Although the island is surrounded by the Mediterranean's blue waters, and although the ports of Chaniá, Réthymnon, and Heráklion were busy with fishermen hanging around their boats, it took us two weeks to find a taverna that had fresh fish. And just that long to find I meal I could recommend to you. Before the trip I was a bit concerned about finding decent food. In January I called a stranger in New York (a friend of my friend Eric), who had gone to Crete around Christmas. He told me three things about Crete: 1) many of the residents speak German, but hardly any speak English; 2) you have to be schooled in archaeolo­gy to appreciate the ruins; 3) if you don't like to eat lamb, you're out of luck. (“Unless you're a vegetarian,” he added, parenthetically, with an attitude that immediately cast doubt on all his observations). As it turned out: 1) there were some people everywhere who spoke English; 2) I was fascinated by even the faintest 800-year-old frescoes, by the mere floor-level outlines of rooms built around 1500 B.C., and by the tombs cut 20 or 30 feet deep into a limestone hillside, where Minoan people were laid to rest over 3,500 years ago; 3) even as a carnivore, one would have to be myopic to ignore the alternatives to lamb on the menu: roast pork, chicken souvlaki, and even hamburgers.

The vegetarian fare in Greece offers meals you can linger over, get kinetically involved in, and enjoy at modest expense. Just about every εστιατoριo (restaurant) and ταβερvα (taverna) has good coarse, crusty white bread and house wine or retsina from a barrel (some mildly resinated, some that will take the finish off your fingernails). There are three dips to choose from. Τσατζικι (tsatziki) is a yogurt-cucumber dip, like Indian raita but less salty. Ταραμoσαλατα (taramosalata) is made with fish roe and olive oil and tastes, naturally, fishy and salty. Σκoρδαλια (skordalia) is made with a strong dose of garlic, which, regrettably, Maryl only wanted to eat once. Ντoλμαδες, (dolmades)—hyper-saturated grape leaves stuffed with lemon-garlic rice—are delicious nearly everywhere and are a steal compared to their price at California restaurants. We found σπαvακoπιτα (spanakopita) on the menu only once, and, while good, it was a thin, appetizer-size serving, with only a few leaves of filo top and bottom. At our best vegetarian meal the bread, tsatziki and ouzo was followed by a course of stuffed tomato, filled with delicious rice flavored with lemon and olive oil (extra virgin, I am sure). It came with a bonus of stuffed eggplant, which quite filled me up, even as the house retsina “rose like the sun and vermeiled my mind.”[1]  We ate this at an outdoor table on ΟΔΟΣ ΔΑIΔΑΛΟΥ[2] in Heráklion, a typical narrow promenade where the passersby watched us eating as intently as we watched them strolling. (The effect was spoiled only when a guitar-toting troubadour stationed himself a few shops away and began singing 60s-style folk songs in English.)

Now I return to the promised meal of fish. It was in the middle of our last perfect day, Thursday, 25 March, which is Independence Day in Greece, commemorating the start of the revolt against the Turks in 1822. We were scheduled to fly to Athens mid-afternoon. In the morning we left our bags at the Pension Ilias and walked down the hill to stroll around the old Venetian harbor. (At the Ilias, our only room with a detached W.C., there were no other tenants to spoil the privacy or to force us to check out early.)   As we hoped, everyone in Heráklion seemed to be out of doors on the sunny holiday. We passed battered fishing boats, painted in bright blues and reds. We zigzagged around fishermen on the docks, folding and mending their yellow nets. On the Venetian “mole” we passed families: men in suits, women in dresses, lots of children in bright colors. We passed the Rocca al Mare, the 16th-century Venetian fortress, engraved with a heavily weathered lion of St. Mark. It is one of the few Venetian remains that were not bombed into oblivion by the Germans in World War II and replaced by 20th-century concrete cubes. We walked out along the mole until our perspective broadened to take in the fortress, the harbor, modern Heráklion, and the distant snow-capped northeast slope of Mt. Ida. In all that walking we had worked up a hunger. We climbed the slope back to the foot of “Odos 1822” and aimed in a new direction—toward the Historical Museum—in search of a taverna.

There, tucked in a corner opposite the closed museum, we found our spot. A party of jolly-looking middle-aged Greek diners at one of two outdoor tables with checkered tablecloths drew my attention. From experience we had learned to pounce on an opportunity: natives provided the right ambiance and some testimony to the quality of the food. The proprietor greeted us (in English) and invited us to the kitchen to inspect the offering. Platters of fish caught my eye: three sizes—medium, small, and tiny. “Very fresh,” said the man, pointing to the bloodshot eyes. And indeed they were. We picked one out for the two of us, taking care not to ask for two plates, and asked for the usual accompaniments. From our table out of the hot sun we could see the blue Sea of Crete to the north, between two hotels; we imagined mainland Greece waiting for us beyond the sea. We ceremoniously dipped our bread into the best tsatziki yet and nibbled at a γρεκoσαλατα. A traditional salad in Greece contains tomatoes, cucumbers, purple onions, pungent black olives, occasionally some lettuce, a slice of φετα about the size of a deck of cards, herbs, and lots of olive oil. This was the first that was really exciting. Tomatoes seemed to have suddenly come into season: these were dark red and ripe. The cucumbers were crisp and flavorful. The onions were sweet and not overpowering. And the feta seemed to have curdled straight from the goat's teat. The fish was served whole. We ignored its head and picked flakes of tender, salmon-like flesh away from the spine. I was in heaven. The house wine, though only rosé, rose like the sun and vermeiled my mind. When the γαρσov laid the λoγαριασμoς on the τραπεζι and I saw the total of 5,200 drachmas (more than we paid for any night's lodging), I didn't give it a second glance but happily pulled out my last 5,000 dr. note.