There's an unassuming little dish we used to serve at our big, upscale Hellenic-inspired restaurant. It wasn’t printed on our menu, but most people seemed to know it was there if they wanted it.
The Greeks asked for it by its proper name: horta. Non-Greeks requested "a side of braised greens" because they either didn't know the correct term or maybe they did but were afraid to sound out that first, faintly phlegmy syllable in public.
Chhhorta.
Calling horta "braised greens" is an act of descriptive kindness and far more appetizing than calling them what they essentially are, which is boiled weeds. At our place of business, however, the dish was made from ingredients which were anything but weeds: the chard and mustard greens we used were deliberately cultivated and harvested by organic farmers. More esoteric greens like lamb's ear and amaranth were added when the season allowed, but they were grown from seed and carefully nurtured. There was nothing remotely wild about our bowls of horta, but there were people who were clearly wild about them.
Horta fleshed out the plates of sliced rib eye steak and Greek potatoes we served; it pillowed the heads of whole grilled fish; it nested under tender lamb shanks as a substitute for the the orzo-and-carbohydrate-averse. It was piled into bowls, hot and limp, with a bit of its cooking liquid and a drizzle of olive oil, then brought out to guests with half of a lemon tied up in muslin and green ribbon like a toddler’s Easter bonnet. It was never the star of the meal, but it had a way of making its presence felt.
Non-Greeks often ordered it because it sounded like a healthy addition to their meal. Young and middle-aged Greeks might have ordered it out of habit, because it more or less had always been a part of their celebratory dinners or, in some cases as one friend confided, "because it reminds me of my parents, who always kept an empty bag in the trunk of the car in case they saw greens growing by the side of the road. They'd kick us kids out of the car and make us pick f***ing weeds until the bag was full because they could never pass up free food." I'd always thought his remark some sort of loving, familial joke about perceived Greek cheapness, which it was, but it was also a kind of testament to Greek resourcefulness.
Because there was a time when, if they did pass up free weeds, they would have died of starvation.
Whenever I brought a bowl of horta to older Greeks-- the ones from the Old Country who survived the war-- I always wondered if its presence at their table was practical or symbolic or both. Did they order it because they simply need the roughage at their age, or were they paying homage to the very thing that may have helped them beat hunger-- and the Nazis-- and come out of World War II alive?
I never dared to ask.
In April of 1941, Greece fell to the Axis armies of Germany, Italy, and Bulgaria. What followed was three and a half years of harsh occupation, murder, economic destruction, and starvation. The occupying forces requisitioned most of the available food stuffs for themselves, leaving the Greeks with very little upon which to survive. Livestock was slaughtered, farms placed under guard, transport trucks commandeered. The cities and islands like Mykonos and Chios, which depended upon shipments of food from the mainland even in peaceful times, suffered the worst. During the winter of 1941-42, as many as 1,000 people a day were dying from hunger in Athens alone. It’s estimated that more than 300,000 Greek civilians died from malnutrition and starvation during the war.
Those fortunate enough to live in the countryside foraged for survival. Wild greens such as dandelions, wild sorrel, mustard, fennel, sow-thistle, sea-beans-- anything non-poisonous and edible-- were gathered, boiled, and eaten. Olive oil was unavailable to many, and lemons were often difficult to come by. Another friend once recounted the story of how his father would sometimes rummage through garbage bins of the occupying enemy, looking for spent lemon halves to help make the weeds more palatable. Horta was often eaten alone, leaving nothing but the acrid taste of the greens on the tongue. Resistance fighters survived on little more than nettles and other wild herbs in the mountains of Northern Greece; their diet almost as bitter as the fight they waged against their occupiers-- a fight they eventually won.
I sometimes wonder how many people survived the Occupation (and the ensuing civil war) thanks to piles of these boiled weeds. I don't think there's any accurate way to measure. What I do know is that my respect for these greens has grown over time, thanks to a better understanding of their special place in Greek culture or, as I like to think of it, horta culture.
In the Greece of 1944, a bowl of greens might have sat alone on the dinner table. In 2024, it's a struggle to find a spot for them on a Greek table already crowded with more food than anyone could possibly consume, but they always seem to make a place for it. With all the other, more lively dishes to compete with, no one may actually eat the horta, but it's always comforting to know that it's there, should anyone truly need it again.
Horta
You can use any type of greens you like to make horta. Feel free to get creative, but don't give it too much thought. Use what you have on hand. I prefer mine faintly bitter, which no one who knows me would find the least bit surprising.
The following recipe is just a guideline, since amounts are elastic and easily adjustable, just like the pants one should wear if one were having dinner at a Greek family's house in non-famine times.
Serves two. Or one, if it is all one is eating.
Ingredients:
• 1 bunch of dandelion greens
• 1 bunch of beet greens
• About 4 cups of water
• Plenty of kosher salt
• 1 lemon, halved
• Olive oil
Preparation:
1. Add water to a large, deep pot. Toss a scant handful of salt into the water and bring to a simmer.
2. Wash the greens until they are clean enough that you would wish to stick them in your mouth uncooked. Tear the leaves in half, stalks and all (unless you're using something with a particularly thick stem like kale) and drop them into the gently bubbling water. Stir the greens down until they are wilted and submerged. Cover and let simmer for about 10 minutes. Check for tenderness, paying attention to the doneness of the stalks. When they are properly supple, remove the greens from the water. Strain gently in a colander. Do not press excess moisture from them.
3. To serve, place the horta in a serving bowl, squeeze a lemon half over them, drizzle with olive oil and taste. If needed, sprinkle with a little more salt. Place the second half of lemon in the bowl, off to the side. Wrapping them in cheese cloth and ribbon is a lovely touch, but wholly unnecessary.
4. Eat and be grateful that you have more food available to you in your refrigerator, should you need it. And maybe keep an empty bag in your car, just in case.
Funny, but reading your piece made me think of my in-laws who, in retirement and like so many French, loved to forage for wild greens and mushrooms. I’m betting their families in war torn northern France did too, for survival. I loved this piece.
My grandfather was part of the allied forces in this region. He told me about the starving Greek people he met and how he and his mates gave some of the ship's rations away, resulting in their being sent to the '84 for two days. He remained friends with many islanders plus the people he met in Italy and Egypt for the rest of their days. I wrote about him (and horta pie).