It's Greek to me....

After an afternoon of listening to a beautiful CD of Greek music (a gift from my friend "F" up in NY) I met my friend "A" for dinner tonight and we went to a local Greek restaurant. Wonderful little place in Clear Lake called "The Greek Deli." As soon as you walk in the door, the aroma of home-cooked foods just hugs your soul and you know whatever comes out of the kitchen will be great. Lucky for us, there is another Greek restaurant not far away, in Kemah, called "Skipper's." The same thing happens there when you walk in the door-- the aromas from the kitchen just wrap around you and invite you to quickly find a table and look at the menu.

When we moved to Texas, I didn't think we would be able to find a Greek restaurant. Like all "Yankees," we thought that Houston would be filled with cowboys and horses and cows. So wrong. Downtown Houston has many fine Greek restaurants, and we've tried just about all of them. But for a quick neighborhood dinner out, "Skippers" and "The Greek Deli" have everything from lemon soup to baklava. And then some. And they're just as good, if not even better, than the fancy downtown spots.

All these years of going to Greek restaurants and I still can't walk into one without thinking of Lou. Dear Lou. He owned a little coffee shop (he spelled it shoppe) up in Long Island, NY. With its antique wood and brass fixtures, original soda fountain, and vintage stained glass windows, Lou's was a well-preserved relic of 'old New York' in the middle of Long Island. I went there for lunch every day when I was working at the library. Sometimes, I would go for dinner also, rather than going straight home to my apartment and cooking for myself. (Those were the pre-married days.)

Lou's coffee shop served breakfast, lunch and dinner. His customers became more than friends, they became part of his family. Lou would get into the store, as he called it, around 4:30 every morning. He'd get the soup going (Thursdays was always split-pea day), then he'd get the muffins baking, then get started on the day's special. Always a different kind of meat for each day, with potatoes or rice and vegetables. And on really special days, he'd make one of his Greek meals. Spanakopita.... moussaka.... or pastitso. I don't eat meat, so the spanakopita was my favorite. And those of us who loved it would hope that it didn't sell out on the day he made it so there would be some left for the day after.

When I knew we would be leaving NY and moving to Texas, I begged Lou for his spanakopita recipe. He didn't want to give it to me, for the simple reason that he never gave out his recipes. I begged and pleaded for a few days, then gave up. But during my last week up in NY, when all my boxes were packed and the moving van was booked, I figured I'd give it one last try. I told Lou to have a heart... I said I'd be going to Texas, where the only thing they probably did with spinach was put it in a dip. (So I thought.) I told him I was moving there to live, not to open a Greek restaurant. He was worried that I'd be giving out his recipe to everyone "out west." I told him that Texans eat beef, not spinach, so they wouldn't even care. The spanakopita-gods were with me. Lou told me to get my pen and paper out because he wouldn't tell me twice.

Lou and I sat there, in the last booth on the left side of his store, not a soul in the place except his son, and that man whispered the ingredients to me as I wrote them down. Then he told me his method-- the order in which I was to add each item to the mix. Each word whispered so softly that I had to bend myself over the table to the point that I was no longer sitting on the seat. When he was done, he told me "There it is. Save it. Keep it to yourself."

I've made spanakopita a thousand times. I've shared the recipe with no one, and I don't plan to. How could I? All I see when I make spanakopita is Lou's face as he sat across from me in that booth, whispering ingredients and telling me to keep it a secret. My spanakopita can't hold a candle to Lou's. It's good, mind you, but Lou just had that special touch that I guess I haven't discovered yet.

Lou's best spanakopita was made for a wedding dinner. The dinner to celebrate the day my husband and I got married. During all those lunches and dinners I had in Lou's store, he would tell me to "Get married, get married, for goodness sake, and I'll make you a dinner and a party. Right here in my store."

When I first met the man who would become my husband, he invited me to lunch. He wanted to drive me out to Jones Beach for seafood. I met him in December. Was this man out of his mind? We were on Long Island, not Key West. And besides, did he think I'd get in a car with him and drive all the way out to the beach? I'd never seen this person before. I told him I'd meet him for lunch, but I asked him to meet me at Lou's. I got there early, so I could sit in that back booth. Lou could see the booth from the little window looking out of his kitchen. I figured if this guy was some kind of lunatic, Lou would be the first one to see.

That day wasn't a spanakopita day at Lou's. It wasn't even a split-pea soup day. We both ordered omelets. Lou made great omelets. I never found out how he kept them so fluffy. After I got the spanakopita recipe out of him, I wasn't about to press my luck.

My date and I talked for hours. Talked for so long that our omelets got cold and we didn't finish them. Lou stuck his head out of his little window. "Something wrong with those omelets?" Another half-hour went by and Blanche came over to the booth. "Something wrong with those omelets?" (Blanche was Lou's left hand in his store. His son was his right hand. Blanche greeted customers and knew everyone and added a gracious woman's touch to Lou's store. She worked the cash register and just plain made everyone feel at home. Lou's son worked the tables. He knew everyone so well that he had a fresh cup of tea or coffee ready for you just as you took your last sip of the first one. Lou's 'store' was a well-oiled machine that never broke down.)

The first day that I went into Lou's for lunch, after the non-omelet-eating lunch date, Lou stuck his head out of that little window in his kitchen that gave him a perfect view of the whole shop. "That guy who let the omelets get cold? Marry him. I'll make you a wedding dinner. Spanakopita, moussaka, whatever you want."

Two years later, we did get married. And we had our wedding dinner in Lou's store. In all the years of going to that coffee shop, never had I seen it so sparkling. Don't get me wrong-- it was always spotlessly clean. But the day of our wedding dinner, there wasn't a fingerprint on any of the brass fixtures, nor a smudge on the stained-glass windows. The soda fountain gleamed. The wood display cases were dazzling. The floor was so polished up that you could see your reflection. Linen tablecloths and napkins and fresh flowers had transformed a coffee shop into a wedding palace. We had such a beautiful night surrounded by our friends and family.

And the food..... Greek food lined the buffet table from end to end. A Greek feast indeed. Lou and his son were dressed in black and white, with bow-ties and jackets. I don't think I'd ever seen Lou with such a close shave. He was positively beaming. My husband and I sat in the same back booth for our wedding dinner that we had sat in for our first lunch. My best friend "A" had arranged to have our wedding cake made in the shape of a fan, going along with the Victorian theme of our day, and matching the fan I carried instead of a bouquet. Lou sliced that beautiful cake like a surgeon and served it as if it were made of gold. As he gave me a slice, he whispered: "That recipe? Memorize it. Don't keep it written down on that paper."

Lou passed away a few years ago. We were living here in Texas. I sent flowers and cards to his family. I called his son and his wife. I didn't go up north for the funeral. I didn't want to see Lou that way. I had gone into his store for lunch or dinner every time we went up to NY to visit family and friends and we kept in touch. I had seen him alive and well. I didn't want my last view of him to be anything other than that. He kept his promise to me. ("Get married... I'll make you a wedding dinner.") I will always keep my promise to him. ("Memorize it.") There hasn't been a time in all these years that I have taken a bite of spanakopita, whether it be his recipe or Skipper's or The Greek Deli's, that I haven't thought of Lou. I can see him beaming still.