April 1992: A Greek Column, Part 2

                                                                                                                                  Haris Vythoulkas

Back in the 1930’s and 1940’s, lots of Greek immigrants worked in, owned, or managed restaurants. Like Irish cops in New York or Boston, they were everywhere. Today, Greeks occupy noteworthy positions in every profession, but the stereotype which took hold decades ago, circa the Twenties and Thirties, refuses to die.

Joke: “What happens when two Greeks meet?”  “They open a restaurant.”

I was well-aware of the stereotype, but not until my father died was I persuaded of its absurdity.

My father was a university professor, a well-educated man with advanced degrees earned at prestigious universities in the United States. His first job was as a professor at The American University in Beirut where I was born; his last, Oberlin College.

Following my father’s funeral in Oberlin in 1962, my mother hosted a reception at our home. I stood by my mother’s side most of the day, greeting guests, politely accepting and thanking them for their condolences. A lady who had known our family for years offered up hers: “I can’t tell you how sad I am,” she said. And then, with a look that could only be described as childishly half-witted, her mouth screwed up in a sort of quizzical grimace, eyelids fluttering with a sort of caged innocence, she asked the following:  “I know George taught at Oberlin, but tell me, please, where is your restaurant?”

To this day, I’ll never forget what my mother said, wishing at once to squelch, but not to offend, “Oh, my dear, we closed that place years ago.”

And so the stereotype persists: all Greeks, regardless of their upbringing and their education, inevitably become involved—somehow, some way—in foodservice (don’t bother: I know, I know, I write about it).

As far as I’m concerned, that’s fine with me. Some of the best, the most competent, and some of the happiest restaurateurs in the country are Greek.

                                                                                                   Marina Nabatova

A few years back, Chicago Tribune columnist and misanthrope, Mike Royko, gave over an entire column to a discussion of dining-out pretentiousness, poking fun, not only at the food (at the time he was bashing nouvelle), but scoring the arrogance and indifference of the help, and concluded that if what you wanted was a meal brimming with food that tasted what it was supposed to taste like —rather than the combinations of mismatched ingredients— and served with love and wonder, your best bet was to dine at a restaurant either serving Greek food or run by Greeks. 

It was my friend, Danny Hountalas—who runs the Cliff House (née, Cliff Chalet) in San Francisco —who years ago said to me, “The first person who opens up a restaurant specializing in nouvelle Greek is going to get a punch in the nose personally from me.”  Which is—is it not?—precisely the point.

There is no tom-foolery in the kitchens of Greek restaurants; no kidding-around in the dining rooms. Greek food (above) is, quite simply, simple food sensibly priced served pleasantly. Sadly and annoyingly countless restaurants have forgotten that. How?  Herewith how: Greek food versus the rest of the world:

You may have noticed that quite recently, if you were paying attention, many restaurants (perhaps you were one of them) lost a lot of money not because their food was bad, but, thinking they had the world by the ass and, therefore, could charge as much as they wanted for everything they prepared and plated, foolishly and shamefully did just that thinking customers, seduced by the façade and pretense of the restaurant’s flim-flams (from oily greeting to obsequious and often imperious service; glitzy décor to flowery menu-course narratives that bore little resemblance to what appeared on the plate), would pay anything at all to be conned by all of this flim-flammery. Not so. Customers did not fall for any of it. Restaurateurs, realizing they had screwed up, who had sloshed through the muck of their flim-flammery, decided something had to be done. So . . .  

. . . in an effort to woo customers back (assuming there were still customers who wanted to be wooed back) restaurants that behaved badly, aware of and tacitly admitting they had flim-flammed, set about changing things: first, they modified—as best they could—their heavy-handed ambiance, then proceeded to drop from their menus all of the courses, from appetizers to desserts, that were labor-intensive, required expensive ingredients (shaved truffles, anyone?) that not only were strange and silly, but messed with customers’ palates. They switched out all of that stuff for less expensive, less labor-intensive courses that pleased palates and were delicious. Owners and chefs assumed you would enjoy the changes—a reincarnation, if you will, of all that is authentic and genuine about dining-out. They were convinced that this latest interpretation of what they honestly believed to be the real thing (while asking you to trust them that it was) would convince you, while apologizing and simultaneously asking you to forgive them for their flim-flammery, that they were—drumroll, please—in the process of (ready for this?) getting back to basics. Uh huh. “Getting back to basics” is how food writers described this newfound “real thing” (aka culinary pretext), its metaphor grounded in the phrase, “meat and potatoes.” 

As this new meat-and-potatoes concept surfaced to amuse a batch of new and old customers eager to be swooned by it, take a moment to note this (this is important): the restaurant’s food and labor costs tumbled, but the menu prices didn’t—at least were not adjusted accordingly—because, for the love of God and a fat bottom line, this was, after all (like it or not, agree or not), a brand new concept (or so it was perceived to be); and, even though it would awe and impress customers, it cost plenty to produce and roll out. That was the rule. Plus ça change. . .and all that. 

We need to pay attention to what’s going on because—stick with me—there still exists today, in certain restaurant circles, a warped idea of what food should taste like and what must be charged for it because the owners and chefs who occupy arcs within these circles honestly believe you’re going to love what they prepare and will enjoy paying for it.

                                                                       J.D.S.

There are no Greek restaurants where such sacrilege takes place. And there never will be. They get it right from the get-go and refuse to deviate from it: see March 1992, A Greek Column, Part 1.