We arrived in the village, called Parakalamos, in the late morning. Unlike the kind of picturesque, touristy villages that often feel abandoned and somehow soulless, this one was very much alive and real. The handful of stores lining the main street were busy with customers, and the single taverna was already packed with couples, families, groups of friends. The owners of the place, a mother and son, were doing all of the cooking and serving. I asked if I could go into the kitchen, and they eagerly beckoned me in; the woman was preparing a dish of wild greens—spring onions, fennel, a local kind of cress, nettles, mint. She minced them and sauteed them in an extravagant amount of olive oil until just wilted, then sprinkled on a little salt and placed them on a platter, which she topped with a couple of eggs fried in olive oil. I looked at the dish. I had to eat this now. I asked for a plate of it. They gave me one, along with a big thick slice of country-style white bread. I'm not a fast eater by any stretch of the imagination, but I cleaned my plate in about 30 seconds. The gooey egg, the crispness of its edges, the bitter, green-earth taste of the limp greens: this was my dream food.