We were on the way to Syros, the next island on the itinerary. The sea stretched around the yacht in sun-flecked ripples toward a dusky horizon. A salty breeze whipped the waves into little white crests.
When Hannah presented us with the menu, Naani waved it away.
“Let the chef surprise us,” she said. Leaning closer, she whispered, “His food did strange things to me last night. Your Naani felt like a young filly.”
“You too?” I laughed as I nibbled one of the appetizers. “He left me a late-night snack and I felt like my bones turned to honey.”
Hannah returned with two steaming platters. “Chef Alexandros has preparedrevithiafor you tonight—chickpea stew.” It was topped with feta cheese and accompanied by olives and slices of crusty bread. “Enjoy.”
Naani was vegetarian by choice, and I had requested the same meal (because hello? The alternative was octopus—courtesy of Nikos and Thomas—and I didn’t do suckers or tentacles), but we were both deflated as we stared at our dinner. Everything looked and smelled delicious, but let’s face it. Chickpeas? They were beige. And bland. And humble. And boring. Naani had cans full of them in her pantry. We silently and unanimously expected something more exotic. Well, exotic to us. Where was thespanakopita? Theskordalia? Thesaganaki? All the things that sounded like they’d hiss and sizzle on your tongue?
“Hey.” Naani speared a chickpea on the prong of her fork. “What do they call it when you kill a chickpea?” She chewed it slowly while I waited for the punchline. “A hummuside. Get it?” She chuckled. “Homicide, hummus-cide.”
“That’s awful, Naani. Really,reallybad. What makes it worse is that it was a pea-meditated hummuside.”
We laughed at our terrible puns, but with the second bite of our dinner, we grew quiet. Something was different about Alex’s chickpeas. They were drunk and voluptuous, like they’d simmered in dark wine for hours, turning fat and round and luscious. They had a rustic, appealing sweetness that was hard to pin down.
“Did he use sugar?” I asked.
“No. Not sugar.” Naani shook her head. “Dates, maybe? Or prunes?”
We ate some more and tried to dissect what we were tasting.
“Chocolate,” I said.
“Close. But it’s more earthy.”
I eyed Naani as she used the crusty bread to soak up the last bits of gravy clinging to her bowl. Bread was a no-no for me, but it was exactly what the rest of my dish was begging for. I caved in and did the same.
Potatoes on Day 1. Bread on Day 2. Alex is breaking down my objections, one by one—like a referee in my lifelong fight against food.
When Hannah stopped by the table, we were sitting back in our chairs, whipped into a state of submission by the humble chickpea. Alex didn’t serve big portions, but what he served was infinitely satisfying.
“I would like to have a word with the chef,” Naani said.
“I’ll let him know,” Hannah said, collecting our plates.
“Young man,” said Naani, when Alex appeared at our table. “I’ve been cooking my whole life, but I’ve never been able to get chickpeas to taste like this. They were absolutely divine.” She pinched her fingers, brought them to her lips and smacked them.
“Thank you.” He gave Naani a little bow.
“What’s your secret?”
Yes, Alex. Tell us. What’s the secret to making a shapeless chef’s coat look so cool?
“Onions. Lots and lots of onions.”
“Onions?”
“The right kind of onions. Equal parts sharp and sweet. You slice them real thin. Then you add them to a pan of hot olive oil. Turn down the heat and let them do their thing. You’ll be tempted to lift the lid and check on them. Don’t. Wait until they tell you they are ready, until they start smelling like cinnamon and sugar. Then you stir, until they are rich and thick and chocolaty.”
“Ahhh. So that’s what I was tasting.” Naani absorbed this nugget of culinary treasure. “But I didn’t see any onions in the stew.”
“They disintegrate once you add water and more heat. Throw in your cooked chickpeas, some rosemary and a few more glugs of olive oil. You can add whatever else you like, but that’s the base for myrevithia. I let it bake in the oven until all the flavors meld.”
“Moti,” Naani turned to me with great solemnity. “You must marry this man. We have to take him home with us.”
“Youmarry him.” I laughed. Alex looked amused, but not the eyebrow-cocking kind of amusement, which he reserved for my bras and awkward mishaps.
