The village has fifty-seven residents. We were the only guests at the hotel. The owner had offered to cook us dinner. We'd said yes without overthinking it, spent the afternoon exploring two stunning neighbouring villages, and returned to find three hundred homemade meatballs.
Not approximately three hundred. Three hundred. Alongside a mountain of pasta, a proper Greek salad, and the usual honest companions, olives, feta, bread. He'd had an idea about dinner and he'd seen it through completely. This is what happens in Greece when someone decides to be generous: they don't negotiate with the idea. They just do it.
The evening went where it needed to go. Somewhere before midnight, someone at the table produced a cigar, she remains entirely proud of this decision, and the owner accepted with the careful gravity of a man about to do something for the first time. Which, as it turned out, he was. We were still there at three in the morning.