Ouzo Quotes

How the hell do you call Russia from Greece? It’s like trying to figure out rela-fucking-tivity. And still, I gave it several shots. Of Ouzo. Seriously, you have no idea how much your situation is affecting me. I’ve been stress-eating my way across Greece.” I frowned. “You don’t stress-eat—” “Cock, Natalie. I was stress-eating cock. There, you made me say it, happy now?” “Opa!

I will not be quiet. I cannot believe you’re moving to Greece. That’s… that’s insane.” Now hang on a second! “It’s not insane,” I shot back. “It is! Who moves to Greece? Do you know a single soul who’s moved to Greece?” He didn’t give me a chance to reply before he continued, “No? Me neither. No one moves to Greece. Goes there. Yes. Gets laid. Definitely. Drinks ouzo. Lots of it. Gets a sunburn. Of course! But you don’t move there!

The noise of drinking was exhilarating. Champagne corks popped and the pale, chrysanthemum-coloured liquid, whispering gleefully with bubbles, hissed into the glasses; heavy red wine glupped into the goblets, thick and crimson as the blood of some mythical monster, and a swirling wreath of pink bubbles formed on the surface; the frosty white wine tiptoed into the glasses, shrilling, gleaming, now like diamonds, now like topaz; the ouzo lay transparent and innocent as the edge of a mountain pool until the water splashed in and the whole glass curdled like a conjuring trick, coiling and blurring into a summer cloud of moonstone white.

On a summers night, I have sat on the balcony drinking Ouzo, watching the ghosts of Greek Heroes sailing past, listening to the rustle of their sail cloths and the gentle lapping of their oars...and lain alongside Pythagoras watching him study the myriad of triangles in the constellations twinkling above us. Whether it was Crete, the heat, the Ouzo, or a combination, it is unequalled anywhere other than Santorini, in my humble opinion.

THEY WERE DIVORCED IN THE fall. I wish it could have been otherwise. The clarity of those autumn days affected them both. For Nedra, it was as if her eyes had been finally opened; she saw everything, she was filled with a great, unhurried strength. It was still warm enough to sit outdoors. Viri walked, the old dog wandering behind him. The fading grass, the trees, the very light made him dizzy, as if he were an invalid or starving. He caught the aroma of his own life passing. All during the proceedings, they lived as they always had, as if nothing were going on. The judge who gave her the final decree pronounced her name wrong. He was tall and decaying, the pores visible in his cheeks. He misread a number of things; no one corrected him. It was November. Their last night together they sat listening to music—it was Mendelssohn—like a dying composer and his wife. The room was peaceful, filled with beautiful sound. The last logs burned. “Would you like some ouzo?” she asked. “I don’t think there is any.” “We drank it all?” “Some time ago.

I have reached the conclusion that the only way to be content is to have absolute integrity. To fulfil all you believe to be true no matter what the cost.’ He sips some ouzo and sucks his teeth. ‘Then when people give you looks, say false or unkind things, you know that the fault lies with them. You have been all you can be and no one can ask for more.

It would take me all night to tell about Old Bull Lee; let's just say now, he was a teacher, and it may be said that he had every right to teach because he spent all his time learning; and the things he learned were what he considered to be and called "the facts of life," which he learned, not only out of necessity but because he wanted to. He dragged his long, thin body around the entire United States and most of Europe and North Africa in his time, only to see what was going on.... there are pictures of him with the international cocaine set of the thirties — gangs with wild hair, leaning on one another, there are other pictures of him in a Panama hat, surveying the streets of Algiers.... He was an exterminator in Chicago, a bartender in New York, a summons-server in Newark. In Paris he sat at cafe tables, watching the sullen French faces go by. In Athens he looked up from his ouzo at what he called the ugliest people in the world. In Istanbul he threaded his way through crowds of opium addicts and rug-sellers, looking for the facts. In Chicago he planned to hold up a Turkish bath, hesitated just for two minutes too long for a drink, and, wound up with two dollars and had to make a run for it. He did all these things merely for the experience....

I regularly took aspirin, salt tablets, Alka-seltzer and antibiotics and my tetanus immunity was working overtime. Most of the day I was dizzy from ouzo, wine, beer, whisky or the hangover therefrom, too many cigarettes, too little sleep, fatigue, sunstroke or heat exhaustion. I had chronic indigestion from the meats and fats, oils and acids of the Mediterranean diet. My mood swung from elation to despair a dozen times a day. Most of the time I was lonely, bored, frustrated and frightened of getting ill without a decent doctor. My head ached from speaking Greek and people haranguing me or ignoring me. I wanted to buy things without having to haggle and plead. I longed for the telly and a pint of Guinness. I wanted to go home.

Last night the sound of the front door closing upon breathless chuckles and secretive panting, then the voice of Paddy Leigh Fermor: “Any old clothes?” in Greek. Appeared with his arm round the shoulders of Michaelis who had shown him the way up the rocky path in darkness. “Joan is winded, holed below the Plimsoll line. I’ve left her resting halfway up. Send out a seneschal with a taper, or a sedan if you have one.” It is as joyous a reunion as ever we had in Rhodes. After a splendid dinner by the fire he starts singing, songs of Crete, Athens, Macedonia. When I go out to refill the ouzo bottle at the little tavern across the way I find the street completely filled with people listening in utter silence and darkness. Everyone seems struck dumb. “What is it?” I say, catching sight of Frangos. “Never have I heard of Englishmen singing Greek songs like this!” Their reverent amazement is touching; it is as if they want to embrace Paddy wherever he goes.

He dragged his long, thin body around the entire United States and most of Europe and North Africa in his time, only to see what was going on; he married a White Russian countess in Yugoslavia to get her away from the Nazis in the thirties; there are pictures of him with the international cocaine set of the thirties—gangs with wild hair, leaning on one another; there are other pictures of him in a Panama hat, surveying the streets of Algiers; he never saw the White Russian countess again. He was an exterminator in Chicago, a bartender in New York, a summons-server in Newark. In Paris he sat at café tables, watching the sullen French faces go by. In Athens he looked up from his ouzo at what he called the ugliest people in the world. In Istanbul he threaded his way through crowds of opium addicts and rug-sellers, looking for the facts. In English hotels he read Spengler and the Marquis de Sade. In Chicago he planned to hold up a Turkish bath, hesitated just for two minutes too long for a drink, and wound up with two dollars and had to make a run for it. He did all these things merely for the experience.

I don't know where to begin on my plate. Everything looks so unfamiliar, yet appetizing. I decide to aim for the starch first, and settle my fork into a generous portion of what turns out to be risotto with bite-sized pieces of suckling pig. I'll take creamy risotto over that vile poi any day. The pork, so tender and juicy, has me humming Mele Kalikimaka, cause it feels like a Hawaiian Merry Christmas gift. I next try the entrée, a tender, flaky and surprisingly un-oily mackerel sprinkled with feta cheese and olives and cloaked in taro leaves. I have to give Telly some credit, I didn't know how this place could pull off merging three such divergent flavors, but somehow it works despite itself. "I can't believe how fantastic this food is," Jess mumbles through a bite of her pineapple-balsamic glazed wild boar spare ribs with tzatziki sauce. "Who'd have thought you could actually assemble a menu with Italian, Hawaiian and Greek food? I honestly thought it was a joke." "Joke's on us, cause this stuff is amazing." After dinner ends, Telly returns with a selection of desserts (including a baklava made with mascarpone cheese, coconut and pine nuts), a tray with sample shots of grappa, ouzo and okolehao, and a somewhat excessive appreciation for his customers.

The noise of drinking was exhilarating. Champagne corks popped and the pale, chrysanthemum-coloured liquid, whispering gleefully with bubbles, hissed into the glasses; heavy red wine glupped into the goblets, thick and crimson as the blood of some mythical monster, and a swirling wreath of pink bubbles formed on the surface; the frosty white wine tiptoed into the glasses, shrilling, gleaming, now like diamonds, now like topaz; the ouzo lay transparent and innocent as the edge of a mountain pool until the water splashed in and the whole glass curdled like a conjuring trick, coiling and blurring into a summer cloud of moonstone white. Presently

the ouzo having oiled away their inhibitions.

Life is exactly what it is.’ He looks out at the distant hills. ‘War, peace, your tooth hurts, the ouzo bottle’s empty, you win the lottery. It is what it is at any given moment. Accept that and you are content.

My mother gets up and puts the needle back to the start of the record or onto a select song. Light ones, famous with tourists, aren't her favorites. She prefers those that tear like an ache in your heart. Afterwards, she exhales a deep breath and looks up as if she is waking to the clap of a hypnotist. She leaves the smoky club, the sulfurous streetlights, the even darker cars, the clouds of ouzo in glasses, plates of chicken livers crusted with oregano and salt, and the man with a mustache at the door who calls the hat check girl his 'little doll.

Johannes Cabal loathed mediaeval figurative art with an acidic disdain. One might say that this was a petty sort of thing to be vexed by, and that he should show a little perspective. Cabal would say if only mediaeval artists had shown any, he would not hate their work so.

But also remember the ones where you were happy." "I do not do what I do to be happy," said Johannes Cabal. "You cannot lie to me," said Johannes Cabal.

The waiter brought my ouzo and a glass of water. I wished the deck lights were brighter because I love to see ouzo turn blue when you add water to it.

But Habib was overwhelmed by all his options. Why spend the night with Sophia when spending the night with Katrina might be even more sensational? Why smoke some opium when getting drunk on ouzo might be more fun? Or what about both? Time and again, I would find him on the terrace of Loulou’s taverna in a paralyzing dither. Often, I had to suppress a chuckle over his befuddling embarrassment of riches, but for Habib it was no laughing matter. Hedonism made him anxious.

In each portside town, enticing aromas waft from every harborside taverna, mountaintop inn, and home. Not only do the Greeks appreciate good food, it is central to their culture. Produce markets spill over with fragrant local provender: grapes, cucumbers, lemons, and tomatoes, as well as sardines, shellfish, and lamb. Lunch--usually the largest meal of the day--begins after 2 P.M., and is followed by an ample siesta. The long work day resumes, and dinner begins after 9 P.M. It may last well into the night among friends: a glass of ouzo--accompanied by singing, guitar playing, and dancing--often ends the evening meal, postponing bedtime until the wee hours. Laughter and conversation flavor the food at every meal. The Mediterranean climate is conductive to year-round outdoor eating. In each home, a table on the patio or terrace takes pride of place. Many home cooks build outdoor ovens and prepare succulent roasted meats and flavorful, herb-scented potatoes that soak up the juice of the meat and the spritz of a lemon. Tavernas, shaded by grape arbors, are synonymous with Greece and its outdoor culinary culture. One of the greatest pleasures of the Greek Isles is enjoying a relaxing meal while breathing the fresh sea air and gazing out on spectacular vistas and blue waters.

Meals are occasions to share with family and friends. The ingredients are often simple, but the art lies in orchestrating the sun-warmed flavors. Courses follow in artful and traditional succession, but the showpiece of the meal is tender, juicy meat; this often means lamb or goat grilled or roasted on a spit for hours. Souvlaki--melting pieces of chicken or pork tenderloin on skewers, marinated in lemon, olive oil, and a blend of seasonings--are grilled to mouthwatering perfection. Meze, the Greek version of smorgasbord, is a feast of Mediterranean delicacies. The cooks of the Greek Isles excel at classic Greek fare, such as spanakopita--delicate phyllo dough brushed with butter and filled with layers of feta cheese, spinach, and herbs. Cheeses made from goat’s milk, including the famous feta, are nearly ubiquitous. The fruits of the sun--olive oil and lemon--are characteristic flavors, reworked in myriad wonderful combinations. The fresh, simple cuisine celebrates the waters, olive groves, and citrus trees, as well as the herbs that grow wild all over the islands--marjoram, thyme, and rosemary--scenting the warm air with their sensuous aromas. Not surprisingly, of course, seafood holds pride of place. Sardines, octopus, and squid, marinated in olive oil and lemon juice, are always popular. Tiny, toothsome fried fish are piled high on painted ceramic dishes and served up at the local tavernas and in homes everywhere. Sea urchins are considered special delicacies. Every island has its own specialties, from sardines to pistachios to sesame cakes. Lésvos is well-known for its sardines and ouzo. Zakinthos is famous for its nougat. The Cycladic island of Astypalaia was called the “paradise of the gods” by the ancient Greeks because of the quality of its honey. On weekends, Athenians flock to the nearby islands of Aegina, Angistri, and Evia by the ferryful to sample the daily catch in local restaurants scattered among coastal villages. The array of culinary treats is matched by a similar breadth of local wins. Tended by generation after generation of the same families, vineyards carpet the hillsides of many islands. Grapevines have been cultivated in the Greek Isles for some four thousand years. Wines from Rhodes and Crete were already renowned in antiquity, and traders shipped them throughout the Greek Isles and beyond. The light reds and gently sweet whites complement the diverse, multiflavored Greek seafood, grilled meats, and fresh, ripe fruits and vegetables. Sitting at a seaside tavern enjoying music and conversation over a midday meze and glass of retsina, all the cares in the world seem to evaporate in the sparkling sunshine reflected off the brightly hued boats and glistening blue waters.