My status is upgraded by Miranda: I am honoured

Tom Winnifrith Friday 1 July 2016


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It is my last full day at the Greek Hovel until December and I shall miss my life here badly. It is just after three in the afternoon and I sit in the shade in the centre of Kambos typping away with a glass of ouzo to hand (celebrating vengeance after eleven years) watching the world go by. As ever the A Board on the main street of Kambos advertises all sorts of delight at Miranda's little taverna. Fish, grilled meats, toasted kangaroo, the list goes on. Actually I made up that bit about the kangaroo but it might as well have been on the public menu because the actual menu is...what is on top the oven today which is chicken and spaghetti.

Miranda gets me to taste the chicken and says something in Greek including the word "spiti" which is one of the few words I actually know. Until this morning what i am about to devour was fluttering around at her house. spiti = house. Now it is covered in a superb sauce and part of it will be my lunch.

And so I order what is on the actual menu but it seems that patronage is now rewarded with an upgrade in that I am trusted to lay my own table in the little square outside the taverna. Miranda hands me one of the paper sheets that are clipped to tables in Greek restaurants, a glass and a bottle of iced nero (water) and off I toddle.

I guess some of the Bulletin Board morons back home who just hate it when I expose as frauds the companies that have invested in will be delighted by this news. It is evidence that once again I am really just a waiter in a restaurant. One such moron was again abusing me today "and your pizza is shit."

I suppose in the tiny addled little mind of such a total fucktard buying a loss making restaurant, turning it round and selling it on at a profit is the same as being a pizza waiter. Such folks will no doubt now also define me as being Miranda's waiter. What a silly world I inhabit back in Britain.

Postscript: the chicken was really fantastic. I am not a big fan of spaghetti but this was thicker than the Italian version and coated in crumbly local cheese it was not bad at all. A thin cat sat next to my table as soon as the food arrived and started begging loudly. I gave it some spaghetti which it devoured.

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About Tom Winnifrith
Tom Winnifrith is the editor of When he is not harvesting olives in Greece, he is (planning to) raise goats in Wales.
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