It’s a lovely summer’s day and we’re enjoying a meal at a local taverna. It’s quiet but the staff are very attentive and friendly. We’re sat in a small whitewashed room with room for a few small square tables. At the back is a pair of ornate brown doors and beyond this the view looks down onto the sea. It’s run by a lovely old mother wearing a traditional black widow’s dress and a white apron. We’ve had a lovely homecooked meal and we’ve just ordered dessert while we finish our drinks. The owner smiles at us as she slowly crosses the tiled floor to the doors. She looks at her watch then slams them. Quick as a flash, she bolts the door into the frame. Then without a word, she looks at us again and walks off. It appears that local hospitality ends the minute it hits closing time.
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