Eating Like an Ass in Paradise
When seeking souvlaki on the Greek island of Paros, I found joy by avoiding the places with the ravishing views and people.
Whenever I travel to one of the world’s most beautiful places, I tend to act like an ass: ASS - Anti-Snob Snob.
I bypass all the restaurants with spectacular views, smart designs, gorgeous people and high-end hand soaps and search the back streets for the busiest, noisiest, most unassuming options. If one of these utilitarian eating places is packed with knowing locals as well as asses like me, I can safely assume they have chosen to eat there for only one reason. The food.
Choosing a restaurant on the basis on its food? I know, how crazy is that?
Where better to find direction in Paros than outside The Church of 100 Doors? Thanks to recommendations from a knowledgable parishioner there and guided by the personal food GPS I’ve developed over decades of activism in the reverse-snob movement, I made my way to O Roussos Grill (map), a bustling souvlaki joint near the base of the quickest escape route out of the Parakia, or main town, of Paros. Here I found none of the breathtaking trappings of a Greek island getaway:
No panoramic seaside views. √
No picturesque Aegean blue chairs or turquoise taverna tables. √
No Instagram gods and TikTok goddesses preening to their smartphones. √
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looksist and neither, near as I can tell, are any members of the Roussos family. They’re friendly to people they serve, habitué and newcomer alike, no matter their skin tone, body art or branded sunglasses.
Whatever customers choose to wear, or not wear, if they do have an awesome shape it’s maybe best they not make a show of it, for their own self-esteem. At O Roussos, no sun-kissed body is going to out-shimmer the succulent grilled meats:
Fatty shavings of drippy gyro kebab meat stacked on a vertical spit like slabs of veined marble on an ancient Greek wall. √
Kontosouvli raised high over charcoal and slowly spit-roasted high to the point of absolute meltdown. √
Delectable little chunks of char-grilled kalamaki (skewers), as traditional souvlaki is known, tucked into warm, grill-marked folds of flat Greek pita, not the “Greek-style” pita pockets you find overseas at supermarkets. √
All that sweaty meat is balanced by cool, creamy, ultra-rich tzatziki. This is real Greek yogurt thickened in the traditional way through straining. The “Greek-style” yogurt you may find back home is enriched by adding thickening agents to a watery base.
When traveling it’s maybe best to avoid anything associated with the word style. The “in-the-style-of” stuff, that you can order at home, easily enough, on amazon.
At souvlaki joints, my contrarian tastes ordinarily extend to my choice of meat. Whereas eaters more sensible than I may prefer kalamaki, trusting the superiority and integrity of unadulterated pork chunks grilled on skewers, I prefer gyro, despite the uncertain provenance of its piled meat composites. Chunks can be chewy and dry. With gyro, the Greek counterpart to Turkish döner kebab and Middle Eastern shawarma, fat is the mortar that holds all the mystery meat together. As the gyro cooks from the outside, the structural “glue” softens to a lubricant, oozing grease into every crevice and continuously basting the meat. The moist carvings can be superbly tender and stay that way longer.
O Roussos does terrific gyro, it has to be said, but its sticks of exceptionally tender pork cubes are superior. They changed my mind, something anti-snob snobs don’t do. I think it’s a rule. As for the luscious kontosouvli, it’s composed of marinated pork neck and very nearly meat-free – about as close to 100-percent fat as pork cuts get. Slow-roasting over charcoal breaks down the pork’s connective tissues and draws out its incredible flavour and meltiness.
There’s no saying no to kontosouvli, at O Roussos or wherever it’s featured, though it does dry out as it cools. Like floppy Neapolitan pizza, kontosouvli is a popular takeaway and delivery food that doesn’t transport particularly well. It loses its structural integrity.
We true anti-snob snobs don’t just know how to travel. We know how not to travel, too, and so we consume our kontosouvli no farther than 5 metres and no longer than 2 minutes off the spit. For our needs, the delivery motorbike is best left parked.