Theofili the Philosopher
If there is one character who had a profound influence, not only on my career in catering but also on my whole understanding of what I mean by grecofilia, it is the restaurateur, entrepreneur and philosopher, Theophilus Koukas of Crete.
I'd been running out of money and hanging round his Neo Restaurant Bar for what seemed like an age and although I hadn't actually lied, I'd puffed up my experience and knowledge of the culinary arts enough to make myself seem like an irreplaceable asset in a town full of restaurants.
Then
two weeks before his trip to Kasos, Theo decided to take me on. He
showed me round the kitchen, told me to forget everything I'd ever
been taught before, then proceeded to re-educate me in his art of
cooking for crowds. He put a hand on each of my shoulders, looked me in the
eyes, his waxed moustache dangerously pointing east and west, and
announced with his customary doleful expression,
'Listen
to me, Antonis. You might not make much money here but then I don`t
charge for training.'
He
not only sharpened my humour, also he gave me myself.
At
five next evening, I turned up for work and stood in front of the
stove, closed my eyes, held my breath and leaped into the abyss of
catering a la carte, promising to emulate Theo's own seemingly
effortless style for at least the next fourteen nights and hopefully
longer.
During
those two weeks, I abandoned my own path and followed the Theo way of
cooking under pressure, and the basics meant no drinking, no late nights or being late for weork. He
encouraged lots of fresh air, walks along the beach and moderation in
everything.
'You are going to become a thinker in my kitchen...
either the customer wins or you do. It's for you to decide!'
He
encouraged trust in my sense of smell and helped me develop a
discriminating array of taste buds. He installed the
necessity of blending colour and texture, and as far as the blade and
the block were concerned, gradually I became finesse with a razor's edge.
'You
have only eight fingers and two thumbs. Don't waste any of them.'
Every day there were words of wisdom. 'Never use a clock. Let your sixth sense alert you when cooking time is over. Understand?'
Theophilus
was passionate about everything - the music
of Rembetika, his home film making, but mainly his little boat - the
Ayios (Saint) Adelphia. He had shown his films all over Greece. Sometimes in
his restaurant he would film his diners eating, while they argued,
singing, even when they were paying their bills and later, he would translate
their body language. For instance, the cool guy who scratches the
back of his neck when asking if there is a table available - not cool
at all, in fact edgy; and those who make wavy lines in the air when
they want to pay, 'Why don't they just ask for the bill? They look
like they want to conduct an orchestra.'
It
was impossible not to feel younger than him. Some said he'd been here
before.
Looking
back, it was either a calculated risk or his own reckless sense of
humour that caused him, the owner of one of the most prestigious
restaurants in southern Crete, to take me on trial as his cover chef
but secretly, I suspect Theo simply enjoyed teaching life lessons and
taking risks. He rarely lost his temper but step out of line and you
sensed his disappointment. Calmly, he would take control, appeal to
your intellect and leave you to work it out where you went wrong.
For instance, on one occasion he became so
suspicious of his bar manager diverting the takings that he simply
promoted the man to cash controller and made him responsible for
every single drachma. Miraculously, the money stopped disappearing,
the manager took the credit and the staff was relieved.
As
I said, Theo's humour was sharp. You never knew when he was pulling
your leg.
He was known to swan through the
kitchen on the way to the bar showering advice on his assistants
right and left, 'Attention everybody! Listen to me! Never slice
anything so thick you can't see through it!' and then, giggling like a
schoolboy and clapping his hands like a flamenco dancer, 'Come now,
clear Table 2 - we're running out of lettuce! Come on! Ela!'
I
believe he placed great faith in his motto, 'A contented boss, and
the establishment runs itself.'
So he let us
drink as much as we dared. The penalty for being 'tired and
emotional' was instant dismissal but since everybody loved
Theophilus, no one ever let him down. Except once when he actually
offered to pay an inebriated barperson so she would go home early rather than leave him to wait until she passed out.
But
there were times when we came close to disaster.
One of his
kitchen rules was that any home-made soup left over from the day
before was to be placed in the bottom of the fridge to be thrown away
by the kitchen assistant - Theo never took chances with food. 'If in
doubt - throw it out!'
One evening at the height of his
performance, he was told a rather pompous gentleman diner wanted to
speak to him in person with regard to the soup. 'But there is no soup
on the menu tonight!' He raised his eyes to the gods. Then Theo,
believing attack is the strongest form of defence, presented himself
at table with a confident smile, 'Good evening sir, everything to
your liking, yes?'
'Well, this soup has an alcoholic bite and I
was wondering if it might be past its best.'
The man's hungry
family, each with a bowl of the suspect soup before them, stared with
admiration at their father then turned and waited on the next words
from Theo. All fell silent. Theo smiled warmly, 'Sir, many of my
customers make that mistake. You see, we use an ancient Cretan recipe
and just before we serve the soup, I throw in a glass of traditional
Cretan raki for good luck. This may have confused you.'
'Oh well,
that's fine. It really is most unusual. Thank you.'
Theophilus
sailed back into the kitchen and took a sword down from the wall,
'Bring me the kitchen assistant. Immediately!'
But we were a good team and took great pride in accepting responsibility and running the restaurant ourselves whenever Theo and Tsaly, his wife, were away. It was theatre and always, the show must go on. We worked hard and late, had some fun and usually all went well. But so often pride comes before a fall and at the end of those two weeks my rump hit the ground with a mighty thump.
It
was on Theo's return from Kasos that he came to my work station,
shook my hand and said simply,
'Antonios,
well done! I am impressed. Have the night off.'
A night off? Unheard of in summer. A night off?? I was stunned.
Anyway, that
evening I rewarded myself with a Psarosoupa, a favourite Cretan soup
made with octopus, sardines, smelts and any other whole, small fish,
as well as some onions, garlic, tomatoes, celery and a bottle of fine
white Cretan wine - all in my room at a table for one on my balcony
overlooking the summer street and for the first time in over a
fortnight I let out a sigh and relaxed. Then just as I was wallowing
in my own conceit, a loud banging on my door brought me to my senses
and shattered the peace and quiet.
There stood a furious
Theophilus, feet apart, hands flaying the air and eyes wide with
anger.
'Mister Brown, as you know, we sell lamb, chicken, veal,
biftekia, brisoles, lamb chops, souvlakia, moussaka and we open in
just half an hour. Now, since you forgot to take any of these things
from the freezer for tonight's menu, dear boy, it means means we've
no goddam meat. Nothing!'
Economy of words and yet his
condemnation hung like the sword of Damocles as he wheeled round and
stormed off down the stairs leaving me to make a panic-stricken
circuit of the other restaurants in the hope of finding
replacements.
Time was running out but I was in luck and managed
to gather not just an ample selection of vital main course
ingredients but also some very flattering praise from Cleo's
Restaurant, our biggest rival in the town. It was well known in the
village that to employ an English person was a feather in the cap of
any restaurant proprietor and cause for envy amongst rivals. So by
the time I returned to our kitchen I was bursting at the seams with
pride and self-esteem, declaring to all and sundry, as I pushed open
the door and announcing, 'You're saved! The 7th Cavalry's arrived!'
Silence. You could cut the air with a carving knife. 'And
guess what Theo? Cleo herself offered me a job.'
'What as?
Stock Controller??!!'
He deflated my triumph in an instant.
The incident was never mentioned again and the Neo became my home
from home for the rest of the summer.
When the time came, I
bade my farewells to my friends and just before catching my bus to
Iraklio, Theo and I stood on the veranda overlooking the rooftops,
neither of us knowing quite what to say. Then he turned to me and
said softly, 'Antonios, why must you go back to England? I don't
understand. Here you have a good job, the Cretan sky, the warmth of
the seas and they are yours. Most of all you have my friendship - so
why?'
We hugged. And as I lumbered down the steps
towards the square, I sobbed and tears ran down my face. My mind
a blank.
In the years before Theo left, I dropped in with
Sandy, my wife, several times on our visits to Crete, always enjoying
the special treatment he reserved for his guests of honour and, like
the old guru master that he was, he always left it for me to mention
my big disgrace before we'd laugh and cry, then laugh all over
again.
The last time, as we stepped into the square, he took
our hands in his and smiled at each of us, 'May you live a life well
lived'...
We hugged. Once again I lumbered down the steps towards
the square, my eyes hot with tears and still I had no answer.
'...and
don't ever forget that you are alive...'
dear Theo
I won't ever forget.
Thank you.
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