NORTH OF THE GULF “ARE THERE any lobsters?” Without looking up from the front page of the Akropolis and swatting irritably at the whirling flies, the keeper of the taverna clicked his tongue against his palate, tilted his head wearily backwards and lowered his eyelids in the economical and uncompromising negative that runs east from the Drin and the South Danube Bend to the Great Wall of China. “Why?” “There are none.” “No lobsters?” “None at all.” Then, after a pause, he said, “There are some lobsters in the sea.” “Yes, I know. But I meant, to eat.” “Only in the sea.” “Don’t they ever catch any?” “Never. Very rarely. It’s not the custom. Den to synithízoune. Only every few years.” “Then why is the town called Lobster?”[1] “It’s just a name, like Athens or Preveza.”
