The waiter picks up the plate and bounces it on the paper table cloth dislodging the prawn heads. At the nearby table the bloke withe the Hollister t-shirt and the 30 something with low slung bazookas are dipping their forks into the salad between drags on their fag. The bloke next door picks up his t-bone and takes a surreptitious bite. Knives and forks are all very well, but when the occasion takes you....
Eating in France has a touch of sophistication, in Italy it is a touch frenetic whereas in Greece it's laid back and ordered. You sit down and the paper table cloth, iced water and bread basket suddenly appear. You order drinks "a half kilo of wine, two beers and an ouzo" which appear as you peruse the menu. Greek salad, fried calamari, fava beans, sardines, tzaziki, beetroot salad ~ it may be supplemented by other dishes but remains the same no matter where you dine. Chips are perennials as is fetta, either fried or prominent as an oregano sprinkled slab on top of your salad.
The Mediterranean water laps at their feet while Greek families recline in the hot sun under umbrellas in various states of undress. Babies, millennials, big mamas and papas gingerly step over stony beaches before immersing themselves, and happy in their own skin, bob about conversing in hats. Occasionally, they will be required to move their possessions as sudden tidal surges occur threatening thongs and things. Don't bother getting dressed for lunch, don't even dry yourself. Dripping, you know the fish will be as briny as you, and that salad will be fresh and crisp.
Sitting in the shade sipping my spritz, I notice two Patsy clones, sunglasses perched on their artfully dressed tresses, discussing the season with a sugar daddy in a pink shirt. A street vendor toting umbrellas and sunglasses approached their table. Tolerated by cafes, vendors are a part of life. Expecting the brush off, I was surprised when Pats#1 engaged the down at heel vendor and examined his wares. She didn't purchase anything but she gave him the time of day.
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