During my recent travels between Athens, Santorini and Paros, I was often greeted in Greek before the host realized they’d mistaken me for a local. I like to refer to myself as “ethnically ambiguous,” as my identity is often assumed based on the environment. The assumption even comes with perks — one host informed me my outward appearance might get me a fair price for a taxi (until I spoke). Because I don’t speak Greek, and in fact, I know zero people who do. My inability as a polyglot came to the forefront as my wife and I embarked on our trip to the country of Greece, from which the town of my teenage adolescence received its namesake. Yes, the town of Greece in Monroe County is not so named out of coincidence. Originally a part of Gates, Greece was partitioned off and named in solidarity with the then-ongoing Greek Revolution of 1821.
Traveling internationally is not necessarily new to me. As a child, I visited family in El Salvador. While I was far from bilingual then, today I understand and speak enough Spanish to get by. This recent trip to the Mediterranean, given the aforementioned linguistic concerns, could’ve been different, but most signs featured both the Greek and English spelling, so navigating public transit was straightforward. Everyone we came into contact with spoke English, and restaurants offered dual menus.
It was the many restaurants and tavernas — small, often family-run Greek restaurants — that captivated me more than beautiful vistas. This is where, despite how you looked, the opportunity to eat like a local presented itself to anyone. Sure, English menus were still provided, but unlike some of the more touristy hubs (Plaka in Athens), the options rarely bent to the comfort of the traveler. Unique dishes like squid carbonara from Kapani Market — a deli by day turned vinyl spinning, natural wine joint by night — where the tentacles cosplay as noodles. Then there was a seabass ceviche with kiwi, jalapeno and an avocado cream that took my tongue on a rollercoaster of sweet heat, capped off with a banana rum cocktail that ensured a second visit before our departure back stateside at Anthes Restaurant.
The small traditional mezes at Τ’ Ανείποτα, a small family owned taverna run by a mother-daughter duo which operates as a cafe in the early hours of the day. At night, it’s a dine-in experience akin to coming home from a long days’ work as the evening color palette spills into the narrow alleys of Paros. A basket of warm pita is served sidecar to a small bowl of fava, a traditional dip that renders uncanny similarities in flavor to a dish close to my native home, arroz con gandules. Savory dolmades, dense layers of mousaka, feta wrapped in philo and blanketed in honey — we gladly welcomed the tetris challenge that came with fitting the many small plates on our quaint outdoor table. I expected to enjoy exploring the local food scene, but the reintroduction to a cuisine I thought I understood is something I heavily overlooked.
Back home, I am a local, gifted with the opportunity daily to dine like one (wallet permitting). The aforementioned Greek dishes, and others I haven’t had time or allotted space in this column to dive into, ignited my desire to seek out Mediterranean and Mediterranean-adjacent cuisine in my own backyard and step outside my comfort zone as I so willingly do on foreign soil. Currently, I have my eyes (and fork) set on places like Chortke in Village Gate and their grilled eggplant with black tahini yogurt and a kalamara glaze. The iconic, longstanding Sinbad’s on Park Avenue (which I must shamefully admit I have never visited, despite hearing near-daily praise from my father when we commuted together for over three years). Or digging into a gyro from Voulas while sitting on the patio at their new home on Merchant Road. And lastly, El Greco in East Rochester, to reacquaint myself with the ways Greek wine dances with grilled octopus. The list on this side of the pond reflects that of the other; no shortage. Only this time when I walk in, I am truly a local.
