SPRING IS SPRUNG - OR IS IT?

Der spring is sprung

Der grass is riz

I wonder where dem boidies is?

Der little boids is on der wing.

Ain’t dat absoid?

Der little wings is on der boid!

I don’t remember where or when I first heard this little rhyme. It was a long, long time ago, that’s for sure. It still pops into my mind every time people start saying it must be spring again.

Funnily enough, it always pops into my mind in the unmistakably Bronx tones of Jimmy Durante. Perhaps it was in one of those happy, optimistic Hollywood musicals we used to love to watch.

Yesterday was Sunday, and judging by the frantic buzzing of a strimmer from the next-door property, the grass was riz enough to require determined action.

During the night, one particular boidie had clearly decided spring was sprung and that it was time to start pulling the female boids of his species – I speak, of course, of the little Lothario of the Corfu night, the Scops Owl.

But I was not convinced that spring had arrived, and you may call me an old misery if you wish, but the Greek TV forecasters seemed to agree with me and informed us that southerly winds were on the way – and when you live in Corfu you know what THAT means in winter –  rain and storms and beaches piled with debris and driftwood.

This weather, they promised gleefully, would be with us for the whole of the coming week.

At precisely 04.44 am this morning, the storm arrived, with a bright flash, a drum roll of thunder, an anguished yowl outside my bedroom window and one wet moggie seeking sanctuary.

You’ve got to hand it to those Greek weather-people.

I know this is the perfect time of year for walking -

-and planting trees (Kantounistas and the Department of the Environment, of the Municipality of Corfu)

 

 But however many photos you guys put up on Facebook, of pretty flowers and walks with dogs and whatnot – I’m waiting for the boid on the wing, the swallow, to tell me spring has truly arrived.

They will be back – in a week or so. Depend on it.

Meanwhile, here’s a little something to be going on with.

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.Thanks to Julie, Jo, Sue and Frosso for allowing me to use their lovely photos.

WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST!

Oh dear, between them, the British Foreign Secretary, Mr William Hague, and the Daily Mail, have created a crisis of alarming proportions.

Confused Brits living in Greece are wondering what to pack and where to muster in preparation for evacuation; their prime concerns are of course for their pets and for the watering of their house plants.

But hold on there!

Things may not be what they seem.

A hail of scorn and abuse has descended upon the Mail and Mr Hague alike, and once again bad reporting and scare-mongering tactics have been exposed and condemned. There has been some confusion over what Hague said, what the Mail reported, what the Foreign Office recommends, and what conclusions we, the foreign residents of Greece, are meant to arrive at.

Those of us who have lived in Greece for a long time can remember that the question of evacuation was aired in the early days of the junta, when things were uncertain and could have become dangerous. It never became necessary however, and since then the only reasons for evacuation have been local and the result of forest fires or floods. The somewhat chaotic and volatile state of Greece’s political scene has never been a source of anxiety for its foreign residents.

Evacuation of its subjects, or citizens as we are now known, in times of tribal unrest or natural disaster is something that the British Government has always been quite good at, though more recently they seem to have lost the knack somewhat. Registering with the British Consulate has always been recommended and serves a number of purposes apart from evacuation and repatriation when necessary

In the good old days, before the powers and finances of the British Foreign Service were somewhat curtailed, it was essential to register with the consulate each year if you wished to be invited to the Queen’s Birthday Garden Party, or to be requested to attend a cocktail party each time a Royal Navy vessel visited Corfu.

As you would expect, the Senior Service do these things with amazing efficiency and enthusiasm, erecting awnings and building fountains and gardens on deck, even building a barbecue on deck on one occasion I remember.

Oh the glamour of it all! Not all ships were small enough to be boarded in a ladylike fashion, by stepping across a gangplank with a handrail. Some were quite huge and getting aboard was anything but ladylike. Arriving at the quayside, in tight cocktail dress and high heels, to find that you were expected to clamber up an almost-vertical wood and metal contraption, with slats instead of steps – was an experience similar to climbing up the side of a house. There were always plenty of willing hands, however, to see the ladies aboard safely. I often thought it would be more practical to take one’s purse between one’s teeth, hitch up the skirt, and board by scrambling pirate-fashion up the rigging.

The most often aired ‘joke’ of course, was ‘Are you going to pipe us aboard then?’ and indeed it did all feel rather surreal.

Invitations to the parties were highly sought after and favours were called in to obtain one. Everyone was encouraged to dress up for the occasion, one rather flamboyant Corfiot friend of mine even turning up in top hat and tails, with a long white silk scarf around his neck

The officers and crew were immaculate in their whites, eager to please, and desperate for some female company.

As many unattached females as possible would be invited along with the local dignitaries and crusty old ex-pats, There were no wallflowers at these parties! If you accepted the invitations to ‘show you round the ship’ you were conducted with perfect propriety into every cubicle and cubbyhole, where nothing was out of place and everything gleamed and shone – what you might call ‘shipshape’ I suppose..

Afterwards, if you accepted an invitation to go for a drink ashore with one of the ‘boys’, you would invariably be treated as a lady, but also as a shoulder to weep on.

Once, I received an emergency phone call from the Consulate in Corfu, begging me to round up all my girlfriends and bring them along to a party on a ship that had arrived unexpectedly. (Probably diplomatic-speak  for ‘we lost the fax’) I felt like a Madam, ringing up female friends and urging them to join me in amusing a ship’s company, and needless to say most of my friends who were married to Greeks were not allowed to attend. (My own husband had more faith in me).

The drinks never stopped coming. Pitchers of already-mixed gin and tonic, heavy on the gin and light on tonic, glass jugs full of ice=cold Horse’s Neck cocktail – brandy, ginger ale and a twist of lemon peel, and, in the Sixties, the only place to drink Pimms. The array of canapés was splendid, all quite delicious, and with plenty of caviar. The Navy did nothing by halves in those days.

There were other parties, on NATO ships visiting Corfu – perhaps one of the oddest that I attended was aboard an Italian submarine. My previous experience with Italians had not prepared me for their utter correctness, at least equal to that of the British sailors, harder perhaps to maintain in the confines of a sub!

Parties on board American ships were of course bigger and more spectacular, but not necessarily better – for one thing they were ‘dry’. They mostly took place on vast aircraft carriers, to which we were ferried by tender, and which we entered rather than boarded, by way of a metal stairway manned by very smartly dressed crewmen who addressed the women as M’am and placed white-gloved hands under our elbows to steady us as we climbed up what felt more like the side of the Empire State building than just any old house.

Fantastic American food, a bar that dispensed tea, coffee and milk as well as the inevitable Coke and Pepsi, the ship’s band performing jazz and rock, polite, attentive sailors and airmen who made you feel  ancient, so young were they, and the realization that this was a floating piece of the USA in every way. Much earlier, I had been shown a booklet, issued to all American sailors before they went ashore, listing (in very great detail!) the customs of the country they were visiting, including how they should behave with the local women, how not to give offence to anyone, what to do and not do – an amazing exercise in public relations. We noticed, too, on leaving the ship, that the last thing a sailor going ashore would see before boarding the tender was a notice in very plain English ordering them to take a supply of ‘protection’ with them.

The Americans loved to show off their computers and advanced technology (without compromising security) and one of my friends was treated to such a comprehensive tour of the computers (she was the first ‘geek’ I ever knew) that we didn’t see her again until the following day!

In March 2010, Royal Navy commanders were ordered to scrap the cocktail parties that had been held on board ships visiting foreign ports for over 200 years – Admiral Horatio Nelson met Lady Emma Hamilton at one such party held aboard ship in Naples, and it is said that he instigated the custom of hosting such gatherings on Royal Navy ships. Scrapping the traditional parties was said to be a way to help plug a ‘black hole’ in the MoD’s 36 billion-pound annual budget – a saving of between 50,000 and 70,000 pounds. A trivial amount compared to the amount of goodwill generated.

The outcry was huge and involved accusations of ‘scuppering’ naval tradition. The truth is that the ‘Cockers  P’, or CTPs, served a purpose – it allowed foreigners and British abroad to experience the impeccable good form of British naval hospitality, while making sure that the big guns and missiles were on view as a reminder of the iron fist in the oh-so-soft velvet glove of diplomacy.

Evacuation? Thanks, but no thanks – mine’s a gin-and-tonic, please, Chief Petty Officer!

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IN SEARCH OF BARBAROSSA

Barbarossa? Read on, all will be made clear.

I never intended my blog to become a soapbox for the airing of political grievances or economic solutions. I leave that to others.

I wanted it to be a little voice of gentle humour spiced with some nuggets of interesting information, some alternative perspectives.

But I cannot ignore what is going on in this country that I love so much and that I call home.

I have to get my head out of the sand.

I have lived here for so many years – over half my adult life, and while I know that I can never say ‘I am a Greek’. I am proud to say that I feel like a Greek.

I feel passionate about the country and its history and its people, and I feel the anger and humiliation and helplessness the Greeks are currently experiencing. What am I saying? That WE are experiencing. I live here, and Greece is MY country now.

 I have to confess to a deep sense of disappointment in the way Greece is being treated by the international media. Like a stray dog in a hostile market place, this country is being abused, pelted with stones, chased and harried and thoroughly misrepresented as a worthless, lazy, disobedient tyke.

That is not the Greece I know, and I object most strongly to this attitude. It is obviously in someone’s interests to depict this country so unfairly.

What a fine way to repay all that Greece has given us.

Greece, and most of Europe, is in the midst of an unprecedented wave of cold, ice and snow. Greece itself is poised waiting for the results and effects of decisions that will have a long-term influence on its people and its way of life. Corfu is lashed by thunderstorms, its skies riven by lightning, its very air burdened by thunder and the echoes of thunder. It rains, incessantly and heavily. Hail lashes the olive trees.

“Now is the Winter of our Discontent’ said Richard III. Sure is Rick.

But in Corfu, even winter discontent is rapidly dispersed by one of those unique Corfu Moments. Driving back from a visit to friends on Sunday, a visit that began with a lifting of the clouds, a suggestion of sunshine, we were driving along the road that skirts the Bay of Garitsa in Corfu Town. A few days earlier, with a southerly wind blowing (the notorious ‘sirocco’) vast quantities of sea water were flung in the air to break over the sea wall and flood the entire road.

On Sunday it was less dramatic – the wind was from a different direction and the bay was sheltered, but the entire area was devoid of any detail, like a very old, very faded sepia photograph. The Old Fortress loomed out of the dimness, but sea and sky merged in a colourless blur.

Oddly enough we didn’t feel depressed or anxious, though the scene before us could have been the epitome of the national mood.

We were a family together, three generations, warm, finding pleasure in the austere beauty of Garitsa in winter.

Corfu worked its magic again.

Corfu has always given us the ability to enjoy simple pleasures. On Sunday we were given the opportunity to taste a Corfiot sweet that most likely was made to a recipe dating back at least to the years of the Venetian Empire, or perhaps was brought by the Maltese workers from their own island in the nineteenth century.

I thought Nikolas was offering me a dish of olives, black, a little shrivelled, but the aroma that emanated from them was that of tsipouro. Intrigued, I tried one, and then another, and then… it became hard to stop.  Nikolas was smiling and mysterious, pleased that I liked his offering, making me guess what the little fruits were.

Eventually he relented and told me not only what they were – figs, which I had managed to guess – but how this delectable sweet was made.

The small purple figs, from his own garden, had been dried in the sun beneath a protective covering of muslin and were then steeped for days in a syrup made from tsipouro to which the following had been added: bay leaves, fennel seeds, cloves, black pepper, vanilla, lemon, cinnamon and mastica – and one more thing, something that Nikolas called ‘barbarroza’ which flummoxed me completely and sent me on a quest! I searched the Internet amd then asked my truly Corfiot friends - I should really have done this the other way round -  and learned that what he called by this oddly piratical name was in fact arbaroriza which is the rose-scented pelargonium, called ‘nutmeg geranium’ in England. It grows wild everywhere in Greece and looks like this:

The leaves are used to flavour quince preserves, loukoumi and ice creams.

But here in Corfu it finds its way into this wonderful fig preserve and also into the famous fig-cakes of Corfu (sykomaitha). These are formed of the above ingredients worked into a paste with chopped figs, ouzo or tsipouro, then shaped into a small cake and wrapped in fig, vine or chestnut leaves.

I’m assuming you all know what tsipouro is – (not to be confused with tsipoura – a type of fish – and now I have confused you haven’t I?) Tsipouro is a very strong alcoholic drink, similar to grappa, about 45% proof. It is made from the residue of the wine press, and was once illegally brewed privately. Now it has become ‘respectable’ and even fashionable. I had the great pleasure, however, of drinking it when it was still illegal and hidden under the bed of my hosts in Arachova. I have no recollection of what happened after the first glassful. It certainly banished winter and all its discontents.

After that boozy digression, I leave you with food for thought.

The town of Villamayor de Santiago, in Spain, has for some time now reverted to the use of the peseta. (Remind you of the old Elstree comedies?) The inhabitants, like so many other Spaniards, have hung on to their pesetas since 2002, ‘just in case’. (Around 1.4 billion pounds sterling worth of pesetas is said to be hoarded and stored in Spain.) In due course, the Chairman of the local merchants’ association will collect the pesetas and take them to the Bank of Spain to change them into euros, which will then be distributed to the shopkeepers and businessmen who have joined the scheme.

Well, why not?

 According to a recent study by Spain’s consumers’ association OCU, the price of essential goods has risen by 43 per cent since the introduction of the euro. The cost of bread is up by 49 per cent while milk has risen 48 per cent and the price of potatoes has  increased by 116 per cent.

No comment.

On a lighter note, and to bring today’s blog to its conclusion:

Over a million UK drivers are aged 80 or over. Of those, 65,000 are aged 90 or more, while there are 122 drivers aged 100 or more, with the oldest being a woman of 106.

Back seat driver of indeterminate age!

Cheering thought for the oldies amongst us, though not perhaps if you are a pedestrian living in the same area as these ancient and probably stubborn motorists!

Thanks to Frosso for allowing me to use some of her photos. Others are by me and my sister.

COMFORT FOOD FOR COLD DAYS IN GREECE

Ice and snow can be so pretty, but not everyone enjoys winter weather, as you can see.

Some people certainly do, however..

Daily Mail photo of Primrose Hill London

Grandma's photo of family on Pantocrator Corfu

But after a snowball fight, or a mass toboggan slide, what does everyone go home for?

Why, a spot of comfort food of course.

Comfort food can be savoury or sweet, is preferably hot, has steam rising from it, looks and smells divine. It can be good for you but, more importantly, it should cheer you up.

Depending upon your homeland, actual or spiritual, you probably think about food you grew up with, lovingly made for you by your mother.

No, not me but you get the picture

According to one website, one of the favourite comfort foods in Finland is sautéed reindeer. This conjures up a picture of a very muscular woman frying a whole reindeer carcass in a very, very large skillet, but I feel something must have been lost in translation. I remember with fondness my own Mum's shepherd's pie and steak and kidney pie.

For every woman married to a Greek, comfort food means fasolada and, no, you can never hope to equal his mother’s.

But you can have a good try, and with some subtle additions and variations, you may even one day hear the grudging words:

‘As good as my mother’s.’

‘Better than my mother’s’ is an unlikely accolade, but it is possible to achieve that glory, so persevere.

A good fasolada is not only comforting, it is nourishing, satisfying, and you can make enough of it to last for two or even three days without the family (i.e. your man) demanding something fresh every day. In fact, fasolada matures so that by the third day it is at its best – gutsy and chunky.

 Where did he come from? Honestly, Grandma, any excuse.. I said chunky not hunky!

I was taught by my own mother that it was essential to keep a well-stocked cupboard of basic foodstuffs, a habit that I have always maintained. I was quite shocked to find, on coming to live with my Greek mother-in-law, a paragon of housewifely virtues, that she shopped every day for the makings of that day’s main meal. Off she would trot, bright and early, to the grocer and the baker. Meat was a once-a-week affair anyway. Fish and vegetables and fruit could be bought from wizened and weather-beaten little men leading ramshackle carts drawn by wizened little donkeys.

Yes, that was me - and my little boy

That was 1970, in a part of Piraeus inhabited by people who had had to struggle to make ends meet ever since their families arrived in Greece as refugees from Asia Minor. I started married life living with my mother-in-law, without a fridge or a washing machine or a TV. We had ice-boxes, and spent a whole day boiling up water and washing clothes using almost Biblical methods, and the nearest TV was in the cafeneion down the road. But that is a story for another time.

Picture posed by models, as they say in the posh periodicals.

I digress – it is all too easy. When you get to my age you either live in a dream or you relive your life constantly.

What I am saying is that, in spite of life becoming so much easier in some ways, it still doesn’t hurt to keep a well-stocked cupboard, and that stock, when you intend to cook Greek dishes, should include dry goods like beans, lentils, pasta, flour and rice, tomato paste and of course olive oil, with a regularly replenished supply of vegetables in the fridge.

Thus, on a miserable, cold, wet day like today, you wouldn’t have to go out shopping for the makings of a meal.

As with so many Greek recipes, there is a certain mystique about fasolada.

You need the right kind of beans, not too small and not big – most recipes state haricot beans, but cannellini beans are the right ones (navy beans in the US), or the ones called handres in Greek. You need water that will actually soften the beans –tap water is generally considered ineffectual, bottled water is preferable, but real aficionados keep a supply of water collected by their own fair hands from some spring or other source with a good reputation.

You must, of course, use good oil, preferably from your own trees or failing that, from a neighbour, relative or good friend’s trees. Be generous with it, it makes all the difference.

Dried beans, plenty of sliced or chopped onion, celery, parsley, sliced carrots, oil and tomato paste, salt and pepper – basically that’s it.

Some people like their vegetables finely diced and grated, others prefer them more coarsely sliced and chopped. The results will be different according to how you treat the vegetables.

There are plenty of recipes on line and in the many Greek recipe books, and if you are wise, you have written down mother-in-law’s version somewhere.

Variations: Add some dried chili flakes and seeds (called ‘boukovo’ in Greece), and/or a few drops Tabasco (can be added after serving). My daughter adds small pieces of fresh sweet red pepper.

I used to add some bacon, or sliced sausage, or even cubes of left over pork chops – this soup cries out to be complemented by the flavour of pork.

Tips: You must throw away the first lot of water, used for the initial stage of boiling the beans on their own. Use fresh water to continue the recipe.

Do not add salt until the end – it can harden the beans.

Serve with: olives, slices of feta drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with rigani (oregano), red pepper or black pepper, crusty bread and a glass or two of sturdy red wine. My husband always accompanied his fasolada with slices of red onion and renga (smoked herring).

Kali orexi!



FIRST OF FEBRUARY AND HERE COMES THE SNOW

It’s snowing in the centre of Athens, it’s snowing in Corfu, temperatures are in the minus range, and like excited children, many of us here in Corfu are planning a trip this afternoon to show our kids the white stuff as it really is! In Britain, at the first flurry, the authorities warn people to stay home, stay warm and get their heads down. In Greece, we leap into our cars and head for the nearest high ground to play snowballs!

Mind you, today it is snowing down at sea level, let alone on the hills.

photo by star tv greece



 Village of Petalia Corfu

I have never lost my childhood passion for snow. As a very little girl I lived in a part of Surrey known as Little Switzerland, for its pine-clad hills and valleys filled with beech trees. The bright colours of heather and gorse, ferns and bracken, would all give way, in winter, to paler monotones as snow blanketed those hills and enveloped those valleys.

I have photos of myself, smiling with happiness, feet firmly planted in the snow and wearing a marvellously practical, hooded, all-in-one garment called a ‘siren-suit’. Nothing to do with the sirens that used to lure travellers such as Odysseus with their fatal attractions – this outfit was popularized by Winston Churchill, who designed it himself and had it made up by gentleman’s outfitters Austin Reed. With plenty of pockets and made up in a warm fabric, it was ideal for the Great Man’s trips around war-ravaged Britain and was quickly adopted for wear by both sexes and all ages.

His suit looked like this,

And mine looked just like this

It must have snowed more regularly back then, in England. I remember looking out of the windows of our suburban Essex home on Christmas Eve, to see the Salvation Army band performing carols under the light of a street lamp, with snow falling on them and their instruments.

My love of snow took me to live for a winter at an Austrian ski-school – that and my love of a certain ski-instructor…. I stayed in a marvellous wooden chalet where the beds were tucked inside cupboards and made up with billowing feather duvets. Being snowed up in such a setting was just an excuse for the continuous consumption of schnapps and comfort food as only the Austrians know how.

In London, I was marooned by excessive amounts of snow one January, unable to return to my home in Corfu. Along with two other Greek colleagues, also marooned, and the company’s accountant who could not even get back to her home in Kent, we were invited by the owner of the company we worked for to stay in his London flat. That was no hardship – good address, all mod cons, the

Kings Road

within walking distance - as long as you had snowshoes on - the men wasted no time in appointing me resident cook and demanded Greek food and coffee non-stop, while they spent the wintry weekend glued to sport on TV. It felt just like being a Greek wife again.

Those who do not know Greece as it can be in winter can probably not imagine it under snow.

But here we are today, the first of Feb, phoning and Facebooking each other with hews of the snow.

Here in my cozy computer corner, it is beginning to feel really chilly and I am wearing the wonderful mittens my daughter-in-law made for me.

As soon as my grandson gets out of school, we shall go, en famille, to play with magic.

Some people never grow up.

COFFEE CRAVINGS

It isn’t until you get up one morning dying for that first cup of coffee, only to find there is none and that there is no hidden back-up, that you come to realize what coffee means to you.

I hated it when I was young, but then espresso and cappuccino and dashing Italian waiters arrived in London and I was converted.

Now I live in a coffee-drinking country where tea is generally considered to be a health option rather than a pleasure per se. The Greeks have been drinking herbal teas for thousands of years, and recent discoveries about the properties of such teas have simply reinforced their conviction that they were always right!

My mother-in-law’s remedy for an upset stomach was of course chamomile tea, but she also recommended it for eye infections, in kittens as well as humans, and as a hair rinse. It has cosmetic and therapeutic qualities and makes a wonderfully relaxing bath – but you need an awful of teabags for that.

Chamomile deserves a blog of its own – but there are plenty of those out there in cyberspace already. I like this quote from one such blog, regarding the magical properties of chamomile:

‘ Cunningham’s Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs states: “Chamomile is used to attract money and a hand wash of the infusion is sometimes used by gamblers to ensure winnings. It is used in sleep and meditation incenses, and the infusion is also added to the bath to attract love.”

Even the most modern Greeks believe in the curative properties of what they call ‘tsai tou vounou ‘ (mountain tea) – the stalks, leaves and flowers of ironwort. This, as well as  sage (faskomilo), mint (menta), lemon verbena (louisa) and linden (tilio) are sold everywhere, but Greek people, with their passion for freshly gathered food, prefer to find and pick their own.

Olive leaves are so full of healthy properties that they too could almost be considered magical – read this quote:

‘This herbal tea is most commonly used to fight colds, flu, yeast infection, shingles and herpes. The leaves are also said to have anti-inflammatory, anti fungal and antibacterial properties. It may also help ward against premature aging and other diseases. It is also good for the heart. It has shown to reduce cholesterol. Olive leaves are especially potent when used in combination with other antioxidants.’ It was also used as a cure for malaria!

I should point out here that some herbal teas have side effects and may not be suitable for everyone, for example for people taking medication for high blood pressure, or for pregnant women. You should always check with a doctor first.

Back to coffee – a coffee break would be nice right now, but I am out of the stuff as I said at the start of this blog! Too early for a g and t substitute I’m afraid…

Coffee may not be able to claim the medicinal properties of herbal teas. But living in Corfu teaches you that it makes an excellent wasp-deterrent (burn the coffee on a small dish and place it somewhere close to where you want to sit).

In the sixties, when I first came to Greece (you’d better get used to hearing that phrase on this blog!), everyone drank Greek coffee. It was called tourkiko, a name which for political reasons became unpopular and is now rarely used. In fact, this type of coffee, very finely ground, brewed in a special pot called a briki and served in tiny cups, is common to all countries at the eastern end of the Mediterranean.

No other kind of coffee was served in Greek households in those days, but at cafes such as those on the Liston in Corfu, where foreigners had to be catered for, Nescafe was available. Curiously, the waiter would bring a tray to your table, bearing a cup filled with rapidly cooling hot water and a small, opened tin of Nescafe with a spoon in it, plus the obligatory glass of cold water. You were expected to heap the required amount of coffee into your cup and then the waiter would remove the tin with a small bow.

There was also another unusual way of making a cup of Nescafe, one that had such delicious results that people started copying it at home. A teaspoonful of coffee and one of sugar was added to your cup by the waiter, at the table, and then a tiny amount of hot water. Very vigorously, the waiter would then beat the coffee and water to a mocha-coloured paste, to which hot water was slowly added. The result looked like cappuccino and had a different and rather subtle flavour. With the passage of time, this little service disappeared – too labour-intensive to be profitable.

Nescafe was also served sprinkled over vanilla ice cream, in yet another of the Liston specialities.

Nowadays it is always referred to as ‘Nes’ and few Greeks could survive the heat of summer without frequent shots of ‘frappe’, something to which foreign visitors soon become addicted. So much so, that it comes as a bitter shock to find that frappe is not known in other hot countries, as my friend Julie has found to her sorrow in the Maldives.

Everyone has heard of the Japanese tea-making ceremony, but fewer people, perhaps, realize that there is a very precise Greek coffee-making ritual. Special equipment is required, in the form of a particularly finely ground coffee, a briki in which to brew it and something with which to stir it. The briki was originally made of copper or brass, with a tin lining, but is now to be found in more modern metals, though as far as I know no-one has yet invented a Greek coffee making machine. Making a good Greek coffee requires a delicacy of touch and an ability to judge appearance accurately that no machine could equal. (Having said this, a chance google informed me that there is indeed a Greek coffee-making machine on the market, but I remain unconvinced about its efficacy). A particularly small hob is also a necessity – Greek cookers, gas or electric, usually have a tiny hob specifically for making coffee that has often confused foreigners coming to live in Greece as to its function. Small camping gas units are also popular, for Greek coffee needs the control of heat that only gas can provide.

It’s all about the bubbles you see – the froth, or lack of it, on top. This froth is called kaimaki – not to be confused with kamaki which is an entirely different ballgame. My Greek brother-in-law used to tease me by asking me to make him a coffee ‘poli gleeko me theeo fooskes’ which means ‘very sweet with two bubbles’. No, I am not joking. Such precision can only be achieved with practice.

Eventually my kind-hearted sister-in-law showed me how to make coffee the Greek way. The crucial moment comes when the froth begins to rise up the sides of the briki. If you want a thick froth on top of your coffee, you remove the briki from the heat there and then, if you do not want any froth at all you let it boil. And yes – you can control how many bubbles of froth are left.

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I spent a great deal of time in Athens in those far-off days – an Athens very different from what it has now become. It was still a small city, its way of life poised between pre-war Europe and the Middle East. I had been ‘adopted’ by a sophisticated group of people whose conversations were carried out in a seamless mix of Greek, Arabic and French, with – as a polite concession to me – some English. On mornings when I was actually in the city, I seemed to be part of a crowd that moved from one office, cafe or bar to the other, engaged in a mysterious occupation called ‘business’, but as I had never seen it conducted in Britain. In those days, you would see men with briefcases sitting at a café table for hours on end, apparently interviewing a succession of people – always other men, of varying ages and types. They were lawyers, who conducted their legal practice at a café, rather than pay rent for an office. This was something which had probably been going on since the days of Ancient Greece, when business of all kinds would have been conducted in the Agora.

We sat at elegant café tables in Syntagma, drinking something you could only find in Athens at that time, called French coffee. We moved to one of the small coffee shops in the surrounding streets, where the clientele was expected to stand up and lean on a counter, sipping from a tiny cup of very strong Brazilian coffee, brewed in fizzing, bubbling contraptions not unlike espresso machines. If you told a friend then that you were going for a Brazilian, believe me – it had nothing whatever to do with depilation!

(Most of the coffee consumed in Greece at that time came from Brazil, and indeed many Greeks had made fortunes growing and processing it.)

Greek offices could not function without coffee. While automatic coffee machines are popular now, and many people have adopted the American habit of buying a coffee ‘to go’ on the way into work, the sight of a waiter dodging traffic and pedestrians, gracefully and with effortless confidence swinging a tray with long handles, filled with small cups, a briki of coffee and glasses of water, is still to be seen.

The subject of coffee is endlessly interesting – it has been around a lot longer than you may realize, and over the centuries has brought people together for pleasure and for profit. You can drink a coffee in Greece indoors or outdoors. You may be seated on an uncomfortable wooden chair outside a traditional cafeneion, listening to the clatter of backgammon counters, or you could be sprawled on a low sofa in swish contemporary comfort. Once there was a very restricted choice – Greek coffee or Nes? Today you have to choose between espresso, cappuccino, freddo, fredocini, latte, frappuccino, mocha, macchiata and many more including for all I know machiavelli.

Perhaps my favourite used to be served up to me on chilly days by my friendly neighbourhood cafeneion proprietor, Dina. It earned me startled looks from my friends, and approval from the locals who admired my spirit. It was strong Greek coffee to which a slug of ouzo or tsipouro had been added. Guaranteed to warm your cockles as my mother used to say.

Coffee mornings are one of the pleasures of winter in Corfu – and thank goodness an invitation to one has turned up just in time. I can hardly wait!