A Whole Nation and a People

A Whole Nation and a People

By Harry Mark Petrakis

There was one storekeeper I remember above all others in my youth. It was shortly before I became ill, spending a good portion of my time with a motley group of varied ethnic ancestry. We contended with one another to deride the customs of the old country. On our Saturday forays into neighborhoods beyond our own, to prove we were really Americans, we ate hot dogs and drank Cokes. If a boy didnt have ten cents for this repast he went hungry, for he dared not bring a sandwich from home made of the spiced meats our families ate.

One of our untamed games was to seek out the owner of a pushcart or store, unmistakably an immigrant, and bedevil him with a chorus of insults and jeers. To prove allegiance to the gang it was necessary to reserve our fiercest malevolence for a storekeeper or peddler belonging to our own ethnic background.

For that reason I led a raid on the small, shabby grocery of old Barba Nikos, a short, sinewy Greek who walked with a slight limp and sported a flaring, handlebar mustache.

We stood outside his store and dared him to come out. When he emerged to do battle, we plucked a few plums and peaches from the baskets on the sidewalk and retreated across the street to eat them while he watched. He waved a fist and hurled epithets at us in ornamental Greek.

Aware that my mettle was being tested, I raised my arm and threw my half-eaten plum at the old man. My aim was accurate and the plum struck him on the cheek. He shuddered and put his hand to the stain. He stared at me across the street, and although I could not see his eyes, I felt them sear my flesh. He turned and walked silently back to the store. The boys slapped my shoulders in admiration, but it was a hollow victory that rested like stone in the pit of my stomach.

At twilight, when we disbanded, I passed the grocery alone on my way home. There was a small light burning in the store and the shadow of the old mans body outlined against the glass. Goaded by remorse, I walked to the door and entered.

The old man moved from behind the narrow wooden counter and stared at me. I wanted to turn and flee, but by then it was too late. As he motioned for me to come closer, I braced myself for a curse or a blow.

You were the one? he said finally, in a harsh voice.

I nodded mutely.

Why did you come back?

I stood there unable to answer.

What's your name?

Haralambos, I said, speaking to him in Greek.

He looked at me in shock. “You are Greek! he cried. A Greek boy attacking a Greek grocer! He stood appalled at the immensity of my crime. All right, he said coldly. You are here because you wish to make amends. His great mustache bristled in concentration. Four plums, two peaches, he said. That makes a total of seventy-eight cents. Call it seventy-five. Do you have seventy-five cents, boy?

I shook my head.

Then you will work it off, he said. Fifteen cents an hour into seventy-five cents makes “he paused-five hours of work. Can you come here Saturday morning?

Yes, I said.

Yes, Barba Nikos, he said sternly. Show respect.

Yes, Barba Nikos, I said.

Saturday morning at eight clock, he said. Now go home and say thanks in your prayers that I did not loosen your impudent head with a solid smack on the ear. I needed no further urging and fled.

Saturday morning, still apprehensive, I returned to the store. I began by sweeping, raising clouds of dust in dark and hidden corners. I washed the windows, whipped the squeegee swiftly up and down the glass in a fever of fear that some members of the gang would see me. When I finished I hurried back inside.

For the balance of the morning, I stacked cans, washed the counter, and dusted bottles of yellow wine. A few customers entered, and Barba Nikos served them. A little after twelve oclock he locked the door so he could eat lunch. He cut himself a few slices of sausage, tore a large chunk from a loaf of crisp-crusted bread, and filled a small cup with a dozen black shiny olives floating in brine. He offered me the cup. I could not help myself and grimaced.

You are a stupid boy, the old man said. You are not really Greek, are you?

Yes, I am.

You might be, he admitted grudgingly. But you do not act Greek. Wrinkling your nose at these fine olives. Look around this store for a minute. What do you see?

Fruits and vegetables, I said. Cheese and olives and things like that.

He stared at me with a massive scorn. That's what I mean, he said. You are a bonehead. You don't understand that a whole nation and a people are in this store.

I looked uneasily toward the storeroom in the rear, almost expecting someone to emerge.

What about olives? He cut the air with a sweep of his arm. There are olives of many shapes and colors. Pointed black ones from Kalamata, oval ones from Amphissa, pickled green olives and sharp tangy yellow ones. Achilles carried black olives to Troy and after a day of savage battle leading his Myrmidons, he'd rest and eat cheese and ripe black olives such as these right here. You have heard of Achilles, boy, haven't you?

Yes, I said.

Yes, Barba Nikos.

Yes, Barba Nikos, I said.

He motioned at the row of jars filled with varied spices. There is origanon there and basilikon and daphne and sesame and miantanos, all the marvelous flavorings that we have used in our food for thousands of years. The men of Marathon carried small packets of these spices into battle, and the scents reminded them of their homes, their families, and their children.

He rose and tugged his napkin free from around his throat. Cheese, you said. Cheese! Come closer, boy, and I will educate your abysmal ignorance. He motioned toward a wooden container on the counter. That glistening white delight is feta, made from goat's milk, packed in wooden buckets to retain the flavor. Alexander the Great demanded it on his table with his casks of wine when he planned his campaigns.

He walked limping from the counter to the window where the piles of tomatoes, celery, and green peppers clustered. I suppose all you see here are some random vegetables? He did not wait for me to answer. You are dumb again. These are some of the ingredients that go to make up a Greek salad. Do you know what a Greek salad really is? A meal in itself, an experience, an emotional involvement. It is created deftly and with grace. First, you place large lettuce leaves in a big, deep bowl. He spread his fingers and moved them slowly, carefully, as if he were arranging the leaves. The remainder of the lettuce is shredded and piled in a small mound, he said. Then comes celery, cucumbers, tomatoes sliced lengthwise, green peppers, origanon, green olives, feta, avocado, and anchovies. At the end you dress it with lemon, vinegar, and pure olive oil, glinting golden in the light.

He finished with a heartfelt sigh and for a moment closed his eyes. Then he opened one eye to mark me with a baleful intensity. The story goes that Zeus himself created the recipe and assembled and mixed the ingredients on Mount Olympus one night when he had invited some of the other gods to dinner.

He turned his back on me and walked slowly again across the store, dragging one foot slowly behind him. I looked uneasily at the clock, which showed that it was a few minutes past one. He turned quickly and startled me. And everything else in here, he said loudly. White beans, lentils, garlic, crisp bread, kokoretsi, meatballs, mussels and clams. He paused and drew a deep, long breath. And the wine, he went on, wine from Samos, Santorini, and Crete, retsina and mavrodaphne, a taste almost as old as water...and then the fragrant melons, the pastries, yellow diples and golden loukoumades, the honey custard galatobouriko. Everything a part of our history, as much a part as the exquisite sculpture in marble, the bearded warriors, Pan and the oracles and Delphi, and the nymphs dancing in the shadowed groves under Homer's glittering moon. He paused, out of breath again, and coughed harshly. Do you understand now, boy?

He watched my face for some response and then grunted. We stood silent for a moment until he cocked his head and stared at the clock. It's time for you to leave, he motioned brusquely toward the door. We are square now. Keep it that way.

I decided the old man was crazy and reached behind the counter for my jacket and cap and started for the door. He called me back. From a box he drew out several soft, yellow figs that he placed in a piece of paper. A bonus because you worked well, he said. Take them. When you taste them, maybe you will understand what I have been talking about.

I took the figs and he unlocked the door and I hurried from the store. I looked back once and saw him standing in the doorway, watching me, the swirling tendrils of food curling like mist about his head.

I ate the figs late that night. I forgot about them until I was in bed, and then I rose and took the package from my jacket. I nibbled at one, then ate them all. They broke apart between my teeth with a tangy nectar, a thick sweetness running like honey across my tongue and into the pockets of my cheeks. In the morning when I woke, I could still taste and inhale their fragrance.

I never again entered Barba Nikos's store. My spell of illness, which began some months later, lasted two years. When I returned to the streets I had forgotten the old man and the grocery. Shortly afterwards my family moved from neighborhood.

Some twelve years later, after the war, I drove through the old neighborhood and passed the grocery. I stopped the car and for a moment stood before the store. The windows were stained with dust and grime, the interior bare and desolate, a store in a decrepit group of stores marked for razing so new structures could be built.

I have been in many Greek groceries since then and have often bought the feta and Kalamata olives. I have eaten countless Greek salads and have indeed found them a meal for the gods. On the holidays in our house, my wife and sons and I sit down to a dinner of steaming, buttered pilaf like my mother used to make and lemon-egg avgolemono and roast lamb richly seasoned with cloves of garlic. I drink the red and yellow wines, and for dessert I have come to relish the delicate pastries coated with honey and powdered sugar. Old Barba Nikos would have been pleased.

But I have never been able to recapture the halcyon flavor of those figs he gave me on that day so long ago, although I have bought figs many times. I have found them pleasant to my tongue, but there is something missing. And to this day I am not sure whether it was the figs or the vision and passion of the old grocer that coated the fruit so sweetly I can still recall their savor and fragrance after almost thirty years.