Diporto

Diporto is one of the oldest taverns in Athens. You sit in a cellar in the old town next to huge wine barrels. A well-coordinated team of chef and waiter, both almost as old as the walls that surround them, knows how to deal with tourists so well that hardly any words are needed. You are quickly seated at one of the few tables. If nothing is available, you may be seated with strangers – this allows you to strike up a conversation and reverently observe the hosts’ practiced ritual together. Even before the cutlery is set, you are given a carafe of what is stored in large containers next to the tables. The retsina hits your palate with its resinous and balsamic flavor, and the American tourists’ eyes widen as they swallow. Their eyes grow even wider when, a few moments later, the first dishes are already on the table. Here, you don’t order; you get whatever the chef serves, always based on the size of the group. Some get a stew of potatoes, tomatoes, and cabbage, others a soup of pureed chickpeas with raw onions and peppers, and still others a plate of grilled sardines. Everything is what it is—and it’s delicious. An ode to simplicity. The unfamiliar circumstance of having no influence on the order and eating whatever is served awakens childlike joy. The two taciturn old men radiate grandfatherly serenity. As we climb the stairs back up to the street, we hear a group of Americans trying to explain to the waiter that they can’t eat raw onions. The elderly host looks on impassively, his expression inscrutable; the old cook grins behind his steaming pots.