From Prize-winning Cuisine to a Soup Kitchen

1972 - First Prize in my Region, Second Prize nationally -  and £1,000 

I never was on Masterchef but I caused in storm in 1972 by winning a grand in a cookery competition in a women's magazine. The woman editor was furious that a man made it to the finals and declared (so I was reliably informed 5 years later) that no way was a man to win first prize. Inverted Sexism, and as for the money, I should have invested that £1,000, but - story of my life. 

Anyway - the Soup Kitchen in Athens is a far greater achievement for a host of reasons. 

Today Neezo, Vladimir and I went to the port to see how the situation is developing.

There were two coaches waiting to take refugees to one of the rural detention centres, with TV filmcrews and journalists on hand to record the event.

There was confusion everywhere, because the refugees are told very little and have little reason to believe what they are told. Some passengers from previous busloads have fled back with horror stories of detention centres like prison camps with a lack of basic facilities. They are told they don't have to stay if they don't like what they see, but none of them believe what they are told. Neezo was scornful of the UNHCR  representatives and dismissed them as stooges of the Greek government.

Everywhere there are families, but the film crews often miss the women who follow their cultural tradition of mostly keeping in the background, out of sight of the cameras. 

There are rows of "Portaloo" toilets but even the army of contract cleaners cannot keep down the evidence of their presence - water flowing across the tarmac and the acrid smell of urine, mingled with strong disinfectant.

Neezo explained the options to the stranded refugees

All the refugees at Gate E3 of Piraeus Port have been given the choice of being bussed away to a rural detention centre or alternatively moving to Gate E1 where they will not offend the eyes, ears and nasal sensitivities of the tourists who will soon throng the port en route to the islands. 

To be fair, this is only one reason for relocation, as the lorries come thundering through the docks, and there are chldren playing everywhere. 

It's just plain dangerous, apart from the aesthetic and cosmetic considerations.




In one area, an awning has created a children's zone, where volunteers run craft, art and creativity classes for the children.
This morning, there were beads everywhere as children played, making bracelets, and sequenced patterns with the little plastic beads that I think came from the Athens branch of IKEA.   







Many of the children were clearly engrossed intheir projects and probably burst into tears when the play-group came to an end.

The children in the playgroup are lovely kids, many of whom had a basic knowledge of some English - even at the age of well under ten.

Look at their clothes (look at the way everyone is dressed !)

These are not economic migrants fleeing poverty (thought they would have my total sympathy if they were, - but that's another topic.)

In the background of this shot you can see one of the refugees loading his worldly goods onto a trolley to push down to their next "holding area" at Gate E1.

Mother and son, hoping for the opportunity to rebuld their family life in safety

This afternoon we worked together to produce a thick vegetable stew, and this evening we took the van down to Victoria Square and served several hundred portions to men, women and children of all ages.

I had my pockets full of little party toys - plastic bracelets, paper fans, stretchy monkeys, mini Rubik cubes and - of course - lots of balloons. 

The children laughed and squealed and belied the awful conditions in which they live, down at the port.

Tomorrow I'll be tackling a sack of onions - something I learned when I had Harvey's Restaurant - as I try to get ahead with the the stock levels of prepared vegetables, so we're not always rushing at the last minute. And when I discussed tomorrow's programme, I learned the best lesson and the greatest gift of working with a bunch of mostly 20-somethings. 

"When should I turn up tomorrow? What time shall we get going?" I asked thinking I might just have time to grab a quick breakfast before I jump in the Metro to cross town.

Neezo pondered for a moment. "I think 12.30 should be fine," he said.

Ah yes. They are all still living in that twilight era of unorthodox work schedules and child-free bliss. I forgot that years ago.