On Thu, 08 May 2008 16:50:09 +1000, Herodotus <peter.hendra@[EMAIL PROTECTED]
>
wrote:
>He
>would look at it proudly for a moment and then, finally, take one
>small sip; drawing up the hot surface cream without his lips actually
>touching the cup; and only one sip mind you. His loud response was
>always a boisterous and effusive: ?Ahhhh!? Then, he would delicately
>replace the cup onto its waiting saucer, turn to the anxious customers
>and, with a very self-satisfied look, give forth with the great
>Greek-Australian epithet: ?Yes pliz??
>
>Many, many times, the rest of the cup of coffee wouldn?t get consumed.
>But, then, it was really the cooking process that brought the great
>sense of satisfaction and, of course, the ?hit? provided by the first
>tiny sip. After that, to continue on would simply mean lowering one?s
>sensations into base oral gratification. Evidently, a connoisseur
>doesn?t need that.
>
This shows a truthful insight about coffee: the ritual of its making
is at least as im****tant as the final product of its making.
After the ritual is done and the first sip approves of it, the rest is
simply ingesting some caffeine.
All within limits of course, as arbitrary as they may be.
>On one level, Dad was a simple, suburban grocer who spoke with a Greek
>accent and perpetuated a stereotype about Greeks in Australia. But, on
>another level, he had a touch of real class."
>
Indeed. I would have liked to witness his performance - and try the
coffee.
This account reminds me of a Greek gyros restaurant I frequented in
Chicago. Three Sons it was called, and at that time I knew Dad, Mom
and the three sons by name. I usually knew when Dad and Mom were
visiting Greece, and took my own vacation from gyros when they were
gone.
Dad had passed his gyros slicing artistry to one son only I think,
since they were the only two who sliced.
As opposed to the typical gyros joints - which I avoided after finding
Three Sons - these fellows cut the meat paper thin, sharpening their
knives on a strop 3 or 4 times in the course of making up one plate of
gyros. The resulting slices were almost transparent.
I always stood by the counter to watch the slicing, and demanded my
suburban friends that I brought there watch with me, paying due
respect. There would be plenty of time later to sit down and eat.
The slicer always received some oohs and aahs from me, which sometimes
incited my friends to be a vocal audience.
And some remained quiet, probably thinking I was nuts.
Getting into the taste difference between this gyros so thinly sliced
and selected from where the flame had properly done its work and the
typical gyros hack job could lead to endless arguments among gyros
connoisseurs, so it's best not to go there, and beside the point.
Suffice it to say that I found it delicious to the last bit.
But I don't really remember the taste. I remember the slicing.
--Vic
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