Everywhere I went today, people were scanning headlines (in actual newspapers!) about Father Antonios, a celebrated Orthodox priest at the center of a scandal involving his Ark of the World charity. Greek authorities are looking into allegations of sexual and physical abuse against kids in the Ark's residences. Prosecutors are also looking into how the press got wind of the case file, so this is getting juicy.
My thought after visiting any taverna or ouzeri in Athens (aside from wow, my stomach is really distended) is that the cookery exudes a mature confidence. The menus tend to look similar, with kitchen staffs more interested in honing than experimenting. I can't remember ever eating this well in Europe. Granted, in the more expensive northern cities I tend to throw together quick meals on the stovetop ... but still. There's something about the intersection of sun and sea: vine-ripened vegetables, fish just pulled from the Mediterranean, and always these damned flaky cheese pastries leading me to my destruction. While I dine, I jot down observations in a notebook ― the old habit of a newspaperman. I have caught chefs and servers noticing this; it seems to gratify them. Maybe they are just amused. In a Thanksgiving act of solidarity with my countrymen, I went in search of something resembling a turkey dinner. The closest thing I could find was this slowly braised rooster in a fr...
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