When I was 12 years old, my parents bought a fish and chip shop in one of the not-so-interesting suburbs of the greater area of
Every morning, Dad would get up early to buy fish fillets and potatoes at the market warehouses in
My mother stayed at home to cook, wash and clean, like all Greek ladies of her time. By 10 o’clock, she had prepared the evening meal and done most of the daily household chores. Then she did something that practically no other Greek woman of her time did: she took her bag and keys, locked the house and drove her own car to the shop. She was one of the few Greek immigrant women driving in
Mum’s job was to pre-cook all the fried bits and pieces that were sold along with the chips. First, a light batter would be made up and allowed to rise. Then she’d take the fish pieces, dredge them in flour, dip them in the batter and toss them into one of the two vats filled with lard that were used for this purpose. Dad took care of the third vat, pre-cooking chips in huge rectangular metal baskets. Everything would be drained well, then laid out on paper-lined drawers below the counter, and allowed to cool down before they were re-cooked in the customers’ orders.
In the early afternoon, Dad would come to pick us up from school. We were in our mid-teens before we were allowed to take the bus by ourselves. To get to the bus stop, we had to walk past the Parliament buildings, probably the most policed area of the whole of the city. It took a while for our parents to realize that the chances of being raped or kidnapped at half-past three in the afternoon after school when the streets of
I’d take up my position by one of the deep freezers that we had in the work space behind the counter, while the little laughing olive tree took up her position by the second freezer. We’d open our school bags, spread out our books and start doing our homework, as fast as we could before the 6 o’clock teatime customers started arriving. I earned my linguistics major on that freezer. That’s where all my term papers were written. When the shop got busy, we’d leave our textbooks, notebooks and pencil cases to come out to the front of the shop and take the customers’ orders while Mum and Dad did the greasy cooking. When we needed something from the deep freezers, we’d pile our books one on top of the other, hold on to them tightly, open the freezer and get what we wanted. When things started to quieten down on the front, after seven o’clock, we’d go back to our homework. Kiwis all wanted to eat a the same time, or so it seemed to us. The rush over, Mum and Dad would clean up and get ready to close down by 8pm – unless it was late night shopping night, and we’d close at 9pm. The last customers were the drinkers from the pub at the shopping centre. They’d come in just before we closed down, reeking of alcohol, with their friends of the opposite sex, laughing rather raucously, as though they had just left from a Christmas party. They were the most talkative customers, the ones my parents were most afraid of.
When we came home, we weren’t so much exhausted, as smelly, greasy and rattled. We reeked of fish and lard. We ate our meal late, had a bath, finished off our homework and laid out our school uniforms clean and ready for the next day. Then we went to bed. There wasn’t much else that could be fitted into the evening. This was what most days of the year were like for us. This is what I thought life in
(the old port of Hania on a day like most are here...) |
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The story of your family's life is very toughing. Thank you for sharing. I hope you like living in Crete better than New Zealand. I hope your life is easier now than the time of 12th.
ReplyDelete"We’d open our school bags, spread out our books and start doing our homework, as fast as we could before the 6 o’clock teatime customers started arriving. I earned my linguistics major on that freezer"
ReplyDeleteWe used to have a freezer full of such warm memories -for me anyway- (and it would still keep the ice-cream cold). What a story...Well, "story" for me, "lifetime" for you.
"Why didn’t they enter the food trade earlier, when they were younger, more mobile, more able to work under pressure?"
I keep questioning choices like this with my folks but I think we have the luxury of retrospection :-D
beautifully narrated
ReplyDeletehey your dad looks so much like omar sharif!
An amazing story of your family life growing up! Fantastic to hear such stories!
ReplyDeleteI love to hear peoples stories. If we all were interested in each others life stories and everyday occurrences the world would be a better place. Thanks for the family history
ReplyDeleteInteresting to see the square without lots of people.
ReplyDeletePS
The Hyde Park featured on Hyde DP is the Hyde Park in HYDE, not the one in LONDON, which is 200 miles away!
Nice story beautiful beautiful pictures.
ReplyDeleteA very nice narration about facts of life.
ReplyDeleteShowing that things aren´t always easy.
I think people like your parents must be respected.
Thanks for sharing your story...
ReplyDeleteI'm impressed with your dad: he is the same as he was when he was young! No, I didn't/don't know him!!! You had post a photo from the old times...do you remember?
You captured very well the life of a take away. It's hard going a lot of the way, and people don't seem to realise that when they're barking orders at you left right and centre. We had a corner store for a while when I was young, and at the time I was keen on getting the deep fryers in. In retrospect, I'm glad that we didn't!
ReplyDeleteI love reading the chapters of your life. Good of you to share it.
ReplyDelete