He looks like a Gyro - St Louis

 The big Greek Church hides behind the trees as you turn the corner of the frontage road leading into the wealthier neighborhoods in St Louis. I-270 is on your right and lush, green manicured lawns to a few businesses, churches and country clubs on your left; at nine in the evening you kind of feel like you are a burglar who is up to no good. The church, set back from the road, is introduced by a huge canvas sign “St Louis Greek Festival” with the deflated big billowing stick man that undulates in the wind during the day, beaconing you to get “A taste of Greece – without the airfare.” I turn into the massive parking lot which as you get deeper into the property shows the actual massiveness of the church. Peaking out from behind the building, I see the white tents that are set up every year. This year is bigger than last, I can tell there are more tables and a bigger outdoor stage for the musicians who play Greek music all day long. A police officer whose face is lit up by his laptop keeps watch in his car and follows me with his eyes as I park my car against the bushes that boarder the church lot. As I get out and walk towards the rear of the church the officer gets out and greets me,

            “Evening.” He says, less gruff than I expect him to be.

            “Good evening, I’m here to see Peter?” I say questioningly, there hasn’t been a security guard before.

            “Right, you’re good. Go ahead on in.” he smiled and waved at me as I continued on. The tents stretched all the way down to the back lot; at the end there was a huge section of grills that light up each morning and feed thousands of people kabobs and other Mediterranean delicacies. I smiled when I saw a small table that had rickety old white chairs surrounding it, bending in the legs and dirty from years of use - this is where the old Greek men sit around drinking their Mythos beer and talking about all the pretty girls that walk by. In a strange sweet way that was one of my favorite places to take my break when I worked here years ago, they loved it almost as much as I did.

            I rounded the corner and climbed the seven steps it took to get to the back door of the kitchen. The mats with holes in them were draped along the railing and wet suds were dripping off of them, onto the sidewalk that was riddled with empty boxes, cigarette butts and metal chairs that were way past their life expectancy. I always wonder if I ran things if I could make it better, but I know that if I changed anything at all it would throw the essence of the place into a nightmarish cluster of crap; Greek people are too set in their ways, and that is how I like it. I knocked on the dirty white door and then tried the knob.

            Stepping into the Assumption Greek Church kitchen is like stepping into a home, it is here where all the love and family come together and fill people’s spirits with a taste of their real, first home. The huge line of ladles, whisks and spoons all hung in vast amounts over the preparation table that had been newly washed (for the fifth time today no doubt). The great gas stoves that sat up against the wall next to the door was black with soot and seemed as if it was hurrying up to sleep for a few hours before the whole thing would start up again. The ovens with the red handles were empty and ready for the next onslaught of pasticcio and spanakopita to be thrown in.

             “Peter?” I yell, stepping lightly on the newly mopped kitchen floor. There were two white tables next to the dishwasher on the far wall that were laid side by side with buckets of olives underneath and the cart with the big white tubs that would hold mass amounts of Romaine lettuce during the day. This was where they made the amazing Greek Salads in assembly line, topped with feta, olives, pepperoncini’s, onions and the secret salad dressing. This is where I spent most of my time when I worked, this was where I would banter with Andy and the old Greek women as they came in and out, critiquing how I was putting the salad together, snorting “good” in a heavy accent as they quickly hustled out again.

             “Hey!” Peter walked in and gave me a big hug, “You made it!”

             “Barely! I got stopped by that policeman out there.” I laughed as he grabbed my shoulders and led me past the kitchen utensils and prep tables to the big dining hall where Gabby was mopping the huge floor. Peter hopped up on the drinks counter and we chatted a bit about how the festival was going and how things were flowing. He was one of the kitchen lead/managers now and had been for a while; being a Greek Orthodox man himself he was always involved in whatever was going on that was Greek in St Louis.

             “How’s Andy doing?” I asked, leaning against the counter. Peter got up and grabbed the unarmed mop that was lying on the ground.

             “He’s alright, tired as usual.” Andy was the head chef in the kitchen, a tall Greek man who had a beer belly and smoked about a pack and a half of cigarettes a day. He had a gravely voice that thundered out across the kitchen and always sounded angry, though it was just his way of getting things done. Even when the kids did screw up he got mad but it was never lived very long, he always had a tender heart, he loved the group of kids that work for him; every year he asks them to come to Mykonos, an island in Greece where he plans on retiring, sometime in the future.             

             “Yea, you just get to the island by boat and when you show up, the locals come down to the docs and take you back to their places for cheep, they will keep you like you are family because to them you are for the next couple days. You can stay there and they will feed you for a few dollars. It’s like nothing you have ever seen in your life. It’s the most beautiful place in the world.” He always makes me crave to travel there. Whenever anyone would speak of Greece from that church it was always as if they were going to return there soon which made it more alive than you could imagine. Every time you started a day at the Greek Church you knew that you were going to be taken to another country just by being around the people, listening to them talk and look forward to going back. The men that sit around the white tables at the grills outside have the best stories, but only if they like you. They would talk about every time you went into the ocean there was going to be some new fish swimming along side you as you snorkeled around the islands, you would find a rare shell along the beach or you would meet a beautiful native that would sweep you away to a romantic spot where you would watch the sunrise peaking over their shoulder.  

            The Greek Festival is not just something you attend; it is an annual event that you live at for the day. You eat the best Greek food in town, then shop around at their Agora where various venders from around St Louis come and set up just like a Greek market, then you eat some more, meet some Greek people and become best friends, then you eat some more. They have every type of Greek food you could imagine from Gyros to Dolmades to Baklava – pair that up with Mythos and you have the perfect day.

            I grabbed a towel and the half-empty bottle of cleaner and began to scrub down the buffet serving tables as they finished up mopping. The pictures of the different Greek cities were spaced out on the wall around the massive dining hall – Mykonos, Athens, Santorini, etc. It was almost like you got a tour of Greece without having to go there. I could almost hear the room echoing with loud voices, calling out to each other and yelling at their children to stop running, the ladies calling for treys to be refilled and gyros to be brought in from the grills. The long line for the register reaches out way past the door to the outside, and on a good day will go all the way to the end of the church and wrap around. 

            “Alright we’re finished, you almost ready to go?” I asked as Peter threw the mops back into the bucket and shifted his attention to checking to make sure all was well before locking up. Gabby glided behind the large curtain on the stage to turn off the music and pack things up.

            “Yea, just one more thing.” He grabbed a to-go box from the counter and disappeared into the kitchen. I sat on the counter again, staring at the large baker’s racks filled with baklava and other sweet Greek treats that were sure to be dripping with honey and cloves. “Here.” He appeared again next to me and handed me the box, I didn’t have to open it to know that there was olives, feta and pita inside - he remembered. Family never forgets.