight, except an old man sitting in a kiosk. Maybe he would know where we could enjoy some Easter Sunday festivities.
He didn’t seem to have too many ideas. However, he vaguely knew of a village a few kilometres away where a taverna was putting on Easter Sunday lunch for busloads of tourists. Everyone else was having a private family Easter, he explained. It seemed like our only hope.
We eventually tracked down a taxi and, half an hour later, arrived in an extremely quiet village, sporting, it seemed, one single, empty cafe. The owner smiled at us.
‘Is there any chance of getting some food,’ I asked him. ‘Maybe some lamb?’
‘This is only a cafe,’ he apologised, ‘ but I can find a salad and some wine for you.’
‘We’ve heard about a taverna somewhere near here. Do you know where it is by any chance?’
‘You’re probably talking about the Platanos. It’s about 5 minutes walk from here. They always have a big do at Easter.’
‘Maybe I can buy some meat from them?
‘Yes, I imagine they’ll have plenty left over.’
I walked the 5 minutes, and arrived at a taverna the size of an aircraft hangar, with tables to seat at least 500 people, but the waiters were just clearing up, the meal having finished a short time before. The busloads of tourists had, presumably, been whisked back to their hotels. It didn’t augur well for finding anything to eat.
I approached a woman standing by the door.
‘Would it be possible to buy some meat?’
‘Yes, of course, there’s plenty left. What would you like?’
‘Well, to begin with some lamb.’
‘Fine and we’ve got some country sausage, some lovely pork chops. How about some of each?’
She made me up a sizeable package, and I reached in my pocket for my wallet, hoping I had enough money to cover this feast.
‘Oh, no,’ she said,’ I don’t want any money. Happy Easter. Welcome to Crete.’
With that she turned away and continued clearing up the tables.
I went back to join the others. By this time the owner’s family had turned up and were dancing to loud Greek music. Tables were pulled together and we shared the meat, the salads, the wine.
Greek Easter had been saved by Cretan hospitality.
the ouzo effect - 30 years in Greece and counting 