How to make a salad!

Mum tied up her lemon-coloured hair in an elastic band and poured water on the verandas to sweep off the dust; Dad was sitting in the hall drinking his coffee and reading the morning newspapers while Rudy was still in bed, sleeping late as Saturday’s holiday permitted. The morning was bright; the sun looked like a huge fireball, radiant and blinding in a transparent blue and cloudless sky. Dad looked at his watch – they had shopping to do and delaying it any longer would mean to endure the midday sun’s burning rays on their skin. He lay the newspapers aside and went to Rudy’s room.

‘Son, it’s time to wake up’ Dad said, touching Rudy’s shaggy blonde hair.

‘Noo…’

‘How about the week’s drive to laiki agora? Are you going to spend it in bed?’

‘Nooo!’ Rudy said. He pushed the sheets away and jumped off the bed as if pins had just spurt off the mattress. He ran to the bathroom, washed his juicy red face and brushed his teeth. By the time he went back to his bedroom Dad had unfolded a set of clothes on the bed. Rudy wore his army-green shorts and a white shirt featuring a bubblegum champion, put on his trainers and a promotional hat of a beer brand and sat in the hall waiting for Dad.

Rudy sat in the back seat of the car, by the open window, gazing at vehicles stuck in traffic. People were flooding the streets as if a public demonstration was taking place. Half the world seemed to be in shops and malls, racing against time to complete the week’s unfinished chores and errands, while coffee shops served the other half - the lucky ones who had the opportunity to enjoy the sunny holiday.

Dad parked his car at the municipality’s parking lot. The strong fortress walls extending at both sides of the lot marked and surrounded the old town. They were built by the Venetians in the 16th century and appeared gigantic to Rudy’s eyes who kept staring at their length until they were lost on a curve.

Rudy held Dad’s hand and leaned his puffy cheek over, as they crossed the street. They wended their way through Laiki Geitonia, an old section of the town carefully restored to its traditional character. Rudy hesitated as a current of noisy people emerged from the narrow whitewashed alleys; he huddled on Dad’s bony leg and stared at the locals and tourists interacting with each other.

‘Don’t worry son. Stay close to me.’

Despite the confusion the pace and mood was pretty relaxing.
Shop owners displayed souvenirs, oil paintings and textiles on the pedestrian zone inviting customers with offers and discounts and engaging in the customary bargaining process. The shops resembled long corridors, maintaining the charm of the past. Local artists displayed their wares of traditional art along the cobblestone lanes. Workshop windows were decorated with craft-work exciting the passersby’s interest. Craftsmen practiced their unchanged for centuries trades and Rudy pulled Dad in every direction to watch their mastery, stitching leather on boots, repairing woodcrafts and shaping clay into pots.

‘Look dad, what are they doing?’ A number of people stood by a workshop’s doorway, pushing each other to get in.

‘It’s a jewelry shop, son! People stand in queue to buy Lolas, Dad said pausing to make sure that Rudy understood.

‘Lolas…?’ Rudy said and his eyes stretched egg-shaped.

‘Lolas are handmade tiny figures. Their main body is a white thimble painted with flowers and symbols and signed by the artist. They have colourful pearl heads and brass wings, arms and legs. They are said to bring good luck and many hang them on their doors and windows at home.’
‘Ahh! Can I have one?’ Rudy said with his mouth wide open and his index finger hooked behind his lips.

‘Not today son, we have shopping to do, remember?’ Dad said, smiling. ‘Come, let’s go.’

Rudy kept his eyes peeled in front of the purple and gold bougainvilleas covering the balconies of taverns and restaurants. He twitched his nose as it took in the fruity flavors of narghile, the aroma of roast lamb and Greek coffee that seemed to beckon customers closer. He dragged Dad to the cafes’ shady, flower-filled interior courtyards every time a tall man in black trousers and a white shirt invited them in for a coffee. There, the locals enjoyed company while drinking zivania and nipping off from a number of Cypriot meze plates, homemade marmalade and preserves.

Traditional renovated houses with green, red and yellow doors and windows were lined up with the shops. Crimson flowers seemed to overflow from window pots while the ornate balconies with their richly wrought iron railings were jut from the weather-beaten sandstone walls.

The sweet smell of jasmine would mix with the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the open doorways, tickling Rudy’s nostrils causing him to sniff all the way to laiki agora like following a siren’s call.

The winding streets paved with stone led at the end of the pedestrian zone across Faneromeni’s Church, a 19th century marble temple. They passed through the church’s courtyard towards the army’s check points and along the ‘Green Line’ to a large parking area by the old town hall where laiki agora took place.

Farm workers were still unloading boxes and cases from the trucks replacing what had already been sold.

Before sunrise farmers and laborers would situate themselves at their spot of preference. From the roof of the surrounding buildings, laiki agora looked like a labyrinth. Pallets in lines and squares, loaded with slatted wooden boxes and plastic crates one on top of the other, full of colourful fruits in different shapes and sizes; scattered potatoes and onions spread on thick nylons and blankets that lay on the ground; nuts and beans in long and wide sand bags; olives in plastic pots; masses of fresh vegetables lined on the benches; typical carton labels that read “juicy”, “spicy” or “fresh”; sheets and tents tied up from beam to beam; umbrellas shading the goods from the burning sun; old barn wicker chairs, butterfly chairs and wooden stools or boxes in the shadow; platform scales and empty bags ready to be filled for sale; everything separated in three to four feet spaces so that the crowd could move between the multicoloured corridors.

The crowded scene served as a reminder that part of the dead past still existed in the very alive present. Children were following parents; parents were carrying children and bags. People were picking and choosing through each fruit and vegetable bin.

Morning was the time to be there; the earlier you could arrive at the market, the better quality you would get. The bargains varied, but everything was cheap compared to any local supermarket or grocery store. Following Dad’s steps, Rudy was stunned at the commotion surrounding him.

‘It can’t get any cheaper people! If it does, they’ll put us behind bars’ hawkers called out, ‘Get them first, one pound bag of tomatoes, one pound bag of nectarines, fifty cents bag of mandarins.’

‘Why are fruits already in the bags dad? Can’t we choose them ourselves?’

‘Of course we can son, but those bags are cheaper because they’re selling out’ Dad said with a gaping smile.

‘They’re going crazy, they’re giving it for free’ merchants hollered.

‘We picked and chose ourselves….one by one’ a woman cried out loud, holding and waving a Red Delicious apple in her hands.

Rudy pulled Dad’s trousers with a worried look on his face.
‘Dad, are they fighting?’

‘Haaa…noo they’re just calling out their prices.’

‘But they seem to be!’

‘They’re just bargaining for a better price son.’

‘You can’t find better than this…it tastes like Turkish delights’ a man said through a loudspeaker. ‘You can sample, it won’t bite’, he said, rubbing a velvet peach on his shirt and taking a bite.

‘Dad, can I try one?’

‘You will son; you’ll have the opportunity in a while!’

‘It’s not a rattler nor a shark… it’s Andrikkos selling his products’ another man said, pointing his thumb on his chest.

‘Sweet and juicy canaries’ a man shouted, referring to a variety of melons, ‘they can also sing!’ he said laughing.

Rudy was digging in piles of fruits and vegetables, picking up randomly, smelling and caressing their skin and leaves. He frowned and raised his eyebrows; he strained his lips and made low and continuous sounds of approval, trying to imitate his Dad, handing the few selected over for Dad’s feedback.

‘See son? Cauliflower and broccoli must be well-shaped, closely packed and firm’ Dad said, pointing out with his forefinger. ‘Cabbage should be well-trimmed with a solid head and heavy for size,’ Dad continued while choosing one from the bin and examining it in front of Rudy’s eyes.

‘I know these greens. We use them in the salad!’ Rudy said striding up and down with joy.

‘Greens, like lettuce or celery should not be wilted or bruised, rough-looking or puffy-feeling to the stalk,’ Dad said scanning within a pile of greens lying on the bench. ‘Fresh ones will have a moist and stimulating odour. Think of the smell of wet grass in our backyard. What if it had the distinctive aroma of lettuce or celery or cucumber?’ He cut the butt of a cucumber and pressed it on Rudy’s forehead until it glued. ‘Here, this will keep your head cool.’

‘Fresh goat cheese, people; no chewing; a free slide into your stomach!’ a woman yelled at the top of her lungs like a town crier. She was short with bent shoulders and brown skin. She was wearing a brown garment with an apron tied at her waist and held a large pan of fresh goat cheese.

‘Cheese..!’ Rudy said in a loud voice.

‘Ok, you can go,’ Dad said.

Rudy ran to the other side of the market between the narrow lanes, taking shortcuts through the smaller passageways to get closer. He snaked his way through the crowd and found himself at the front row.

‘Hey boy, would you like to try some?’ she said and gave him a piece of goat cheese wrapped up in a napkin. ‘Now…don’t eat it all at once, do you hear?’

Rudy nodded, took the napkin in both hands, wormed out from the crowd and stood at a traffic-less spot. The cheese was warm, steaming with a salty aroma and looked like solid foam. He touched the cheese with the tip of his finger and it was split in three pieces. He put the smallest piece in his mouth. It spread like melting ice and slid down his throat leaving a tangy flavour of warm goat milk.

The rest of the cheese went down in one go and Rudy ran back to Dad.

They stopped by a lorry, its platform framed in parallel boxed rails, loaded with watermelons dressed in their crocodile skin and a label slinging by the beams proclaiming ‘No seeds inside.’
Rudy stepped on the iron thick stairs attached to the ladder-framed platform and walked to the middle of the truck.

‘Remember’ Dad said, ‘Look for an average size watermelon. Thumb it; if it sounds hollow, it’s a first indication of being ripe. Then, with your fingertips gently squeeze at both ends of the watermelon; if it gives a little then it’s ripe; thumb and squeeze.’
Rudy touched, and thumbed and squeezed with his fingertips.

‘This one, dad!’ Rudy said, his eyes and teeth reflecting the sun.

‘Ok, now check the tendril. Is it half-dead or not? We don’t want it dead because it might be overripe.’

‘Half-dead.’

‘What about the bottom colour?’

‘Creamy.’

‘Good, we take that one. What else do we need?’

Rudy pointed to the tall and heavy-built tanned man standing next to the carrier. He extended his arms and Dad caught him by the armpits and landed him on the ground.

‘Do you have halloumi?’, Rudy asked.

‘Haaa…’ the man roared like a bear and caressed the tips of his long grey moustache. He lifted up his twilled cotton trousers and kneeled on the coal road; he rolled up his sleeves and pulled from behind the truck’s tire a plastic pot. He removed the cap and grabbed a halloumi rapt in its own brine and natural juices. He sliced a piece off the halloumi’s forked layer with his Swiss knife. ‘Here, the best you can find, try some’ he said in a firm voice.

Rudy ate it in one bite. The salty and dry taste made his eyes wrinkle and his shoulders shrink until the saltwater filled his mouth and drifted down his throat.

‘What do you think?’ the man said and handed the pot to Dad.

By midday the parking lot was covered with onion leaves, orange blotches and apple or tomato skins stepped over and melted, boiling under the sun. They gathered their shopping bags, Dad giving the lighter to Rudy and leaving the heavy ones for him. The alleys leading back to Laiki Geitonia were quiet and empty, shops were closed and the people had already retrieved to their privacy.

At home, Rudy helped his father unload the shopping from the car to the kitchen. The plates were on the table and the food was already warming up in the oven. He sat on the kitchen bench as Mum was preparing the salad.

‘We cut everything in little pieces so that we can chew them better,’ Mum said in a calm and warm voice. ‘First goes the cucumber, then the onions and green peppers. Sprinkle a hint of salt and black pepper on top, a few drops of olive oil and then put the tomatoes in; stir them up with your fingers and palms like kneading so that the salad gets a hold of your scent and touch. The hands of each chef will give a different taste and today we’re going to taste yours’ Mum said, tickling Rudy’s belly and causing him to twitch. ‘Here, put your hands in the bowl and massage the vegetables.’

Rudy did so; his eyes widened, his lips tightened and puckered like a tightly stitched cloth. The tomatoes’ juice and the grains of salt and pepper slipped through his fingers; the onions squeezed out a strong, eye-burning vapour and the green peppers released their spicy taste. Juices admixed with olive oil, evoking an earthy and savory aroma that made him smile in delight.

‘Now, plenty of lettuce; two soft-boiled eggs; plenty of crushed green olives in marinate; squeeze a lemon; olive oil, salt and pepper and re-stir the salad with your hands. Here…’

Again Rudy grabbed and dropped repeatedly. The scents got stronger and warmer, sweet and spicy, juicy and herbal and everything in the bowl went soft and oily.

‘Each of the ingredients should have the flavour of the other. Lick your fingers and roll the juice in your mouth, exposing it to your taste buds’ Mum said and tipped some of the salad’s juice in her mouth. She closed her silvery eyes and sighed ‘Let it touch the palate, your gums, and your tongue and beneath it…The scents should travel from your mouth through your nose channels. Can you feel it?’

‘Aha.’

‘What do you think…is something missing?’

‘It needs more lemon!?’ Rudy said in an uncertain tone.

‘Ok, how about another half …Now, try it again.’

‘Yes!’, he said licking his fingers one by one.

‘Good, ready then, food on the table!’

Mum placed the pan on the table –rolled roast cooked with potatoes, onions and tomatoes, olive oil and garlic. The strong and hypnotic smells took Rudy’s mind through the day’s colours and smells and in his afternoon nap’s dreams he was the chef making the salad.