Greek to me

A subdued scene from my second belly-to-the-bar moment at the St. Nicholas Greek Food Festival in Oakland this week.

And quite literally, I do mean "belly" and "bar": Please note the juxtaposition of the "pastries" area with the full-service bar. In a church fellowship hall no less.

'Cause that's how we roll in Pennsylvania.

After lunch, I did a lot of groaning and shifting in my chair, as well as mispronouncing the dishes that I ate for my Greek-heritage boss. Not one to let any mistake go unchallenged (bless his spanokopita-filled heart), he spent a portion of the day correcting me in front of my office mates.

"It's not 'mous-SAK-a' and it's not 'MOUS-sak-a' either. It's 'mous-sa-KAH!'"

"OK . . ."

"So what else did you have besides moussaka?"

"Well, I had a 'sa-la-DAH!' and a 'so-DAH!'"

Please let it be known that you may be able to employ me, correct me, humiliate me, fill me full of Greek food and send me scurrying down the hall with relief on my mind (or wherever), but, oh yes, I will prevail.