The Magical Squid of Santorini by Suzanne Wright Have you ever seen fresh squid drying on a close line in the midday sun? I’d hadn’t either—not until I’d been to Santorini, Greece. Santorini is the impossibly gorgeous, volcanic island that you see on travel posters for Greece. You know it: a tumble of simple, whitewashed buildings clinging to cliffs perched over the azure Aegean. The rounded rooflines of cathedrals abutting the cobalt sky. The riotous interplay of dozens of subtle, but distinct, shades of white buildings: pink-white, yellow-white, blue-white, green-white, gray-white. Santorini is justifiably famous for its breathtaking architecture; its dormant caldera; Akrotiri, its archeological gem, an underground city discovered in 1967; its black-sand beaches at Perissa and Kamari; its magnificent orange and gold sunsets viewed from terracotta-tiled patios in the northern town of Oia; and its laid-back vibe. Santorini is less famous for its marvelous seafood. You’d think the seas surrounding Santorini would be fished out, after being trawled for millennia. But there is an embarrassment of watery riches. Fisherman today still ply the calm, deep waters as their ancestors have for centuries. They still bring their bounty—which becomes that day’s catch at the fish tavernas that dot the island—directly to restaurant owners for inspection and purchase. There were the small silvery fish, whose name eluded me during my week’s stay. Simply grilled and topped with a light aioli, they were three-inch bites of briny heaven, less pungent than anchovies, but more assertive than herring. There were fat, beautiful red mullet that were split, steamed and topped with capers as plump as summer-ripe blueberries. There were generous prawns with a buttery flesh that tasted more like lobster than shrimp. But it is the squid that I think of when I think of seafood in Santorini. It was another perfectly warm, sunny and languid day. We had been hiking around the island and happened upon a charming fish taverna situated on a grassy burm. As we moved in for a closer look, we noticed tiny white lights in the trees. A few wooden tables and chairs were scattered on the lawn. The chalkboard menu was blank—the today’s specials had yet to be determined. Then we spied the squid. They were strung up on a rope between two olive trees. Their bulbous heads pointed toward the ground and they were trussed to the line by their tentacles. They looked like fantastic, eight-inch long marine paper dolls, hanging next to each other, accordion-style. They were an arresting sight. Enchanted—and smacking our lips—we decided to go back to our room in Firostefani, take a nap, shower, dress up a bit and return for dinner after night had fallen. We weren’t disappointed. Yellow linen dressed the tables, which glowed with candlelight. The tiny treelights twinkled, as did the eyes of the charming white-haired proprietor of the taverna who served us. We began our memorable meal with a salad of diced cucumbers, tomatoes, calamata olives and feta. Flat bread brushed with olive oil was toothsome. We washed each bite down with retsina, Greece’s oddly addictive white wine that is redolent of pine needles. But it was the sun-ripened, wood-roasted squid enlivened with a squeeze of lemon that banished from my culinary memory banks all the rubbery, deadened, tasteless calamari I’d consumed in my life. I can still close my eyes and taste that fresh--caught squid. And in all my travels, I’ve yet to equal its pure appeal. Suzanne Wright is a travel writer living in Atlanta. For more of her bountiful stories, go to www.AtlantasFinestTravel.com.
				Above: Images of Santorini Greece.