On the road again traveling around Greece on our BMW motorcycle, I see these low sided ceramic pans out on the ground or on patios wherever we go. They’re round or square and always set in the sun. I notice that there’s a honey-brown colored layer on top of the contents. I mention it to My Fellow. He doesn’t seem interested. Finally, I tell him to pull over next to an old country house.
“We need to take a break and warm up. And I have to know what’s in these pans.”
I remove my helmet, cross the shoulder and walk over to several of these containers that are lined up on top of the low patio wall. As I start to bend over to get a closer look, an old woman comes out of the house and approaches me with a wide toothless grin. She is dressed in the standard Italian and Greek uniform for a woman of a certain age: Black babushka, all black clothing, black stockings and shoes. The uniform may be many different shades of black depending on how many washings and years they’ve been in mourning. Her face is ancient. Tan and wrinkled. But with bright eyes crinkly from her welcoming smile.
I know three words in Greek. Hello. Please. Thank you. I greet her with “hello”. “Yassas!” Her smile gets even bigger. “What is this?” I ask her in English gesturing to the pans in the sun. I raise my hands with what I hope is a questioning maneuver.
“Ahhh. Yiaourti.”
“Yiaourti”, I repeat after her. “Yiaourti.” “Yiaourti.” What is “yiaourti’?
My quizzical expression causes her to dash inside and return with a bowl and spoon. From one of the warm browned pans she scoops some into the small bowl and thrusts it at me.
She whistles, “Parakalo, parakalo,” (please) through her lips.
She urges me to eat with insistent hand gestures. The serving has some of the browned
crust from the top in it.
What do I do now? I started this quest. I can’t be rude but it’s been sitting outside for who knows how long. Have bugs dined on it as well?
I smile at her as she encourages me to try it. Here is where I have to trust a stranger again. I take a small spoonful. A tentative taste.
“OH MY GOD, this is yogurt! It’s the best I’ve ever tasted. It’s incredible. And the brown crust on top is heavenly.” I’m dancing around and yelping this for My Fellow to hear. He doesn’t like yogurt. Good. It’s more for me.
I don’t see any sheep, goats, or cows. I wonder what animal provides the milk to make
this yogurt. I have no idea how to ask this question. I decide to forego the answer.
The lady is cackling now and offering me more which I happily agree to consume. When
I’m sated, I clasp her hands and whisper thank you, “Efcharisto, efcharisto.”
Thinking that I’ve either eaten the food from her family’s table or consumed the proceeds from her yiaourti sales, I offer her some drachmas. I beg her to take them but she refuses. She waves goodbye and I return to the motorcycle to get suited up. After she enters her house, I run back and hide some drachmas under a yiaourti pan.
I know I’ll never forget the taste of this yogurt.
Or the generosity of the Greek people.
When we return to New York City a few years later, yogurt isn’t available. Eventually one
brand appears in stores. It’s just not the same. I research how to make yogurt myself and begin to do so. Instead of the sun to ‘set’ it, I put the small individual glass dishes on the bottom rack in the gas oven, just above the pilot flame. It’s not as great as the original, but my new baby daughter loves it mixed with homemade applesauce.
That’s good enough for me.