Celebration at the Dametra Cafe in Carmel

A birthday had gone dashing past, nearly missed in the bustle of the passing week.  Before it could get any further from me, I said, "Time to celebrate!"  Arrangements were made, logistics discussed.  Ideas of various sorts seemed good, but then the idea occurred to us:  Go to The Dametra Cafe in Carmel.  Surely, there you will be happy.  

You can say what you will, but I am very certain that if a need to celebrate arises, magic must ensue, and you must not resist it.  Magic and love.  In this particular cafe, magic is what the place is built on, painted with and soaked in.  It is in the minds and hearts of the people who have created it.  Give love and affection to all who enter and it will be returned to you a hundredfold.  I believe they have a fish and a few loaves of bread from which they feed any and all who enter.

We four celebrants in our four chairs in this small place sit in happy anticipation of food and drink and magic.  It begins to arrive, first in the shower of many hospitable greetings and then in the colors of the walls, the people, the fabric and the air itself.  We are welcomed as newly Greek, travelers to the Mediterranean Ocean, guests of honor.  It feels as though we have returned home and have temporarily forgotten the names of our family members who greet us at the door, for they certainly seem to remember us and hold us dear.

A young man in a blue shirt carries a platter to our table and sets it down with his right hand onto the table top and nods to us.  Enjoy it, he says, and we do.  Four crisped and tender triangles of phyllo dough regard us, leaning on each other, embracing minced spinach and feta cheese.  They all four are warm, speak to us of Greek summers and handsome men dancing at sunset on the beach.  We, tasting sea salt and olive oil, hear the sounds of the Aegean Sea, laughter in the room, music jingling and calling birds.  

The flavors have colors and the colors have sounds.  Spanikopita, baklava, feta, moussaka, lamb, tomato, pita and wine are russet, aubergine, mustard yellow and sienna brown.

A tall man carrying an oud, strumming with slender fingers and a drifting smile, fills the room with peace and music.  Another man stands ready to sing and waits for the strumming hand to find the moment for him to begin, and he sings with a warm, strong voice.  He walks among the tables and we are certain he is our long-loved brother come home from distant shores to tell us of love and happiness.

The walls are softer with the sound of a singing voice, and the music lifts up with the fragrances of olives, onions and lamb, of rosemary and hot bread.  The song is passed from listener to listener in small embraces, as if all of the town itself will be fed and everyone welcomed in.

No one has fault or defect when a song is sung in such a way.  All of us are part of the song, clapping to words we have never heard sung before, settling back in our chairs and feeling the contentment rise with the sung notes and strummed reassurances.  We eat, we sit together and talk.  Emotions rise and fall, turn and weave, settling around us until we are satisfied.  We wade away, up to our knees in pleasure and contentment.  It clings to our jackets and shoes and we say good-bye with it sifting from our cuffs and pockets, trailing from our shoes like glitter.

I am Greek, Turkish, Mediterranean, human more than ever.  Certainly, I am and we all are happy to our core.  Celebration in gracious terms like these never ceases, increasing a hundredfold with every sincere embrace, every grateful smile.