It started at a cafe table because everything in Corfu starts at a cafe table. I was waiting for the girl I loved, but unlike Irwin Shaw's girl in Paris, Debbie was real. Young, American and perfect, she had long honey blonde hair, marvelous legs, an enormous appetite and tennis shoes because she liked to walk. She was late, but I did not mind because the street theater that goes on in and around the Cafe Capri is always worth watching. And the Greek coffee here always tastes just right.

After several years in residence, one realizes that there is a certain type of cafe that is the natural habitat of some fairly common Corfiot types. Like the Capri, these are the kinds of places where you can spend your day because they combine just the right degrees of familiarity and impersonality. No one makes demands on you as they might at home or in the office and the surroundings are inviting. Conversations and counter-conversations start up easily and are just as easily broken off. Deals are made, lottery tickets are purchased, girls are picked up, and someone is always waiting to use the telephone.

Being an everyday client at the Capri, I was on at least a nodding acquaintance with all of the other regulars. If I made my appearance on two consecutive mornings with the same woman, everyone assumed I was sleeping with her. If I appeared with two women, I was elevated to the status of sexual hero. At the Capri, the locals enjoy little more than talking about their mostly imaginary conquests. Speculating about the sex lives of others is their second favorite pastime. Spiro the waiter, who admires the women I sit with and who refuses to believe that I am not sleeping with all of them, always has a good word and, when cash is tight, is always willing to extend my credit for just one more day.

I recall with special fondness an encounter at the Capri several years ago, when author Lawrence Durell was still alive. By ten in the morning the Capri was especially active and Durrell was seated there. One has to understand that Corfu has two permanent heroes - Saint Spiridon and Lawrence Durrell, both of whom, alas, are no longer with us, and neither of whom was born on the island. Spridon come to Corfu posthumously after a particularly non-miraculous journey, his partially mummified body heaped into a saddle bag and slung over the back of a donkey. Even though he was long dead by the time he arrived here in 1456, Spridon is annually credited with four major and a host of minor miracles every year. A pervasive influence, half of the males on the island (and nearly all of those who grow up to be waiters) are named after him. Although Spiridon's major miracles now center about saving drowning sailors, he is also credited with curing numerous cases of croup, hiccups, epilepsy, baldness and male impotence. Even though there are a few skeptics around, precious few would walk into Spiridon's church and tell him off to his mummified face.

Durrell, the son of Irish parents, was born in India in 1912 and made his way to Corfu during World War II. Although he has never pulled off a miracle, he did write Prospero's Cell, a book that forever romanticized the island and its inhabitants. Even though he lived on the island for only seven years and now comes to visit for a few days every five years, Durrell is known to far more islanders than is the good saint. While Spiridon has made personal appearances only to a very select few, there is hardly a soul on the island that does not claim to know Lawrence Durrell personally. And to every one of them he is "Larry."

When Debby made her appearance, much to the appreciation of the locals, we settled in to reflect on the meaning of life and to drink coffee, both activities being de rigueur for existence on any Greek island. It may have had something to do with the fact that my own book about Corfu had just been published or it may be that Larry, who has never been averse to the charms of young women, was simply curious about us, but at any rate Spiro informed us that Mr. Durrell would welcome our company at his table.

During the first part of our conversation he worked diligently at impressing me (he succeeded) and I tried to impress him (I doubt that I succeeded). Debbie, wiser than either of the men competing for her attention, impressed everyone by not trying at all. After we had gone through the game of establishing our social-intellectual credentials we turned to gossip and other matters ofcal import. The island smugglers and bootleg whiskey makers, normally easy enough going fellows were in a touchy mood these days, local officials having become temporarily paranoid about accepting their usual bribes. A former Greek president had just bought a large piece of land on the island and, because he was particularly unpopular among Corfiots, everyone was speculating on whether it would be his olive trees or sex organs that would shrivel first. The head librarian of the snobbish Corfu Reading Society had been accused of seducing young boys; the chief of police was said to be having it off with specially young girls; and the island coroner was being accused (once again) of diddling with corpses of both sexes without special regard to age. Reflecting on all of this Larry, reflected rather cryptically, "timor mortis conturbat me".

Larry was staying at the Corfu Palace Hotel and invited us there to lunch with him. All of us have a special soft spot for this charmng place. Known for its elegant clientele and stylish decor, the rooms that overlook the Ionian Sea are among the loveliest to be found in Greece. The dining room is ravishing, with carefully set tables comfortably arranged before a fireplace. If George, the maitre d'hotel, had to convince people that he is a paragon of hostly virtues, he would not have to change a thing he is doing now. The reception is perfect, the service attentive and the cookery of chef Christos Anginopolous is all that anyone could desire. Christos, who has worked in the past with Paul Bocuse and Andre Daguin, has found the key to an ideal marriage between dishes that, while they maintain their distinctly Greek nature, have taken on just the right touch of classic cuisine.

Every dish was painstakingly and perfectly prepared. A terrine of pike with tarragon, lobster quenelles with shrimp sauce and a wild duck braised with lemon came together superbly, first, with a bottle of good Chablis and then with another of Meursalt-Perrieres.

After lunch Larry retired to his room and Debbie and I made our way in our jeep to Cape Vavaras, there to contemplate about vampires and steal a nap on the warm, completely deserted stone beach. Vampires are a serious concern of the locals, many of the country-folk maintaining a strong belief in the existence and ever present danger caused by these "living dead" who drink the blood of virgins and others. Whether the local vampires are partial to virginal blood is unimportant, for many homes, regardless of the sexual status of the people who live there, place garlic on their windowpanes, hang crosses over their bed and maintain a supply of wooden stakes in case of emergencies. Even though some of the island's best known vampires are said to find this particular beach a favorite haunting ground, we woke with no marks on our bodies other than those who chose to put there ourselves.

Evening found us in the village of Aghios Stefanos, there ensconced at the small taverna that carries the name of its proprietor, yet another Spiros. Because he was in specially good spirits this evening, Spiros presented us with a bottle of thirty year old retsina, that uniquely Greek wine that at its best resembles nothing more than well aged turpentine. The taped sirtaki music was good, the retsina, whatever its other faults, was ice cold and several dishes of special subtlety made their way to our table, proving that Spiros is always capable of producing a pleasant surprise. Baby eggplants preserved in sherry vinegar and a julienne of zucchini seasoned with rosemary made for unusual but pleasant starters and a traditional arnaki avgolemono (lamb in egg and lemon sauce) made for a most satisfying main course. As soon as it was discretely possible, Debbie and I abandoned the retsina in favour of a crisp and clear village made cider.

At about midnight, Spiros' daughter, Theodora appeared with her husband. He had been seen flirting with a young English tourist and she was appropriately furious, the upshot of which was that we were treated to a family brouhaha of outrageous proportions. In traditional Greek style they both broke plates. His were smashed into the fireplace. Most of the plates that made their way to Theodora's hands, in somewhat of a change from the usual tradition, were broken over her husband's head.

Considering that such battles take place between Theodora and her philandering husband on a weekly basis, no one paid too much attention to their carryings-on. After they had made their temporary peace, we all settled down for a final coffee. By now it was nearly 2 a.m. and from here Debbie and I had a short drive home. And so to bed.

For Recipes For Several Traditional and Not-So-Traditional Dishes From Corfu, Click Here.

© Daniel Rogov