Dining out on Greek cuisine? Take your pick of plain or fancy
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The ancient Greek diet of olives, wheat, figs, wild greens, fish, and wine (with lamb on special occasions), seems immensely appealing all these centuries later.
Even the "new" foods brought to Greece through invasions and trade - lemons, tomatoes, and spinach are some - round out this attractiveness. In Greece, of course, these ingredients are plucked from trees or pulled from the land, and hardly any time lapses en route to the table. Under these circumstances, the simplest dishes in this classic cuisine need little adornment.
Greek immigrants (like Italian immigrants and Jewish immigrants) lost that simplicity when they came to this country and began working with a dramatically different quality of ingredient. Foods were not pulled right from the land, but out of a box shipped from California. In the 1950s, Greek salads, like many American salads, were layered with hard, pink, unforgiving tomatoes. The transmogrified Greek-American cuisine no longer celebrated sun-drenched, homegrown products.
Then gorgeous produce became available, so restaurants could order the best of foods in the worst of seasons. Greek restaurateurs have been slow to take advantage of this or modernize their menus. Stopping by a Greek restaurant today in this region is a little throwback to another era. Five years ago, when Sophia Pantazopoulos and her husband, George, recreated her parents' old restaurant, OMONIA (the name, which means harmony, is also that of a main square in Athens). The couple changed what had been a breakfast and lunch cafeteria in the South End to a white tablecloth dining room in the theater district.
The original Omonia opened in 1950, but was forced to close 18 years later when the Boston Redevelopment Authority came to the neighborhood.
The Pantazopoulos' have tried to capture what her parents had created: an especially welcoming, clean place. Parking next door at the Radisson Hotel makes the visit easy, especially if you're staying for a show. George Pantazopoulos cooks and all the children pitch in when they can - son George Jr., daughter Anoula Bushetti, eldest son Taki.
Sophia Pantazopoulos tells me on the phone that "this is the cuisine of Greece," without the oils and the fat. She says that everything in the kitchen is fresh, except the baby okra, which they can't get year-round. "We don't have one can of tomatoes in the restaurant, and we clean string beans by the bushel."
Those beans, cooked in tomatoes until limp, are splendid. This age-old side dish is made all over the Mediterranean with slight variations.
In fact, Greek food, in a more stylish presentation, is becoming the rage in Manhattan - probably for its simplicity.
At Omonia, some unadorned dishes shine, as in broiled octopus with lemon oregano dressing, which has a hearty and pleasing sea taste, and a perfect lemony garnish. Taramosalata, the smoked red roe of carp pounded until smooth, is beautifully creamy.
Other dishes lack luster and vibrancy. It would be too easy to blame this on the classic recipes, which might not come up to contemporary notions of dining. The fact is the simplicity of the presentations exposes shortcomings in the ingredients.
Tahini bean dip is coarse, and our "village salads," essentially Greek salads without the lettuce, should certainly boast better-tasting produce.
My Greek friend orders moussaka. She says it doesn't have enough layers of eggplant, but it's meaty and the custardy bechamel on top is just right.
A rather plain shrimp a la Omonia, baked in feta cheese and tomato sauce, is presented on a plate, rather than in an individual casserole as promised on the menu. Splayed out, it has lost its charm.
Lamb souvlaki, the traditional Greek shish kebab, contains tender morsels of lamb, but the meat and vegetables have been cooked too long.
Omonia's galactobourico, custard pie in phyllo dough, is lovely here, especially with a cup of chamomile-mint tea. Our waiter couldn't be nicer.
On the other side of the river is DIONYSOS, opened a year ago by partners George Kariotis and Kostas Vazakas. Kariotis's gracious wife, Maria, dressed in sequins, hosts with her husband. Dionysos is on the second floor of the Howard Johnson's on Memorial Drive, tucked so far off the street that it seems like a private club. It might as well be. It's full of smokers.
Dionysos has the air of a party. The 150-seat restaurant is full on a Saturday night and everyone is very dressed up, table hopping like crazy, the women in satin, velvet, and black lace. We are one of the few tables where Greek isn't being spoken.
We scoop creamy melitzanosalata (roasted eggplant dip) onto warm triangles of pita bread (we learn later that the bread has been heated on the griddle). Then comes skordalia, garlicky dip with mashed potatoes, a beautiful version, then some disappointing spanakopita (spinach pie) and finally tiny, succulent morsels of pork sauteed with wine and oregano.
Just as we finish the mezedes (appetizers), the music starts, which is loud. A lone bouzouki player is singing about broken hearts, says my Greek friend, who is along again, and just a few patrons are dancing. Then he plays music from "Zorba the Greek," and the dance floor fills. The dancers pretty much stay there all night, snaking their way around, except when the musician takes a break.
A special of rabbit stifado, a stew of tomatoes, onions, cinnamon, cloves, and vinegar, is a beautiful sweet-sour dish. Lamb shanks with Greek macaroni (long hollow strands) has too much bland pasta in tomato sauce, but melting shanks.
A half chicken, "prepared the Greek way, then roasted to perfection," might have been wonderful but the meat is far too cooked. The Greek way turns out to be a marinade with onions, oregano, and olive oil. Lamb baked in a clay pot for five hours, served in the pot, offers flavorful morsels of lamb buried in orzo (too much of it).
Galactobourico, again, is splendid. Our aloof waiter reminds me of the guy in the Greek store near where I live. When I go in, he takes a long time getting around to asking if he can help me, then seems disinterested. But at Dionysos, you don't need much attention. This is dinner theater.
