February 1982, Kofinou. My father and I are sitting on the veranda of our restaurant. My mother is cooking in the kitchen, while my father tells me stories about his village, Agios Amvrosios. He describes moments, images, incidents, and I travel with him in my mind. His memories start from the village church, and from there, he mentally traces, with every detail, the path to his house. It's as if he's drawing his own map on the table with his hand. “If I don't make it back, my daughter, you'll know how to find our house,” he tells me, taking a sip of zivania. Just then, my mother appears with a large pan in her hand and serves us fresh agrelia with eggs. My father loves agrelia; he tells me they're the perfect meze for zivania. He even pours a little into my glass. My mother scolds him, but he replies, “It's for a toast!” and winks at me, smiling conspiratorially. I'll never forget that smile. And every time I make this recipe, I make it with his smile on my lips…
