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 We
decide to eat in Metropolis. Elaine had heard that Tiris' restaurant has patsa which is a soup made of the intestines
of a pig. Elaine loves it but says it's very important that it is prepared in a very clean place. If it's not as
clean as a hospital that's where you might end up. I suppose you could compare it to those Japanese scorpion fish
that if not cleaned perfectly are deadly poisonous and if a customer dies, the cook is expected to commit hari-kari.
I've had a few experiences with patsa, all of them I was too drunk to know right from wrong.
It's considered working-class food and there are two well known patsa restaurants in the
meat market in Athens. For a time they were the only establishments permitted to be open after two in the morning.
When the clubs and bars would close, people would flock to the patsa places to continue the evening. Bejeweled
women in tight dresses and pretty boys from the discos sat next to butchers whose aprons were splattered with blood.
For awhile patsa was hip as all the young aristocrats from Koloniki stood in line for a seat so they could eat
what we called 'shit-soup', which is what it tasted and smelled like. In fact, if it was not made carefully that's
what it was. Before long Patsadidikos popped up everywhere. There were even signs a restaurant could buy that said
WE SERVE PATSA. If placed in the window the restaurant could stay open all night. I thought of opening one in Koloniki
and a few in Mykonos. How far would the trendy status-seeking young Greek yuppies go? If eating shit became fashionable
would they do it?
So tonight's dinner plans hinge upon the availability of Elaine's patsa. There is a rumor
going around Paralia that it's going fast and there are only two orders left, so Elaine, with the help of Anastasia's
mother, phones Tiri's and reserves a bowl for herself. It is imperative that we leave soon or the horrible soup
risked evaporation, or should they take it off the stove, congealment, turning it into a sticky fat paste that
no self-respecting patsa lover would dare to eat. Elaine and Andrea stand up to leave the bar, for their apointment
with the tripe.
"You have to come with us because neither of us have the strength to push Amarandi's stroller up the hill."
They tell me.I start to get up but realize that the thought of a steaming bowl of intestines would be inspiration
enough to get all three of them up to the top and not enough to get me out of my chair. I order another ouzo for
myself and a gin for Kosta Monemos and we work on our plan to flood the American market with Kyparissi carob pods.
After awhile I suggest we start towards Metropolis. My brother James is rebellious. "We'll
go when we are ready. I don't see why we should hurry and let Elaine's obsession with Patsa influence our eating
schedule." He says.
He's right in a way and I continue talking to some Montreal Kyparissiotis girls who were
thinking of moving to Greece forever. But my heart isn't into the conversation. All I can think about is the trouble
I will be in when I arrive an hour late for dinner. I try again, this time targeting Mitch whose willpower is weakening
with every setback to his plan to leave Kyparissi. He is now a shell of himself and is easily convinced to begin
the journey to Metropolis. James and Joan look uncertainly at each other and fall into step. The rebellion is over.
When we get to Metropolis we are met at the top of the hill by Andrea. They have a table
at Tiris but have yet to be served. The place is a madhouse and half the people there are watching the Greece-Australia
game and could give a crap about patsa.
We decide to eat at Boney Maroney's, partly because I feel guilty about our last meal there
when I had run from the restaurant after Andrea's sneak attack. I feel I owe it to Lula to eat there at least once
this summer. Surprisingly there is no argument from Andrea with the only stipulation being that I take Amarandi
with me, which I do. It's a good thing too because for the forty-five minutes it takes to order and eat she is
our only entertainment. I look around and the place is filled with large parties of Greek-Canadians waiting for
their meat and potatoes, and drinking Pepsi, each one with a bowl of patsa! I can't believe it. Elaine is suffering
across the road, in the crowded sweltering hellhole, fighting for the dregs, while here the patsa is flowing freely.
"God bless your hands, Lula", they toast the creator of the magical soup that is
filling them with joy. I realize that just as Sunday was Revithia day in Sifnos and everyone ceremoniously ate
the delicious chickpea stew, in Kyparissi, Saturday is the traditional Patsa night. Afterwards, drunk and full
of the fortifying innards soup they will go to the disco and dance til five in the morning, continuing to toast
Lula with glasses of whisky at $75 a bottle, mixed with Coca-Cola. I explain what is happening for the benefit
of Mitch, James and Joan but when Lula eventually comes to take our order not one of us has been inspired enough
by my talk about patsa to order it. She shakes her head sadly and returns to the kitchen.
Return to Patsa
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