The Turkish invasion of Cyprus in 1974 displaced thousands of Greek Cypriots and caused untold misery. The three brothers who run Kazaphani were among those who fled the oncoming army, and a lengthy concatenation of events took them, happily for us, first to London and then to Paris. Along with a profusion of flowers and plants and Greek bric-a-brac, their restaurant is decorated with a big photo of Mom and orthodox priest Pop, who produced nine children.

We went there the other night with a friend who is considered almost one of the family, which partly explains the right royal treatment the six of us were given, but it looked as if all the diners were part of the family, so maybe we weren’t given extra-preferential treatment. A couple of additional bottles of wine turned up on the table, followed later by a bottle of tsikoudia, made from the distilled marc of grapes from the Sitia region in Crete, straight from the freezer. This is pure Greek hospitality. 

The food is traditional ethnic-Greek Cypriot, prepared with very fresh ingredients. The mezze assortment we began with was a riot of colors, tastes and textures. I have particularly fond memories of the exquisite sautéed zucchini with mint, a dip made of reconstituted dried fava beans, again with mint, and some delicately-flavored stuffed vine leaves (dolmades). But that’s only three out of the 20 or so little dishes that were brought to the table, all of which quickly disappeared, along with considerable amounts of warm, freshly baked bread.

The real genius of Kazaphani, however, lies in the quality of its roast meats. The quail and suckling pig were as moist and tender as could be. The pig still had some of its crispy skin on it, and the quails were halved and roasted with herbs. I tasted both, and they were better than my pork cubes marinated in red wine, which, while tasty, had none of the voluptuous tenderness of the roasted meats. The barbecued red mullet had one member of our party rolling her eyes in ecstasy at the sheer freshness of it all. For dessert, we shared a huge platter of varied fruits in a perfect state of ripeness.

Pavlos, who runs the dining room, was getting more phone calls than a minister and in between times sat down with us and chatted with evident pleasure, happy that I was enjoying the backing soundtrack of moody rebetiko music, the punk blues of the Piraeus docks, whose siren voice calls to you over centuries of ethnic mix and match. It is dance music, too, and Pavlos, who had made a living when he first arrived in London doing Greek folk dances, replete with the foustanella kilt and the rest of the kit, pushed back the tables and joined the sirens: grace personified, he was locked into rhythms only he could interpret, dancing for the women.

Kazaphani combines excellent Cypriot comfort food with a genuine home-grown, close-knit atmosphere – a rare experience.  

Kazaphani: 122, avenue Parmentier, 75011 Paris. Métro: Parmentier or Goncourt.
Tel: 01 48 07 20 19. Closed Monday. A la carte: around €30.

Richard Hesse

© 2007 Paris Update

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