It’s All Greek to Me: Stathis Stamatakis Sells Cretan Delights in Northern Michigan
A Cretan delight in Northern Michigan
Regulars of the indoor farmers’ market at the Village at Grand Traverse Commons know Crete native Stathis Stamatakis for his honey-dipped baklava, his kourabiedes walnut sugar cookies and other Greek delights. Stathis sells his delectable goods at the first table you encounter if your Saturday morning tour begins at Cuppa Joe in the main entrance of Building 50.
Our daughter Nina was just 3 weeks old when she made her visit to the indoor farmers’ market, and Stathis was among the first strangers she met. His olive eyes teared with joy, but he ribbed me for bringing her out so soon. In old Greece, he said, a baby doesn’t leave the home until she’s 6 weeks old. Nina now sees him at the market most weeks—an excuse for me to sample his sweets. (It’s OK to nibble on his baklava before you pick up your produce!)
Despite more than two decades of growing roots in the Midwest, he is unmistakably a son of the isles. Stathis’s warm hospitality, the devotion to his Hellenic roots and traditions, his rich accent and deep smile and his mastery of Greek cuisine might give the impression that he just arrived on American shores.
During the warmer months, Stathis is a fixture on the Leelanau County farmers’ market circuit. Every Tuesday in Glen Arbor I find him under his signature blue tent adorned with the Greek flag. But my favorite Stathis Stamatakis experience is his Greek Orthodox Easter meal, which he hosts every year at a cottage on Bass Lake, and which I had the pleasure of attending last spring...
Never mind that it’s 47 degrees, patches of snow litter the ground and an early May chill bites the Northern Michigan air. It is Easter, and Stathis Stamatakis is grilling lamb kabobs over an open fire. I lean in and smell the tantalizing delight of meat marinated in olive oil, lemon juice and oregano sizzling over burning wood.
I watch Stathis’s nimble feet perform a little dance as his boom box plays songs from Zorba the Greek. And if I close my eyes and ignore the cold, I am suddenly transported to the island of Crete— Stathis’s home—where a spit of lamb turns in every restaurant, where the Mediterranean Sea meeting the clear sky redefines the color blue and where men strum bouzoukis on the promenade as couples stroll into the evening.
Stathis Stamatakis and his American wife, Marvine, moved to Michigan in 1993 so their sons—George, 40, who now lives in Pasadena, California, and Nikiforos, 38, who now lives in New York City—could attend college in the United States. She met him while studying abroad in Athens in 1970 through DePaul Uni- versity. Her professor invited the students to a taverna one evening to watch Cretan dancing, and that’s where she became smitten with Stathis, a native of Heraklion, the capital of Crete. They held two wedding ceremonies—one in Philadelphia in 1973, and the second in 1978 in a Greek church in Crete.
Stathis and Marvine lived through the military coup of 1973 and the difficult years that followed. His brother Nikiforos, after whom their youngest son is named, was a political prisoner during the junta’s reign. Now Marvine teaches English as second language at Interlochen Arts Academy, and they live in a cottage on Bass Lake, south of Traverse City, where Stathis invites close friends for his annual Easter feast. Stathis visits Greece usually once every couple years, but times are tough there. The economy hangs from a thread and Greece was forced to accept painful austerity measures to nar- rowly avoid being kicked out of the European Union.
Stathis’s Greek Easter feast is full of tradition and historical signifi- cance. Once we park in the driveway and amble by the blue and white Greek flag flapping in the wind, we climb the front steps and enter the small cottage where on the dining room table Stathis has prepared plates of soutzoukakis (garlic meatballs in tomato sauce); youvarlakia (meatballs with rice in egg and lemon sauce); various cheeses; tzatziki cucumber and yogurt sauce; lamb with artichokes in egg and lemon sauce; roasted lamb with tomato sauce; potatoes roasted in olive oil, lemon juice and oregano; Swiss chard with onions and tomato sauce; and Cretan lamb casserole with onion, lemon and olive oil. Someone opens a bottle of Retsina (Greek white wine stored in pine barrels—allegedly, I was told in Crete, so the invading Turks either wouldn’t find it or wouldn’t drink it!) and the eating and celebrating begins.
Orthodox Easter is Greece’s biggest holiday, Stathis and Marvine explain. During holy week, many fast except for the occasional spoonful of olive oil to maintain their energy. Most civic life stops and the television stations feature only religious programs. Entire families, including children, take part in the Good Friday service, and carry a metaphorical coffin through the streets. Sat- urday is a quiet day of rest punctuated by candles lit by the priest at church, signs of the cross left on doors, fireworks and tradi- tional Magiritsa soup made of lamb innards and romaine lettuce eaten after midnight.
The celebration begins Sunday morning when family and friends gather to roast the “lamb of God” on an open spit, sometimes in a backyard, sometimes in an open field. As Marvine explains, everyone takes turns basting the lamb with oregano, lemon juice and olive oil. By the time of the feast, the party is ravenous. The lamb is accompanied by potatoes, salad, wine, music and dancing. Two years ago when Stathis visited Heraklion during Easter week, his family took over his brother’s restaurant to celebrate.
The crowd gathered at the cottage grows reflective as we dine. Many speak of their own trips to Greece, and what they ate. Judy Chu, an English professor at Northwestern Michigan College, and her daughter Madeline remember a hot June ferry ride, with people sleeping on the deck, from Athens to Crete. Upon arrival Stathis greeted them with exuberance at the port even though he walked with a clunky cast following a motorcycle accident. Madeline, who was 3 years old then, remembers trying octopus in Heraklion. They stayed at Stathis’s family home, which the Nazis forcibly used as their headquarters during the occupation of Crete during the Second World War.
As my father, Norm, polishes off a plate of lamb, he recalls his own travels to Greece while hitchhiking through Europe in the ‘70s. The warm climate, Greece’s democratic and philosophical roots and his shrinking daily budget led him to the isles. When he ran out of money, Norm tried working as a day laborer. He traveled from island to island, staying in hostels and dining at tavernas where—in those days—no one spoke English but led you into the kitchen where you would point at dishes you wanted to eat: moussaka, pastitsio (eggplant lasagna), spanakopita, a salad with fresh tomatoes, feta and olives, meatballs ... and always lamb.
“You’d catch yourself licking your fingers,” Norm remembers. “The food at each tavern was a little different.”
As he enjoys Stathis’s Easter meal, Norm recalls visiting Kardamena on the island of Kos, drinking thick Greek coffee with grains at the bottom of the cup. He looked down a narrow street and saw two lambs standing in the alley, tied by the neck to the door of a butcher shop. They were for the meal that evening.
Stories like these were told at the dinner table during my childhood, particularly when the smell of moussaka permeated the kitchen, and Zorba crooned from the record player. My father built our house with his own hands, and as I played with toy cars in a nearby diminutive dirt pile, the sound of him hammering nails on top of the roof could be heard across the valley. Though I learned later that he stood only 5-feet-7, I thought of him then as a Greek deity—Zeus, the god of thunder atop Mount Olympus.
Greece was a mystical place in his stories, and the tales of tavernas and islands eventually infected me, too, with the need to travel the world. As a 20-year-old while studying abroad in Germany, I met my parents and flew to Athens, and eventually to Crete, though the flight kept getting delayed—Greeks are not known for punctuality. We finally landed on the island at 1 AM, our cab driver took us to the only gyro stand that was still open, and the lamb, onions and tzatziki wrapped in pita bread was one of the best meals I had ever tasted. Somehow, we found a pension with rooms still available, slept long into the Mediterranean morning, and then my dad and the owner dickered—a local sport—over the room price. Only when Norm threatened to pack up and leave did they reach a deal. A handshake followed (maybe a hug, too), and the owner brought us thick, sweet Greek coffee.
Back in Athens a week later, we visited Elias and Theodora, the Greek cousins of my parents’ Leelanau County neighbor John Velis. We brought photos of John and Amy’s new children, Emma and Charlie, and that provoked a gush of happy tears from the Greeks. We were bringing happy news from the diaspora.
Suddenly, they treated us like family, too. Out came the plates of food—the lamb, the moussaka, the pastitsio, the spanakopita—and carafes of Retsina. We ate and drank and laughed until Elias, seated next to me, had forgotten that I spoke no Greek and told me stream-of-consciousness stories about being a cabdriver in Athens. The food, the culture and the hospitality of strangers made it a memorable night!
The same doors open every Greek Easter at Stathis’s and Marvine’s home. And each time, the food brings back vivid memories of trips to the Greek isles.
Suddenly Stathis emerges from the open fire pit with a plate of lamb kabobs—the best part of the meal. He walks around the cottage and the outside deck serving “lamb pops” to each guest. Most are already stuffed, but no one turns down Stathis’s generosity.
“Parakalo,” says the Greek with a smile. “You’re welcome.”
