Opa!
Katy St. Clair has a big, fat Greek encounter at the Silver Crest
"Ahh, yes," I agreed. The drug culture did more than destroy dreams, it nixed our access to baklava and flaming cheese. Those hippie bastards.
"You are my honorary daughter!" let out Georges, seemingly out of nowhere.
"Opa!" I yelped back, downing my shot.
"You don't have a brain in your head," said the crusty Chinese guy, possibly to me but probably to the Greek.
After a couple more beers and a tuna sandwich, I realized I'd accomplished my mission: I needed to spend time with wacky strangers, and I had done just that. I decided that this is the place where I would like to have my wedding reception, should the occasion arise. A big, fat Greek affair with broken plates, donuts, and ouzo.
I bade my farewells and headed to the parking lot, the scent of B.O. getting stronger with each step. I realized the origins of the smell: charbroiled hamburger smoke mixed with eucalyptus. A big ol' tree was in the parking lot, and the oils from its leaves, when mixed with burger grease, smelled just like a big Greek armpit. "Ahhh," I said, taking in a big ol' whiff. "Opa!"
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