Late January

To the best of my knowledge, nobody has yet come up with a better philosophy of life than "Eat, Drink and Be Merry." So this is what we do with our Saturday nights, and Preveza is a surprisingly good place to do it. Better in summer, maybe (what isn't?) when the taverna tables with the checked tablecloths and the wicker chairs spill out into the narrow lanes behind the seafront, and you're never quite sure which door your food is going to appear from. Then the whole town seems to be sitting down to the same banquet.

Back then, we could barely tell the different places apart; we can now. They all serve pretty much the same standard Greek fare, but the quality varies considerably - although everywhere it's likely to be of a higher standard than in any of the surrounding Ionian resorts. In the admittedly unlikely event that you, reader, are looking for somewhere to eat in Preveza, then head for the sign of ‘  ’.

[Well goddamn, my carefully-spelled-out Greek has just come up as a collection of random goobledegook. So much for this cut-and-paste technology. Transliterating, then, look for To Rembetiko Steko. Rembetika is a form of Greek folk music, from Asia Minor via the 1920s population exchange and hashish dens, and now often played live on guitars and bazoukis in the tavernas and bars around here of a Friday and Saturday night, although not, strangely, in the taverna in question. Dunno what Steko means.]

This is the best taverna in Preveza - the fact that you'll find it packed to the rafters on even a Monday night should tell you all you need to know. Inside it's a single pine-panelled room, half a dozen tables squashed in along each side and another row down the middle. There's a haze of cigarette smoke and a babble of chatter from the mostly young clientele. In the centre of the room is a massive stone fireplace and log fire - reason enough in itself to come here at the moment.

[Sorry to harp so Englishly on about the weather, but it bears repeating: it is freezing here. Lefkada is capped with snow now, and I'm only surprised we haven't had any down here yet - certainly it's been cold enough for the puddles on the seafront to freeze. Here in our apartment, where the two malfunctioning radiators have been intelligently placed on the outside walls, we wear three or four thick jumpers, woolly hats, and spend as much time as possible underneath the duvet and heavy blanket. Honestly, this is no exaggeration. Swimming in the sea seems a lifetime ago.]

So, we turn up around half ten. Greeks eat late: ten or eleven is normal, and since Rachel doesn't finish work till 10pm we've adapted to this routine easily enough. The taverna is packed, as it normally is from nine till midnight - but the owner, who knows us now, says one table has just paid up so should be leaving soon. After a few minutes' wait, he suggests we go for a short walk. By the time we return, they're just on their way out the door.

We hungrily claim the table, and the owner brings us each a shot of tziporo. Being English, we down these - cultural faux pas. The Greek way, he explains with good-natured disapproval, is to take shots a small sip at a time. Which is all very well, but this is tziporo - the distilled-from-leftover-grape-stalks firewater somewhat akin to meths but lacking a little of the finesse (actually, I quite like the stuff). Before we've had a chance to order our usual little-red-tin-jug of cheap white wine, one is sent over by Kostas - Rachel's boss' son - who's at a table in the corner. One of Rachel's colleagues is here too, as well as some students.

Only tourists ask to see the menu. We order a selection of our usual favourites: saganaki (fried cheese), tyrokafteri (spicy cheese dip), politiki (coleslaw with attitude), patatakeftedhes (fried potato cakes) and homemade chips. Greeks are familiar with vegetarians from the influx of British tourists, but still don't get the idea at all and simply don't believe that it's possible for anyone to survive on a meatless diet. So it's completely by mistake that they've developed a fantastic vegetarian cuisine - I-ve actually put on weight out here, which is something I never do. Anyway, the carnivores order meatballs me saltsa - with the sauce. A nod and a wink to the waiter, who understands - the sauce is famous around here.

Food comes at random intervals; plates are placed in the middle of the table and shared. Eat till your full, take a pause, then eat some more. Despite the demand for tables in here, there's no attempt to hurry you along - they wouldn't even think of it. A meal should last a minimum of two hours, may be three or four. A fair amount of wine gets consumed in this time, obviously - we're slowing down these days, but have yet to master the Greek art of making one drink last two hours.

When the plates are finally cleared away, it's time for dessert. This always comes on the house - a slice of sesame-rich halva, apple with cinnamon and honey. Probably another jug of wine on the house too.

When it comes to paying the bill, our evening's entertainment amounts to about eight euros each - the price of two pints and a packet of crisps back in England.

Sip your tziporo in a toast to To Rembetiko Steko: Eat, Drink and Be Merry - the rest of you philosophers should have spent more time in tavernas.