By David Minsky
By Nicole Danna
By Sara Ventiera
By Candace West
By Emily Dabau
By Doug Fairall
By Candace West
By Laine Doss
An American who chose at age 33 to go to Greece for a few months to write his long-dreamt-of novel, Stone allowed self-determination to lapse as soon as he arrived in Athens and followed it up by a stay on Mykonos. "I decided that if I were to get any work done at all, I would have to find some place far away from the siren calls that await you along the beaten tourist track. I chose Patmos as the designated island by simply closing my eyes and dropping my finger on a map of the Aegean, fully confident that now that I was in Greece, I was in the hands of a benevolent Fate who would see to it that all would be well, no matter where my finger landed."
Fate not only led Stone to Patmos, where he completed his novel Armstrong and published it back home, making enough money for him to stay abroad (for a total of 22 years, as it would turn out). It also put him in the path of his wife-to-be, aspiring artist Danielle, along with the family they would almost immediately start, Sara and Matt, ages 6 and 2, respectively, in the book.
This point is where the story really begins: Now that they had a family, the Stones moved from Patmos to Crete, where Tom is teaching English, Danielle making souvenirs for tourist gift shops. When an offer from an old Patmian friend, Theológos, comes in unexpectedly -- "Listen! You want to rent my tavérna this summer?" -- Stone, with little hesitation and even less forethought, agrees, despite warnings from mutual acquaintances that Theológos is a swindler.
Stone is a likable-enough guy, with enough command of the Greek language, history, and geography to allow the reader to feel not only guided but let in on secrets about which only the Patmian natives would know (and subsequently closely guard). But it is all too easy to lose sympathy for him from the get-go -- literally the second page of the text -- when he writes about teaching instead of working on a new novel. "American that I was, I was still struggling, even at forty-two, to believe that downsizing my dreams and taking on a steady job again was a good thing."
In addition to alienating his fellow writers, including those of us who work more than one steady job while we raise families to attain even part of a dream (or retain a half-remembered one), Stone manages to put off veterans of the restaurant business. I don't know what he was expecting when he agreed to take over the running of the Beautiful Helen, one of only two tavérnas on the island, during tourist season -- except making din-din for a bucket of drachmas -- but it seems clear that he had never before toiled in the industry. As such a novice, he has little right to pen passages like, "For those of us in the restaurant business... you considered yourself lucky if you only had to work eighteen straight hours out of twenty-four... In a way, The Beautiful Helen now belonged more to the customers and their needs than it did to those of us who worked there. We were simply along for the ride, and it felt impossible, at this speed, to jump off. So every morning, no matter how tired you were or painful it was, you dragged yourself out of bed with seemingly no other choice but to stand up and force your racked body and foggy brain to grapple once again with this monster you had created."
Jeez. And let's not forget how little he mentions, sees, or appreciates his wife, who has given up her own career, if only temporarily, and is solely, completely responsible for the children. Of course, he acknowledges his neglect in the book. But his self-castigation reeks of salving his conscience: "Where were Danielle, Sara, and Matt during all of this? I hardly remember. They had become so marginal to the pressures I was facing that they seemed to have faded from existence, like figures in a photograph left too long in the sun, smiling and squinting at the camera, somewhat puzzled-looking, caught in a barely recalled summer moment. But there would be time for them later. After I had raked in my profits."
Arrogant naivete aside, Stone's inside account of running a Greek tavérna -- and I won't give away the ending, but Theológos does manage to fulfill his predicted role as villain -- is a delicious cultural comment. And the inclusion of recipes for classic Greek dishes such as tzatziki or meatballs avgolémono (egg-lemon sauce) are indeed welcome. Despite their origins, however, I plan to test their authenticity, if only because the next-to-last passage in the book, hidden in the "About the Author" section, either gives the lie or lends credence to nearly everything Stone writes in The Summer of My Greek Tavérna: "He and 'Danielle,' a successful painter in Greece, have recently concluded an extremely amicable divorce."