Hortotiropita & The Five Stages of Restaurant Grief

Or: Greek Phyllosophy

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I wrote this essay several years ago and, much to my surprise, it became my second inclusion in the Best Food Writing Anthology (2013). I hadn’t read it or made the recipe in more than a decade and thought both might be worth revisiting.

And I think I was right.

I re-made the recipe today and it’s held up well. My neighbor across the hall just gave them her seal of approval. In return, I just gave her about six more pies, since I’m headed out of town tomorrow…

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Sometimes, there are things a person takes for granted, thanks to their close proximity or easy availability: a spouse, a friend, a favorite market, a booty call.

When one of them packs up and leaves town, they realize the great thing that was always at hand is now out of reach, only to be replaced by an un-healable abscess of sorrow. Or a substitute, which will be constantly compared to the original, for better or for worse.

Now you can understand my state of mind when, earlier this year, I suffered my own, devastating loss-- the spanakotiropita, served at my restaurant since the day it first opened, vanished into phyllo-thin air.

Spanakotiropita (Greek spinach and cheese pies) aren't especially glamorous by nature. They weren't exactly the show-stopping feature on our menu, but it was comforting to know they were always there like a fresh box of Kleenex or a shut-in roommate who knows the Heimlich maneuver. They were homey, a little homely, and entirely delicious, no matter what Olympia Dukakis said about them.

I was horrified by their disappearance and mortified by the all-cheese tiropitakia which replaced them.

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"But why did the spanakotiropita have to go?" I asked our chef, as if I were a small child asking his mommy why daddy left with that big suitcase or why on earth she was burying a beloved pet behind the rose garden.

"Oh, just trying something new", he said.

Just trying something new. I wondered to myself if this was the culinary version of  a midlife crisis, like getting rid of a dependable car with great gas mileage and the always-there-for-you wife who put you through grad school and replacing them with a 2-seater sports car and a blond with big tits to put out inside of it.

There was nothing I could do but accept this answer from an otherwise reasonable man. But it would be a cold day in restaurant hell before I would ever accept this wholesale abandonment of an old favorite for a new item, no matter how big its tits were.

I found myself flying through Kübler and Ross's Five Stages of Grief:

1.) Denial: I refuse to believe that anything of this horrible magnitude could ever befall my beloved restaurant.
2.) Anger: I want to stab these new pies with a steak knife.
3.) Bargaining: Perhaps if I get enough restaurant guests to sign a petition, the old pies will come back. Or, just maybe, if I prayed hard enough, they would return.*
4.) Depression: I cannot will these new pies to taste anything like the old ones and therefore am considering suicide.
5.) Acceptance: I never made it that far.

I was grateful that I was able to process all of this terrible grief within the span of a few days. And when I recovered, I came to a few important realizations:

1) I am a big boy. I can handle this sort of trauma like a champ.

2) I am an able cook and recipe developer. I should make my own damned spanakotiropita if I can't handle the fact that they aren't going to be made available to me by my restaurant and the small army of prep cooks therein.

3) If I make my own, I can put what ever I like into them and make them whatever shape I want them to be. I can be the master of my own Greek pie destiny.

And with that realization came a great relief. And, I think, a great recipe.

Hortotiropita (Greens & Cheese Pies)

The great thing about phyllo pies is that you can fill them with anything the voices in your own head tell you to. Go ahead and be inspired: lamb, greens, lemon curd, cement, whatever.  Listen to your voices.

You can also shape them however you like. In this case I have abandoned the folded flag look of traditional pies and replaced it with the shape of my favorite Greek dessert, galaktoboureko, or, in Chinese terms, an egg roll.

This recipe, which is suited to my particular tastes and needs, is merely a guideline. All that matters is that you love the taste of your own filling. Interpret that last sentence however you wish.

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