Based on the notes scribbled
PAPE AND MORTIMER - It's 1:30 in the morning. We're stuck in a Greek restaurant, playing loud Greek music. Music. More like the loud whaling of a goat being attacked by some lonely shepherd up in the mountain. It takes 15 minutes, or an average of four Greek songs for the cook to make our shees-ka-bobs.
Upbeat, we decide to sit down. The place looks like it hasn't changed since the seventies. My untrained ear cannot tell if the whaling.. er... the songs are current or the Greek version of "Saturday Night Fever”. The plastic green tables, the shit brown chairs, the light brown curtains, the oil in the pan, the drive in sign, the plastic flowers next to our table. It feels as if it has been in there for ages.
A guy is complaining to our Greek cook about the miserable amount of fries he's got. We glance at him. He's your typical punk that has nothing to do in a dead neighbourhood like this, other than to come and order a Gyro with Tzatziki sauce. He was alone. Maybe his friends were home over an indigestion of Baklava`. Maybe not. The cook had a breaded complexion. He just kept the same face, almost if made with the same material used for the plastic plants. He just kept on grinning as he flipped our chunks of meat on the fire and the punk kept on bitching.
Sitting behind the punk, three older man were looking at the punk. They were waiting for the cook to continue their card game. The punk was just wasting precious time. Maybe they wanted to blow the guy away, but us two were too much of a crowd.
The Christmas ornaments have been up since 1973, but nobody notices them except during the Christmas holidays. It is still a mystery nobody can explain.
I'm glad we've ordered our Souvlaki to go.
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