I have a confession to make, and it’s not pretty. It betrays the whole concept that I’d have to be a foodie to write a food blog, and clearly a foodie would never say such slander. Here goes: I hated Greek spanakopita.
I know, I know. If you like something in America, it has to be better in its native land, right? In fact, I say that about Italian food all the time. Italy is my culinary mecca, the place I literally learned how to eat. Having lived my entire life in Los Angeles and toting several suitcases full of body image baggage, I discovered with my first bite of pizza (see my previous article about Pizza Baffetto) that eating can be a beautiful thing. My boyfriend teases me incessantly about my proclamations that parmesan is simply better in Italy. And yet somehow, I hated Greek spanakopita.
On my post college graduate whirlwind Eurotrip, a friend and I made a pit stop to Athens and Mykonos to visit some of her distant Italian/Greek cousins. In my broken Italian, I attempted to communicate to her aunt that the one Greek delicacy I wanted to try was spanakopita. I buy the frozen packs of it at Trader Joe’s all the time, and couldn’t even imagine what that buttery, melt-in-your-mouth phyllo would taste like directly from the source.
What we got were a crumbly, dry sheets of real phyllo and an overstuffed creamy, spinach mess. There was an aftertaste of some sort that didn’t sit well with me, and I mourned my hopes and expectations for a spanakopita. I also forced myself to eat the whole, slurpy slice because I had expressed so much excitement (via mostly hand gestures) for the delicacy. On my search to discover what addition had turned my tastebuds so sour, I have only come up with “secret spices”.
If you somehow have some Greek grandfather who could tell me what that spice may be, or a recommendation for a Greek restaurant that can fulfill my spanakopita needs, let me know!
And hey, at least it looks pretty.
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