My mind’s eye has pastitsio running through it for a number of days now.
I don’t know how it comes into being – the smell, the sight and the craving for a particular type of food. Is it a psychological based need for comfort or some sort of memory that produces the picture in my head? Subliminal advertising – I doubt it. The new cold weather? Maybe so.
It may be that my Aunt, Sister and Mom have all mentioned Never On Sunday in the past week as a possible meeting place for a mini-reunion of sorts. Why Iris and Nick’s place? Never On Sunday has been part of our family culture for almost all of my life. We went there as a family when my Sister and I were teenagers. My Granddad Spivey worked on and off for decades in Athens, Greece and Izmir, Turkey – so I grew up with a history of stories from far away. My Dad was born in Athens, though his life’s journey was in SC and not Greece. I can remember with great accuracy the dinners Granddad, Dad and I had in Never On Sunday. Granddad could still speak a little Greek, Dad’s charm warmed the place and I love Nick’s pastitsio. In fact, throughout my life, pastitsio was the only thing I ever ordered. To this day, Iris doesn’t even give me a menu since my visits are so narrow minded for I go with a craving of both a culinary and historical nature. There is great comfort in the way the food smells at this restaurant as it comes tumbling out of Nick’s kitchen. I have tried other dishes, but it is always pastitsio. I’ve been in Never On Sunday with friends and family so many wonderful times over the years. Iris has chastised me a few times for a date or three not cleaning their plates when I paid at the register. Her “they don’t like my food – you don’t need to be seeing them” comments were a sign of tough, but completely cherished love and it made me feel looked after.
So, this week, I will visit Never On Sunday. Comfort and stories on a plate – it doesn’t get any better.