Crete, Day 9: The scorched-earth buffet and the redhead meatball whisperer

Let me tell you something: nothing quite says Greek island holiday like waking up to a full-blown Saharan tactical assault. Yes, that fine layer of African sand that’s drifted across continents only to settle lovingly in my sinuses, cling to every surface like a needy ex, and drive our poor host George into a rage-filled poolside opera.

Imagine a man so furious with a skimmer net that you begin to wonder if it insulted his mother. George, ever the good host, was half banshee, half Olympic leaf blower. His Greek curses echoed off the wind, and frankly, if what I sneezed into a tissue is clogging his filtration system, I’d be furious too. This wasn’t just dust—it was the pulverised soul of a thousand sand dunes, and it was everywhere.

But one does not let a biblical-grade sandstorm stand between them and roast meat on a spit. No, dear reader. Today, I did what I almost never do: I went back to the same restaurant twice in two days. This wasn’t just a return—it was a full-blown pilgrimage to Areston-Spanakis, where the gods of Greek cuisine had clearly clocked in early and set the lamb turning like a divine rotisserie wheel of fortune.

We walked in, and there it was: Lamb on a spit. Pork on a spit. A meaty carousel of dreams. The air was thick with the smell of char and fat and history. This was no tourist-friendly taverna menu. This was Greek Sunday. A feast. The kind of thing that makes you weep gently into your wine glass with gratitude.

Let’s talk zucchini sticks. Every table had them. I panicked and ordered them like a local trying to blend in at a family wedding. They arrived golden, crisped to perfection, served with a garlic emulsion so potent it might’ve awakened my ancestors. Then came the octopus—because of course it did—laid lovingly on a bed of fava, drizzled in balsamic like Poseidon’s appetizer plate.

And dessert? Galaktoboureko. Phyllo layered over semolina custard, sticky with syrup and sin. Washed down with the holy ghost of the Cretan table: Raki. Clear, unforgiving, and mandatory.

Now, a word to the comment-section sommeliers of my last post: yes, I drank Ouzo. Yes, I loved it. Yes, I am fully aware that Raki is the local spirit of choice, and guess what? I drink that too. I don’t discriminate. Raki, Metaxa, Retsina, Ouzo—I welcome them all with open arms and an occasionally wobbly gait. I am not here for your purist nonsense. I am here to celebrate joy—and Crete has given me a whole damn buffet of it.

Speaking of buffets, let’s talk dinner. We meandered up to Koutouloufari, bellies full but dreams intact. That’s when she appeared—a stunning redhead, easily six feet tall, siren-like in her confidence. She beckoned us to her restaurant, Patriko Restauraunt Taverna, and like obedient sailors, we followed.

There, I ordered the Cretan Platter—moussaka, dolmades, soutzoukakia, tzatziki, a stuffed tomato—all the hits, a Greek Greatest Bites if you will. But Andy… oh, sweet Andy. He won. He had the house meatballs—pork and beef, seasoned with sumac and stewed in a tomato sauce that I wanted to bottle, bathe in, and write poetry about. I stared at his plate like a cat that’s just realised the dog got steak.

Ninth day in, and still no bad meal. Not one. Crete, you magnificent bastard, you just keep hitting home runs.

So here’s to sand in my nose, to lamb on a spit, to redheaded temptresses with restaurant menus, and to never apologising for loving food, drink, and life in the loudest, messiest, most unfiltered way possible.

If that offends you, don’t worry. I’ve got a glass of raki and zero regrets to help me sleep at night.

Yammas.