In the Still of the night

by Ann Lisney

Everyone who comes to Crete will have come across tsikouthia, the fiery raki that is drunk on almost every occasion, offered in shops as an aid to purchase, and brought to the table after the meal in many tavernas.

Having been brought up in England, where you need a licence to distil spirits plus a degree in chemistry and a lot of high-tech equipment, I had assumed that tsikouthia was made in bulk in stainless-steel silos somewhere on an industrial estate at the back of Heraklion. I was amazed to find that it is a real cottage industry here on Crete – that virtually every village has its own still, and that many of the older people swear that they can identify a tsikouthia’s village of origin by the taste.

You can of course buy the sanitised stuff, in fancy labelled bottles, in tourist shops – at a price. But soon after we moved here, one of our ‘welcome’ gifts from the village was a reused plastic water bottle containing 1.5 litres of the genuine article. Brace yourselves, lads – this is the real McCoy!

The local stuff is made from the skins, pips and stalks after the grapes have been crushed. Grapes are still trodden traditionally in our village, in a newly-whitewashed ‘patitiri’ (a shallow concrete tub), and the grape juice is led away into huge plastic barrels, to be made into wine. All the leftover solids are carefully shovelled into dustbins and allowed to ferment and gently moulder for at least forty days. So, watch for your local grapes to be crushed, add six weeks and then sniff the air every evening for smoke, and watch for a procession of beaten-up pick-ups. Follow the trail, and you should strike gold.

I was out for a walk with a friend – a Greek woman who now lives in Australia – when we happened on the preparations. We got into conversation with the owner of the building where the still was housed and he invited us both to the party that evening, when the first distillation of the year would be produced. He was then stoking up a huge fire of olive wood in an enclosed furnace, getting the temperature up for the start of the process.

It was dark when we returned. There was one low-wattage bulb and a reddish glow from the flickering of flames. The heat being given out from the furnace was colossal; above the furnace was a vast copper cauldron with a screw-down top, and from this was running a network of tubes. These led into a piece of apparatus the size of a fridge-freezer where the ‘science bit’ took place, and a final glass tube led to the all-important tap where the samples could be taken off.

A huge table was laid out, and we were invited to sit down. When others started arriving I realised that we were the only women sitting at the table; the other womenfolk were toiling away in a nearby shed preparing the meal! But everyone there was very tolerant of the English woman with virtually no Greek – and they all introduced themselves. There were some wonderful names - Pericles, Adonis, Hercules, and Achilles were very memorable!

Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity. Michaelis – a larger-than-life young man who carries out all the heavy jobs in the village – sprang onto the top of the furnace. He was stripped to his jeans and heavy boots.  He started turning the screws on the cauldron to release the lid. The top hinged open, and inside was a bubbling brew of vivid purple fluid and grape solids. This was pitchforked out into a wheelbarrow, and replaced in the cauldron by another dustbin full of new material. The lid was screwed down, the furnace replenished with logs, and the process started all over again.

The food appeared on the table, to help while away the time until the tsikouthia started to appear. As an honoured guest I was offered first dip into the sheep’s head soup and all the little un-named bits from inside the body cavity of the barbecued kid.

Eventually a few drips of clear liquid started to appear in the glass tube on the still, and excitement reached a fever pitch.  With more ceremony than the anointing of a new pope, the first sips of the new liquor were sampled. Backs were slapped, laughter grew louder, glasses were quaffed – and then the singing started.

The official labelling of commercial tsikouthia puts the alcohol content at about 40% - but I really couldn’t hazard a guess at the proof of this particular brew. Suffice it to say that I could feel my eyelashes curling. It was slightly warm and a little bit smoky – and absolutely lethal!

Some time later, there was another flurry of activity at the door and who should appear but our local TV crew. Now our local TV station is pretty much a one-man band. One guy does the interviewing and the voice-overs and his assistant operates the camera. If you remember ‘You’ve been framed’ you have some idea of the general standard.

You know that awful sinking feeling when you absolutely KNOW that something is going to happen? Well, I got it right about then. As one of only two women at a table of about thirty men, I just KNEW the microphone would be heading my way…. and it did. I have no idea what I was asked – I just froze like a rabbit in front of a snake, and my mind went blank.  Then I gulped and burbled something in my best Greek about being English and enjoying all the local customs. Mr Interviewer gave me a slightly glassy stare and then said – in English – “You will have to learn Greek if you are to live here.”

Now I live in fear and trembling that one day I will turn on the television and have to re-live my moment of ignominy. I have to be persuaded to leave the house – and will only do so with a bag over my head. Suppose someone recognised me?

Rob, my partner, is little consolation. As each day goes by without my TV appearance I feel a little better – until he says: “They’re showing something from 1998 tonight – you won’t be safe for at least another eight years!”

Thank you, and good night to all my fans….