A Recipe for Daphne by Nektaria Anastasiadou (reading well .txt) 📕

Her makeup was almost invisible. Because Kosmas was used to over-jeweled Istanbul women and over-painted Athenians, he found Daphne’s minimalism odd . . . but elegant. He offered silent thanks to Fanis for his fashion tutelage: it would have been a shame to escort a woman like that in a horizontally striped shirt.

“It’s a beautiful evening,” he said.

“Thank—” Daphne stopped, as if she didn’t know how to complete her sentence. “Thank God. It was hot earlier, wasn’t it?”

A positive sign, thought Kosmas. She’s just as nervous as I am.

The taxi dropped them off at the bottom end of the crowded Balık Pazarı, the former fish market of Pera. They passed fruit stalls, cheap jewelry and trinket stands, and tourist shops with shelves of boxed lokum and Turkish honey. Beneath bulbs hanging like full moons, a few holdout fishmongers sold mackerel and sea bream with gills painted to look fresher than they were. The alleys between the shops were so full of tourists and locals that Kosmas was not sure whether he should let Daphne precede him, which meant they would hardly advance behind the knapsacks of gawking Americans, or whether he should push ahead and risk losing her in the crowds. Before he could decide, they were jostled by a pack of Greek tourists, and she momentarily took his arm. For the first time in his life, Kosmas thanked God for the self-absorption of his Hellenic brothers.

He paid no attention to the young men attempting to harass passersby into looking at their menus. Instead he led Daphne—who kept a disappointing distance as soon as they broke away from the crowd of Greeks—straight to the only restaurant with an owner too proud to beg for clients. A familiar waiter shook Kosmas’s hand and ushered them to two free places at a long common table. Kosmas pulled out Daphne’s chair and waved to Mr. Spyros, the bald nonagenarian owner, whose bushy brows loomed over his eyes, like the restaurant awnings in the street outside.

The old man rose from his desk, wove through the waiters coming and going from the cold meze case, and approached their table. “It’s been ages,” he said in Greek. “Why don’t you come more often?”

“Daphne,” said Kosmas, “this is Mr. Spyros, one of my father’s old friends.”

A wide smile spread between the old man’s flabby ears. “How is it possible that I’ve not met this beautiful young lady before now?”

“She lives in America,” Kosmas replied, hoping he would soon leave them alone.

Spyros pulled up an extra chair. “Do you speak Greek, young lady?”

“Of course,” said Kosmas. “She’s one of ours.”

“Are you going to let her talk for herself? Or are you afraid I might steal her away?”

Daphne shot the old man a sweet smile that almost made Kosmas jealous. “Thanks. Could you tell me where the ladies’ room is?”

Spyros pointed to the upper floor. “Top of the stairs, on your right.”

Kosmas watched her go. The clothing that she had worn on other occasions had prevented him from fully distinguishing her lines. The slim black dress, however, allowed him to make out her breasts: they reminded him of the first oranges of December. Her bare legs were pale, as if neither the sun nor another man’s eyes had seen them in years.

“Always one of the highlights of the evening, isn’t it?” said Spyros.

Kosmas pulled himself out of the trance. “Sorry?”

“The moment when a woman goes to the powder room. She must like you. Since she dressed up like that, I mean.”

Kosmas realized that Spyros was only trying to be encouraging. “I doubt it,” he said.

“You did tell her that she looks beautiful, didn’t you?”

“No. I didn’t want to overdo it. It’s better to be discreet at first, isn’t it?”

Spyros shook his head. “Son, you’ve got to say that every time you go out with a woman, even after you’ve been married for fifty years, and even if she looks like an old rag. Women don’t feel beautiful unless a man says so, and if they don’t feel beautiful, you’re through.”

“Is it too late now?”

“Of course not. But wait until you’ve had something to drink. You’ll know when.”

A waiter brought a tray of cold appetizers in rectangular white dishes. Everything was fresh, impeccable, and tastefully decorated with red pepper slices, lemon wedges, olives, and minced parsley. Kosmas wondered what Daphne would like best. He ordered mussels stuffed with cinnamon-flavored rice, smoked eggplant salad, cod roe spread, and salt bonito in oil.

“And after the cold appetizers,” he said, “we’ll have fried smelt and picarel.”

“To drink?” said the waiter.

“A small raki.”

“And fried potatoes,” said Spyros. “She looks like the kind who likes fried potatoes.” When the waiter had gone, Spyros said to Kosmas, “Another thing, son.”

“Yes?”

“Give her a little room, let her talk for herself. I’ve met a lot of European and American women. They like the chivalry. They love it when I get up and help them with their coats, but they can be touchy, too. They don’t enjoy being treated like children.”

Kosmas determined to make up for his earlier faux pas. “Anything else?”

“Relax. Enjoy yourself and remember that it’s all in the hands. If she lets you hold her hand, you’re in. If she doesn’t, she’s not ready or not worth the trouble.”

Daphne returned, followed by a trail of lemon cologne. Spyros winked at Kosmas, shot a flirtatious two-eye scrunch at Daphne, and shuffled off to visit other tables. The waiter served the appetizers, a 20-cl bottle of raki, and a little bucket of ice.

“Looks like you ordered,” she said.

“We can get something else. Maybe some liver, or lamb ribs, or . . .”

Daphne pushed her hair away from her face. “It’s just that . . . I thought we’d look at a menu.”

“A menu? Those are for tourists.”

“Never mind. This looks good.”

Kosmas grabbed the ice tongs. “How many?”

“Excuse me?”

“How many ice cubes in your raki?” He picked up a cube with the tongs. “Or would you prefer wine?”

“I don’t drink,” she said, with a polite smile.

“You can