Zorba's Taverna: The Trouble With Goats and Mayors, page 6
She’d stand there, quiet at last. Arms folded. Breath steady. And I swear, for a moment, she’d close her eyes and breathe in so deeply you’d think she was filling her lungs with Greece itself. Not the glossy postcard Greece, but the real one, the Greece built from grief and gossip, garlic and goats, the Greece that smells of sea salt and bureaucracy and never quite dries in the sun.
She held that Greece tight, fiercely protective of its unruly soul and deeply suspicious of anything with a stamp, a slogan, or a municipal budget.
So when we whispered our idea, just a little campaign, a gentle nudge to get Spiros to run, she slammed her glass onto the table, growled something unprintable in Greek, and announced that if we’d finally lost our minds, we could lose them somewhere else.
Then she stood, marched to the shoreline, and glared at the Aegean until even the waves seemed to hesitate.
No one spoke while she was gone.
Claude stopped mid-gesture with his wine glass.
Maria froze with her pen over her notebook.
Even Katerina, who had been chewing on a chair leg, paused and looked nervously towards the sea.
When she returned, sand clinging to her heels and the sea still muttering behind her, she stopped at the edge of the square. She looked at the old men playing cards, the women trading herbs and opinions, the kids drawing hopscotch lines in the dust.
And then she sighed, the deep, theatrical sigh of someone who knows she’s about to say yes to something she’ll regret.
“If we must fight to stay real,” she said, “then fine. I’ll stand with you. But no posters. No slogans. And if anyone says the word ‘manifesto’, I’m flipping a table.”
Chapter Eight
The Proposal (and the Goat’s Approval)
The prospect of the new mayor being elected hung in the background like the smell of overcooked cabbage: unpleasant, lingering, and not quite serious enough to act on just yet. Spiros’s nomination papers, quietly filed by Eleni weeks ago, ensured his unwitting candidacy was already in motion. For now, the village cooperative had done all they could do; the elections were still a couple of months away. That particular headache could wait.
For now, we had other things to worry about.
Mary received proposals daily. It had become as routine as the wine order or Alex swearing at the fridge. Tourists left their numbers scribbled on napkins. Locals offered goats, fishing boats, and, once, a karaoke machine. She accepted none of it. She smiled, handed over the bill, and moved on. Gracefully. Uninterested. Unshakeable.
But this time… something was different.
This time, the proposal hadn’t come to Mary directly.
It had come through the weakest link: Theodora. Her mother.
Theodora, whose maternal instincts had gone fully weaponised since Mary turned thirty, saw every eligible man as a potential future son-in-law. She viewed every child in the village as a missed opportunity to have one of her own to spoil rotten, leaving them sugar-high and gloriously defiant.
She wanted Mary married. Not eventually: soon. Yesterday would have been ideal.
She wanted grandchildren to chase around the lemon grove, small enough to sit on the counter and big enough to complain about the olives. She wanted someone to teach her moussaka recipe to, someone who wouldn’t even attempt to pronounce béchamel, just eat it, wipe their face with their sleeve, and call her Yaya.
Preferably a girl. With wild curls and strong opinions, who’d sneak spoonfuls of the sauce, track muddy footprints through the kitchen, and still somehow get away with murder.
She wanted a future that smelled like cinnamon and roasted lamb. A future with someone to roll out filo pastry with, to argue with about salt, to feed until they couldn’t move. Greece doesn’t do arranged marriages. Not officially. No, Greece has introductions. Encounters. The kind of romantic ambush your family insists is fate but feels more like a hostage situation with spanakopita. This is typically how it begins, the way all great conspiracies do in Greece: with a coffee and a whisper. Not a dramatic whisper. Not even a juicy one. Just a mild, conspiratorial murmur that rides on the steam from burnt sugar and inherited opinion.
“She’d be good for him,” someone says, stirring her coffee clockwise for good luck.
“He’s a good boy,” another agrees, folding her newspaper with the finality of a judge declaring a sentence.
“She’s the right age,” adds a third, which is not a compliment so much as administrative approval.
And just like that, with no votes, no formal introductions, no official paperwork, no announcements, and absolutely no input from the people involved, a romantic union is quietly launched into orbit. An invisible shift in the atmosphere, like the change in pressure before a summer storm. And suddenly, everyone except the couple in question knows that they are, in fact, now on a collision course with marriage.
Because this is not democracy. Not even close.
This is yiayia-cracy – a form of government that predates the Parthenon, ignores the Constitution, and has absolutely no tolerance for delay, hesitation, or personal autonomy.
Forget ballots and forums. This is decision by collective intuition, hammered out across hair salons, kafenia, basil-trimmed balconies, and the slightly aggressive silence of Sunday communion.
Then they begin the sightings.
The couple is not allowed to know they’re being observed, of course. But somehow, every encounter is reported.
“They walked past each other by the olive press.”
“He helped her carry tomatoes.”
“She let him off without yelling when he dropped the tomatoes.”
Proof, obviously, that love is blooming.
The young man, oblivious, probably trying to remember if he paid his electricity bill, becomes a marked man.
The young woman, possibly just looking for the cat, is now “spoken for” in whispers and winks.
And from there, it escalates.
Menus are adjusted. Seating arrangements are manipulated. Plates of food “accidentally” arrive in pairs. Bouzouki music, which had taken a seasonal break, returns mysteriously to the playlist.
Yiayias begin to send plates of pastries to the boy “just in case he’s hungry”, using the opportunity to watch his reaction. He eats. He compliments the cinnamon. One yiayia faints with satisfaction. The others call it fate.
He does not know that accepting a koulouri from the wrong old woman can be legally binding.
He doesn’t stand a chance.
The girl, meanwhile, has noticed nothing. Or pretends not to. Or maybe – just maybe – smiles slightly when his name comes up. This, of course, is interpreted as a vow.
“She smiled,” someone says, peering from behind a hydrangea.
“It’s done,” replies the other. “The banns can be mentally posted.”
By this stage, the couple has achieved pre-married status.
Unofficially married. Officially clueless.
Every room they enter together goes silent.
People stare with the smiling intensity of those who believe they’re witnessing destiny and are wondering what to wear to the wedding.
The couple stands awkwardly beside each other, holding glasses, talking about cheese prices, while the crowd practically hums with anticipation.
And then it happens.
Some well-meaning aunt – there’s always one – leans in and says, “You know, you’d make a beautiful couple.”
And just like that – snap – the spell is broken.
They look at each other.
He raises an eyebrow.
She laughs.
There is a pause.
The kind of pause that makes you wonder if the ancient yiayia magic worked after all.
And if it didn’t?
No matter.
The village will try again next summer.
After all, they have infinite time, unlimited coffee, and a list of eligible candidates longer than the electricity bills.
The yiayias are not simply matchmakers. They’re architects of destiny. Armed with lace shawls and lethal instincts.
And if you ask them how they know it’s meant to be, they’ll sip their coffee, glance over their glasses, and say, “I just know.”
Which is, of course, the most terrifying kind of certainty.
And then one day, a man arrives. No fanfare. A man like any other, inexplicably appearing in your home at the exact time you’re wearing yesterday’s shirt and holding a toilet brush. He’ll be described as “a friend of the family” or “your cousin’s neighbour’s godson from Melbourne”. You’ve never met him. He smiles too much. He speaks Greek like he learned it from apps and romantic comedies. And yet, suddenly, everyone is acting like you’ve been dating for years.
“Sit with him,” your aunt says, already dragging a chair.
“Talk. You’re both young. He eats cheese! You eat cheese! That’s a foundation!”
And you sit. You chat. Because in Greece, you don’t cause a scene unless it’s at a baptism. You’re polite. You smile. You mentally plot your escape route.
Meanwhile, the campaign accelerates. Aunties begin ironing tablecloths for no reason. Your mother dusts the good plates, the ones she once said she’d only use for your engagement party, and mysteriously appears to be using… now. The goat is given a bath. Something is happening. Something ominous.
And meanwhile, you’re still wondering how this man knows your name and why there’s a new jar of imported olives in the fridge. You try to confront someone, anyone, but they just smile too broadly and say, “He’s a good man.” As if that settles it. As if you are the one being unreasonable.
The final straw usually arrives with a shrug. Maybe it’s the man himself who casually refers to “our future”. Maybe it’s a toast you didn’t realise was about you. Maybe it’s your great-aunt pulling you aside and whispering, “We’ve booked the band, koukla, just in case.”
And you realise, with a clarity that’s both comedic and terrifying:
You are betrothed. By committee. Without consent, contract, or basic conversational forewarning.
This is not coercion; it’s tradition. It’s not pressure; it’s love.
And if you object, someone will hand you a pastry and say, “Give him a chance. He’s got a good heart. And he has his own teeth.”
Because in Greece, arranged marriages technically don’t happen. But if they did, this is exactly how they’d happen.
***
So when the message came, via email, via WhatsApp, via whatever device had the strongest signal and the weakest filter, Theodora opened it with the gravity of a woman about to read a prophecy.
She printed it. She underlined it. She read it out loud while making dolmades.
“It’s from your cousin’s cousin in America,” she announced. “His name is Andonis. He has a good job. He wears shoes in every photo. He’s serious.”
Mary looked worried.
“He sent you a proposal,” Theodora said, eyes gleaming. “A real one.”
“I get real ones every couple of days,” Mary said, not looking up from her coffee.
“This one is through me,” Theodora said triumphantly, as if this granted the whole thing divine legitimacy. “It’s a family connection. Which means he’s not a stranger; he’s just someone you haven’t met.”
“Perfect,” Mary replied. “Exactly the kind of modern romance I’ve been waiting for.”
But it was too late. Theodora was already humming. Planning. Visualising a wedding with lamb, lace, lemon biscuits and koufeta. She had waited years for this moment. And this time, she wasn’t backing down.
Mary, meanwhile, took a long, slow sip of her coffee, and began plotting her defence.
Because this wasn’t just a proposal. It was an ambush. And the enemy had gone through her mother. Or possibly through an uncle’s cousin’s friend who still uses fax. The exact method was unclear, because Theodora presented it as if it had arrived on parchment carried by a dove wearing a tiny engagement ring.
“Is this a marriage proposal or a livestock auction?” Alex asked.
“He owns a car that parks itself!” Theodora added, triumphant.
“Does he park himself?” Mary asked, dryly.
So, no, in Greece, marriages aren’t officially arranged any more, but the system has simply evolved, into something subtler, slipperier, and far more dangerous.
The boy, Andonis, though he now called himself Andy, was twenty-eight, clean-shaven, well-spoken, and, judging by the deeply untrustworthy photograph Maria forwarded, devoted to two things: protein shakes and his own reflection.
He claimed he wanted to reconnect with his roots.
He claimed he wanted to find a nice Greek girl.
He claimed he wanted to get married on the island and “give back to the culture”.
What he really wanted, we suspected, was a beautiful wife who could dance, cook, and produce photogenic children while never asking too many questions about where, exactly, his “cryptocurrency consultancy” was based or why it had a Cayman Islands PO box.
Theodora was thrilled, the kind of thrilled that could power the village lights if you wired her up.
Mary was not.
“Absolutely not,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and reaching for her coffee like she was about to deliver a punch but wanted to be properly caffeinated first.
“He’s family,” Theodora insisted, as though that settled everything.
“He’s a stranger.”
“He owns three properties!”
“I own one goat,” Mary snapped, “and I trust it more.”
At that precise moment, Katerina the goat bleated softly, then wandered over and nudged Mary’s elbow with what could only be described as moral support.
“See?” Mary said, pointing to the goat like a star witness. “Even she agrees.”
Theodora glared at the goat, then at Mary, then patted Mary’s hand once, firmly, like a judge bringing down a gavel, and turned back to her dolmades.
Maria, sensing this was better than television, took out her notebook and began taking minutes, presumably for her next gossip sheet.
Claude, lounging in the corner, poured himself more wine and announced to no one in particular, “If there is to be a wedding, I demand an open bar, and I’m in charge of the playlist.”
Spiros muttered something about dowries and cigarettes, then returned to his coffee as though he had seen it all before and found it slightly disappointing.
Dimitri, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke up. “If there’s going to be a wedding feast, I’ll need to double my catch. And find someone to keep the dolphins away – they’re scaring away the fish again.”
Even Eleni, who never missed an opportunity to produce paperwork, appeared with a blank marriage application, “just in case”.
It was the closest thing to a blessing we had ever seen: a silent, multi-generational agreement that this match was now officially a village project.
Mary groaned.
Katerina bleated.
And somewhere, far away, Andy posted another gym selfie with the caption #IslandVibes.
By midday, the news had spread. Eleni offered to draft a wedding budget template. Claude offered to officiate, “unofficially, but with flair”. Dimitri offered to test the groom’s commitment by locking him in a shed with a wild boar and a broken chair.
Maria began preparing a “Love Across Borders” feature for her next column, despite having zero quotes and no consent.
Tourists overheard and began asking if they could attend the wedding. There was no wedding. There was no engagement. There wasn’t even a conversation. There was only a hopeful grandmother elect, a photograph, an overeager goat, and the full weight of village momentum.
And Mary? She went back to work.
She delivered the moussaka. She extinguished a kitchen fire. She corrected a tourist’s pronunciation of “souvlaki” with a smile that melted feta. But every now and then, she’d pause. For a second. And we all knew: this story wasn’t over.
Not yet.
Chapter Nine
When the Grill Went Quiet
Zorba still arrives every morning. Just after the bins have been wheeled out and before Claude starts fussing with bunting no one asked for. Not to work. Those days are behind him, though you’d never know it from the way he grumbles into his moustache and examines the moussaka with the quiet despair of a man who had once seen perfection, briefly, in 1983, and now considers everything else a disappointing sequel.
He doesn’t speak much. He doesn’t have to. His eyebrows communicate louder than any voice. A single twitch could mean “needs salt”. Two twitches and a sigh mean “burn it and start again”. A full raise? You’d better run.
Zorba always sits beneath the rusted tin awning at the side of the taverna, in his usual spot, where the breeze hits just right and the view includes the grill, the kitchen, and the sea – all the things that used to answer to him. He quietly nurses a thick coffee and stares at the sea like it has offended him. Observes. Grunts occasionally. Sometimes raises an eyebrow in a way that makes George quietly re-check the seasoning. Like a grizzled oracle, judging portion sizes, and casting silent shade on anyone who dares put parsley where it does not belong. We let him. He has earned it. (And also, he still owns it.)
We pretend he isn’t still in charge. He pretends he doesn’t care. It’s a good arrangement.
But that morning, something was off.
He was late.
Only by a few minutes – and this is Telios, where time flows sideways. But we still noticed.
And when he arrived, he walked slower. Sat down harder. Didn’t grunt at the salad. Didn’t even complain when the goat briefly chewed the corner of a napkin and then walked off, unimpressed.
Alex was the first to notice when he suddenly went pale.
“He’s gone white,” she said, eyes narrowing.
“He’s always pale,” I replied. “It’s part of his aesthetic.”
