janestarz | The thing that can be stuck on a fork, and in the right mix, kill small insects.

Josef put a small platter in front of NoKey. Josef, whose name was actually Youssoef but had been thoroughly Greekified, had asked after tzaziki when NoKey had asked for a very peculiar dessert. After the antúss (flowers) and the spanakopitákia it had been time for NoKey's regular dessert. At home, he takes pride in eating anywhere of 300 to 500 ml of yoghurt a night. In Greece, famed for its feta and lamb, the thing is called yaoúrti.

Greece has a fine cuisine. Aforementioned feta and lamb feature high on the list, meat is revered, but fish is not safe either (although I've not come much farther than glóssa [sole]). Ice cream was hardly to be found two years ago but now has shouldered its way to the desserts, and not many people (except for the obvious Greek people, and one can argue that there are a lot of Greek indeed, mainly because they tend to be loud, so my previous statement is nullified) can enjoy the taste of good baklavá.

Yaourti has not been used a lot in Greek cuisine and though the term itself has in its turn shouldered its way into other languages (yoghurt both in Dutch, German and English, though pronounciation is different) I can think of only two Greek dishes that feature it. One was discovered on the menu of Josef's Taverna Old River today, being Yaourtlou, with vegetables like eggplant and zuccini broiled in the other famous Greek recipe with yoaourti: tzaziki.
A million restaurants and no two tzaziki are alike. The tzaziki I had the first night in that taverna near the harbour featured a very, very salty kind. Josef's tzaziki missed the least important ingredient (cucumber) but was nice on the pepper, yoghurt and garlic (skórda). The garlic in tzaziki is raw and an excellent bug repellant as you sweat rather profusely in the Greek summer weather. Even NoKey is wary to approach me after I had tzaziki^*).

NoKey and I stared at the plate. The yaourti probably stared back, although eyes had not yet evolved. It did feature three humps, presumably because Cook had ladled three big spoons out of an even larger bucket.
Carefully, NoKey pulled the plate towards him. The yaourti failed to sprout legs or possibly tentacles to pull back to safety. It didn't move either. The entire blob, for lack of a better word, failed to move or even quiver. You know how pudding or jello sort of moves when you touch it? The yaourti didn't. It refrained from even moving a little bit, mimicking a rock more than anything.

“You're not going to like this.” NoKey said, picking up an eating utensil. There was no spoon delivered with the yaourti, but a fork might work as well. NoKey sliced off a small bit, as if taking a bit of pie, and brought it to his mouth.
As much as I love tzaziki, I hate lumpy yoghurt. Yoghurt should be sweetened, either by honey (méli) or by syrup or as a last resort, sugar. It should be eaten with a spoon and quiver in fear as we move the plate. It should not have any lumps, as much as NoKey likes there to be some, and should never be as thick as a rock and as still as a mountain.
NoKey's 'hmm' brought me back to the here and now. He was holding a slice of yaourti expertly speared on his fork. The yaourti could be said to cower in fear, except that it still didn't move, budge, develop sensory organs or even slide down the fork in a gracious yet slumpy way.

I'd sign it up for a new and unexplored lifeform, except that NoKey viciously slaughtered the first and only creature of its kind. Although NoKey believes that “where there's one tub of yaourti, there's bound to be more”, I can only hope that this ghastly outcast of Greek cuisine remains shrouded in the mists of myth.

Except for the tzaziki, of course. There can never be enough tzaziki.

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^*) In all fairness, it should be noted that NoKey hates the smell and taste of raw garlic, and is not to be counted under the insectoids at all. Except, possibly, during mating season, when I lose track of how many appendages he actually has.