17
The café doorway was arched. A hessian mat at the entrance read fayito. Tom entered. Three cab drivers looked up from their plates. Another man sat smoking in a corner. Steam rose from the display of rice, stuffed eggplant, lemon potatoes and racks of roasted meat. A man in an apron entered from the kitchen carrying a large skewer of blackened meat. He looked up at Tom and smiled.
“No strangers allowed in here, mister, but we can give you some takeaway if you know who is greater, Socrates or Zagorakis?
“That is too simple a question,” the smoking man said.
The other three men seemed to await Tom’s answer.
“Vassilis Hatzipanagis,” Tom answered. “He would have danced around them both. This you know, Giorgos. I will have my usual please and I will sit at my usual table.”
Each of the
