Zorba's Taverna: The Trouble With Goats and Mayors, page 17
Mary tried to hide the fishy pan. Claude pasted a sign on the door: “Closed for Metaphysical Recalibration”.
At 10:01 a.m., the inspector arrived.
He wore a grey suit. His shoes didn’t creak, but his eyes did. He walked in and said one word: “Seafood.”
Not “hello”, not “good afternoon”, not even “who’s in charge here?” Just seafood, like a man delivering a verdict.
Word had already reached him, through the harbour master’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s neighbour, who’d overheard the entire debate in the kafenio. By the time the inspector arrived, the story had been through four rounds of retelling and now came with footnotes.
Some said it was a mutated octopus, the result of years of swimming too close to the ferry exhaust. Others insisted it wasn’t an octopus at all but a monkfish that had seen things no monk should ever see. Spiros claimed it was “part fish, part municipal council”, which everyone agreed explained its expression.
We all turned to Dimitri.
“Technically,” he said, “it was a sea… thing.”
“Where is it?”
“In the bin.”
Alex tried to smile. “We serve only recognised fish. Local. Responsible. Alive until moments before consumption.”
“I’ll need to see your freezer,” he said.
“We don’t have one,” I said.
“Then your stock list.”
“Dimitri swims,” said Claude.
The inspector blinked. “This is not protocol.”
“It’s Telios,” Alex said.
There was a silence. Long. Tense. Measured in heartbeats and lemon rinds.
And then Theodora stepped forward.
“Have some beans,” she said, holding out a spoon like a peace offering. “You look hungry.”
He hesitated.
He tasted.
He closed his eyes.
He exhaled.
And in that tiny moment, you could feel bureaucracy buckle.
He left twenty minutes later with three jars of spoon sweets, a thank-you note from Katerina written in goat hoof, and one fewer “formal warning” ticket in his book than when he arrived. So, no, we didn’t get shut down.
Mostly because what remained of Dimitri’s “catch”, after the tourists enthusiastically devoured most of it, was so unidentifiable it could only have been classified with the help of a DNA lab and a priest.
There was no proof it had ever existed.
No fine came.
No one ever named whatever it was Dimitri dragged out of the sea.
But a new house rule appeared in chalk above the stove: “Nothing goes in the pan unless it has fins, gills, or at least a recognisable Latin name.”
Claude painted it on driftwood and nailed it above the door.
And in small print underneath, Alex added: “If it glows, it goes.”
I stood in the corner, sipping someone else’s wine, notebook in hand, watching a glowing seafood cryptid get served next to fries. And all I could think was:
This place.
This ridiculous, beautiful, insane little taverna.
This is home.
Where the wine is homemade, the goat is judgmental, and the menu occasionally hisses.
Just another normal day at Zorba’s.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Stars, Scandals, and
a Man Named Philippe
He was wearing a scarf. That should have been the first clue.
It was thirty-four degrees in the shade, and this man was still committed to his look: head-to-toe linen, a waft of something expensive enough to have its own Instagram account, and a scarf – the kind that didn’t keep you warm so much as announce your profession.
He had chosen the best table, the one under the olive tree where the sunset turned everything cinematic and the breeze tasted faintly of oregano. He sat alone, back straight, cross-legged, expression unreadable.
And he ate.
Slowly. Deliberately. Like he was taking communion.
One bite. Pause. Scribble.
Another bite. Sip. Scribble.
He even photographed the bread, and then the shadow cast by his wine glass, which caught the late light in a way that made our accidental smudges look deliberate.
Maria confirmed it within the hour, armed with a half-loaded web page, a grainy headshot, and the infamous “Do Not Engage” list taped to the fridge.
It was him.
Philippe.
Senior reviewer, Pan-European desk, Global Gastro Guide. The kind of man who could make or break a restaurant with a single phrase: “lacking soul”, or “a triumph of chaos over cuisine”, or, worst of all, “charming in its resistance to seasoning”.
And now, he had come to us.
We froze. We whispered. We rearranged napkins with trembling hands.
Alex nearly fainted when she noticed he was left-handed, a clear sign of refined cruelty.
Dimitri suggested undercooking something on purpose.
Mary threatened to throw salt in her own eye to be excused from service.
But it was too late.
Philippe had already tasted the lentils.
And, God help us, he had smiled.
A Greek smile is the warm, toothy, belly-deep kind that invites you to share in the joke. This was a French smile: the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth, a subtle acknowledgment that what he had eaten was… good.
Then he stood, bowed, and left a card. It said:
“Wonderful. Unspoiled. Worth returning to. –P.”
And beneath it:
Three Stars.
Neatly printed.
Irrevocable.
We stared at it. Half-elated, half-terrified.
Then we erupted.
That night, we celebrated like fools.
We poured wine. We shouted “opa!” Claude began sketching a new logo involving laurels and dramatic serif fonts. Maria drafted a press release titled “From Beans to Brilliance.” Even Theodora smiled, which made us all slightly nervous.
For four hours, we believed we had won.
Then the review went online.
Zorba’s Taverna:
A Wild, Honest Triumph on the Edge of the Aegean
The title alone was a problem.
But the quotes were worse:
“Service that crackles with soul.” (Mary, shouting at Claude.)
“Simplicity that sings.” (Theodora’s lentils.)
“The goat alone deserves an award.” (Katerina. Uncredited.)
There were photos.
Of the food.
Of the olive tree.
Of the hand-painted menu board with the eternal typo (“aubergime”) that was now likely to be preserved forever in online guides.
And then came the final blow: “Book ahead. Worth the detour. Possibly the best-kept secret in Greece.”
Alex threw her clipboard. Claude dropped a spoon in mourning. Dimitri suggested a celebratory drink and was immediately silenced.
Because we all knew.
The bloggers would come.
The influencers.
The linen-wearing lifestyle pilgrims who speak of “sacred simplicity” while demanding almond-based feta alternatives.
We had crossed a line.
Zorba didn’t say much – he never did – but from his usual seat under the tree he muttered a phrase that froze us all: “We’ll lose the soul.”
And he was right. This place had been built out of stubbornness, old recipes, salt, smoke, and the kind of laughter that only comes after a storm. And now it risked becoming curated.
Maria folded the article and placed it under the nearest glass. “Right,” she said. “Meeting. Now.”
And so we gathered.
Claude. Maria. Eleni. Dimitri. Even Father Evangelos, who brought nuts and a notebook.
The courtyard looked serene. The air shimmered like heat. But the tension? You could cut it with a bread knife.
“We can’t stop people from writing things,” Eleni said.
“No,” Alex replied. “But we can stop giving them something to write about.”
Claude leaned forward. “You mean… fight back?”
“Yes,” Alex said grimly. “But not with charm. With chaos.”
So there and then, we decided to make Zorba’s as unappealing as possible.
Day One: The Linen People
“Do you have a QR menu?” asked a man in perfectly coordinated linen, to his partner, who had perfectly coordinated teeth.
Mary handed then a napkin that just said “No”.
Claude handed them a stone from the courtyard. “This is our ordering system,” he told them. “Throw it. Whatever it hits, you eat.”
Katerina wandered over. Mary gestured at her. “She’ll decide for you. She has a nose for moussaka.”
“Is that… it?”
The man put his elbow on the table and it dropped a few inches to one side. “Is the table supposed to wobble?”
Claude looked at them, solemn as a priest. “It represents impermanence,” he said.
Katerina climbed onto the next table, stared at him, and chewed the corner of the napkin until the word No became just a dangling o.
“See?” Claude said. “She approves.”
Day Two: The Wellness Group
“Are the sardines sustainable?” asked a woman in expensive hemp trousers.
“They were alive this morning,” said Mary. “They’re furious.”
“What kind of oil do you use?”
“The angry kind.”
“Do you offer gluten-free moussaka?”
Theodora didn’t even look up. “Do I look like a clown to you?”
One of them cried. They left mid-hummus.
Day Three: The Food Blogger
“I’m here to document authentic culinary experiences,” announced a man with a camera so big it required its own chair.
Alex handed him a single fork.
“No spoon?” he asked.
“You’ll earn it,” she said.
He requested a seat with “optimal light”.
Alex led him to a table directly behind the bins.
He asked about “the chef’s vision”.
Theodora replied, “Hot food. Warm heart. Leave me alone.”
“And the terroir?”
Spiros wandered past. “You want dirt? I’ll get you dirt.”
The blogger left looking like he had been spiritually mugged.
***
By the end of the week, nobody had posted a single reel.
Claude looked wistful. “I miss the shouting,” he said.
“Then shout,” Alex told him.
“It’s working.”
We were fighting back. Not with billboards or slogans or marketing campaigns, but with deliberate chaos, skewed tables, mismatched plates, illegible menus, and one extremely judgmental goat.
The stars would stay.
But so would we.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Man Who Wouldn’t Campaign
With two weeks left until the election, the village was in a frenzy.
There were banners. Flyers. Speeches. A debate scheduled near the lemon grove with backup chairs.
Nichos had even arranged a campaign podcast, which consisted of him talking into a microphone and waiting for applause from Lena.
Meanwhile, Spiros was under a tree.
He wasn’t hiding. That would’ve required effort. He was simply… sitting. In his usual spot, with his cigarette, watching the sea and ignoring history.
“We need to organise something,” Maria said, pacing the taverna like a general without an army.
“He won’t come,” I said.
“Then we’ll take the campaign to him.”
“He won’t speak.”
“Then we’ll quote him.”
“He doesn’t say anything.”
“We’ll interpret the silence.”
The village tried everything:
A friendly meet-and-greet at the kafenio: Spiros arrived late, said “don’t be idiots”, and left.
A proposed photoshoot: he wore his usual shirt and refused to face the camera.
A “Walk and Talk” with voters: he walked. He did not talk.
Even Father Evangelos tried to help.
Now that Spiros had “agreed” to run, in the sense that he hadn’t physically walked away, Father Evangelos took it upon himself to deliver a gentle lecture about service, duty, and representing the people.
Spiros listened, then asked if the priest had any cigarettes.
We tried everything after that. Guilt. Bribery. Claude even turned up with a donkey, a flag, and a half-written campaign anthem that rhymed ouzo with manifesto.
Spiros lit another cigarette, watched the donkey eat half the flag, and said, “This is why democracy fails.”
Nichos, meanwhile, was doubling down.
He’d upgraded to campaign polos. He was offering policies. Plans. PowerPoints.
He even produced a colour-coded voter engagement chart so offensive that Zorba stood up mid-sardine and left the kafenio without a word.
And yet… every time we checked in with the village, Spiros was still ahead.
“You know what it is,” Theodora said, one afternoon. “He doesn’t want it.”
“Exactly,” said Mary. “And that makes him trustworthy.”
Nichos held a rally with finger food and a slide show. Half the crowd left when he used the phrase “municipal brand identity”.
Spiros attended. He sat in the back. He heckled, with a single cough. It brought the house down.
By now, even Spiros was beginning to suspect something had gone terribly wrong.
“I’m doing nothing.”
“Exactly,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes.
“You all think I’m clever.”
“No, no,” I said. “We think you’re… inevitable.”
He groaned, loudly, for emphasis.
As of that day, the campaign consisted of:
One broken sign.
A goat in a ribbon.
An old man with a bench.
And somehow, a real chance at victory.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Zorba Returns (God Help Us)
A fresh article.
A new headline.
And this time, it wasn’t Philippe.
It was worse.
It was Telios.com, the blog beloved by the kind of visitors who arrive in matching linen, speak of “the energy of the land”, and ask if our goat is available for photoshoots.
The title blared, “Zorba’s Taverna: Telios’s Hidden Culinary Gem”, which was rich, considering we had spent the better part of last week trying to make ourselves look distinctly unappealing.
We’d hidden menus, discouraged hashtags, and politely (well, mostly politely) told three separate influencers to go eat at the next village.
And yet, somehow, someone had still eaten here, enjoyed themselves, and written something glowing enough to ruin our peace and quiet.
By lunchtime, it had been shared a hundred times.
By evening, a thousand.
And by the next morning, a line of pilgrims had formed, snaking from the jetty to the taverna door, each clutching the article and quoting lines about “the primal honesty of the grill” and “the transcendental poetry of beans”.
Maria read it aloud. Nobody moved.
Claude made the sign of the cross.
Eleni asked if we could bribe the man to delete it.
Father Evangelos offered to excommunicate him.
Finally, Alex stood up. Her voice was calm. Too calm. “There’s only one way left.”
The courtyard fell silent.
Somewhere, a goat stopped mid-chew.
“We bring back Zorba,” Alex said.
The words dropped into the courtyard like a stone into a well.
Zorba had been retired. Or semi-retired. Or was in voluntary exile, depending on which version of the story you believed.
But every day he still came and sat beneath his tin roof, a cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, watching, silently judging, as though the entire taverna were on probation.
He was the original force of nature behind the kitchen: the man who had built the place with his own hands, seasoned it with his own sweat, and run it on a philosophy of smoke, instinct, and the occasional bellow loud enough to startle the next village into better behaviour.
When Alex explained what we wanted, he didn’t move. He just looked at us – slow, suspicious, the way a saint might look at sinners begging for a second miracle.
Zorba grunted, and laid down his rules.
The Rules of Zorba
No menus. The kitchen decides. You eat what arrives.
No substitutions. “If you ask for almond milk, I will serve you the almond tree.”
No photographs. “The last man who tried is still apologising.”
If you complain, you get more food. Twice as much. Hotter, saltier, louder.
And finally:
“The goat stays.”
(Katerina bleated her approval like a queen reinstating her court.)
That first night, the pilgrims came early, clutching guidebooks, cameras, and expectations.
“Do you have a vegan option?” one asked hopefully.
“Yes,” Zorba said. “Wine.”
Another tried to order grilled chicken.
Zorba shook his head. “Chicken orders you.”
Then the food arrived.
Fish came still glaring, as if personally offended by the cooking process.
Beans were so smoky they stained the walls and possibly the air.
Meatballs landed on tables with a force that made glasses rattle.
At first, the pilgrims looked horrified.
Then they tasted the food, and everything changed.
The taverna erupted into something primal: plates scraped clean, wine poured recklessly, strangers laughing like cousins at a wedding.
Even Claude forgot himself and danced with a chair.
