I had several hours to kill before my flight out of O’Hare and as I drove through Chicago’s leafy Northwest suburbs on a lazy springtime Sunday I was debating if I should eat lunch at Subway or Panera when I saw a large Greek restaurant. The parking lot was full so I assumed it had good food and on a whim, I pulled in.
I asked for a table for one but the hostess was apologetic. “I’m so sorry,” she said as if she meant it. “We’re closed to the public today. We’re having a private christening party.”
I was disappointed but I shrugged. “No worries,” I said, but as I turned to leave a very large older woman approached the hostess stand. “Wait,” she said.
The older woman was, I soon discovered, Grandma Stavropoulas, the baby’s great-grandmother. “You’re not Greek,” she said accusingly and I shook my head sadly. Then she brightened. “You like Greek food?” she asked.
“Love it,” I answered, “but I’ll come back another time.” Grandma Stavropoulas grabbed my arm. “You come in,” she said. “We have plenty of food. Join the party.”
Now I was horrified and I started making excuses like a madman but Grandma Stavropoulas would not take no for an answer. She was 85 and very strong: she physically dragged me into a cavernous space packed with people and introduced me to the room at large (“This is Guy from Florida! He’s not Greek!”) and sat me down at a table with some lesser cousins.
Grandma Stavropoulas took a personal interest in my meal and brought me a huge plate of food from the buffet table. I had no idea what I was eating, but it was delicious. My meal was continually interrupted by people coming to say hello and I felt like a member of the family.
When I had finished I was ready to call it a day but Grandma Stavropoulas brought me another huge plate and ordered me to finish it. She also brought me a large glass of what everyone appeared to be drinking which was, I subsequently discovered, responsible for the general air of well-being in the room . I tried to decline, since I had to drive back to O’Hare, but Grandma Stavropoulas would have none of it. “Nick will drive you to the airport,” she said, indicating a large man with one eyebrow. She lowered her voice. “He’s in recovery, you know.”
Unlike anyone else in the room, I am a total lightweight when it comes to alcohol and soon the room was spinning; then improbably, I found myself dancing with Grandma Stavropoulas. It was an improvised dance with lots of twirling. Grandma led.
“So,” she said as she spun me around. “You will meet my granddaughter, Diana. She is just divorced. She is a lawyer with a nice house.” She nodded her head firmly, as though that settled things. I demurred with a clearly manufactured excuse but Grandma did not miss a beat. “So,” she said. “You will meet Alex, my grandson. He is an architect with a nice house.”
Soon after it was time for Nick to drive me to the airport, but first Grandma dragged me to the head table, put Baby Stavropoulas in my arms and had me pose for pictures. This was followed by a long goodbye since I had to hug everyone in the room, male and female. I hugged Grandma last and I felt her slip something in my pocket, but in the general bedlam did not think anything of it.
It was not until I was emptying my pockets at Security that I discovered what she slipped me: A huge piece of baklava wrapped in tissue. And Alex’s phone number.