I am currently sitting on the balcony of a picturesque hotel on the isle of Hydra in the Saronic Islands of Greece. The dark clouds of early morning are breaking to a beautiful blue sky. Last night's appetizer so enthralled me that I have to write about it before I set off this morning, as there is no photograph, only the imprint of flavors and textures left behind on my palate.
The reason there is no photograph is the plate looked like an unappetizing hot mess.
First, let me set the scene. A quiet, nearly deserted alleyway (tourist season ends this week, and few people beyond the locals are about) mom-and-pop restaurant with dark blue painted furniture on a raised stone porch. Much of the menu is unavailable because, as I mentioned, the tourists are all gone and only one other family would sit down at the restaurant in the hour or so we were there.
The menu plied me with a description of "Feta with peppers and tomatoes." I've had feta with peppers and tomatoes in Greece before. It was perfectly delicious and looked like this:
When my feta was delivered, what I got was so much more than a block of feta in tinfoil.
Presented me was a round baking dish fresh out of the oven, brimming with bubbling creamy tomato sauce. In the center, I could see a mound of melted cheese with just the tip of a roasted red pepper sticking out.
It did not look like feta. In fact, it looked like rustic lasagna, the kind I like to order from my neighborhood Italian place in Cairo.
The layer of flavors and textures emerged when I first dug my fork in. On the very top of the dish was a sprinkling of parmesan that I hadn't seen in the dim porch lighting. It was sprinkled on mozzarella, which was hiding a quarter of a roasted red pepper that was draped across a large block of hot feta that had still some of it's feta-y texture, despite having been baked in tomato sauce.
The rich creaminess of the sauce, the surprise bite-sized pieces of green pepper that hid deep within it, and the mixture of parm, molten mozzarella, and feta created a flavor sensation of that a cheese lover like me cannot describe without getting a bit weepy.
I may never get back to Hydra, I may never get back to that little mom-and-pop (which if you are here and looking, is next to Amalour bar, though I couldn't read the name of the restaurant as it was in Greek), but I'll remember the layers of cheeses I never thought would go together and try to recreate it for years. I know I'll never succeed, however I try, because it wasn't just the meal, it was the journey.
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