The village of Plaka sits above the water with the whitewashed houses, blue sea and mountains arranged in the background like scenery from a Greek island advert. It is Crete as you imagine it; here are tavernas with views that would be considered architectural features anywhere else, fishing boats bobbing below and enough bougainvillea to suggest that nature has been allowed to become slightly self-indulgent. It is beautiful in the uncomplicated way that some places are beautiful: stone, sea, sun and very little that needs explaining. At its core is Epico; coffee by day, aperitivo by night, casual little restaurant by both. We went there every day we stayed in Domes of Elounda, partially to offer some space between us and Sophie’s parents, mostly because it was a fraction of the price of the hotel. Whilst the chic Vilebrequin la Plage beach club on the hotels private beach charged a chunky 30 euro for a chicken gyros and 20 euro per negroni, Epico’s was half the price for twice the size, with Sophie and I taking a break from the tiring sunbathing to walk for ten minutes and share three drinks and one gyros between two, sitting under the shade of the trees whilst looking out at Spinalonga. We’d take it in turns by tearing at fluffy flatbreads and folding them around lightly spiced chicken, red onion, and tomato, with just a little fresh tzatziki and a squeeze of lemon. We’d go back to Domes, sit in our hot tub with a glass of wine, shower, change and return for a few evening cocktails before dinner. Tough gig that holiday, I wouldn’t recommend it, but I liked Epico so much I literally got the t-shirt. In fact I’m wearing it right now.
Yiamas isn’t Epico, and the stretch of Lower Temple Street certainly isn’t Plaka, as we sit outside in between the station and Starbucks trying desperately not to make eye contact with the drunk who is squinting for a fight. It’s hard to love Birmingham on days like this, when it’s grey and half-built and fighty, but try we must, and there is a certain charm to a man from Athens opening up a simple little Greek eatery and deli, despite clearly not understanding the language too well and with little care for which cheap location they put it in. The menu on the chalkboard and laminate don’t match, the tables are wonky, and yet I like it. Full disclaimer; we paid full whack for what we thought we were getting, though a mix-up in language barrier means that our order is different. Despite asking to pay, they top-up with the correct items at no extra cost, meaning that the below should never have come to just the £19.50 we paid.
The food is okay. It’s not destination dining, though it’s a lot better than the majority of the rubbish that has afflicted much of this end of town. The gyros meat is tender and pleasingly salty, in bread with roughly hewn lettuce, tomatoes, and a decent tzatziki that needs more cucumber. It’s also massive, and the lunch deal (is it tenner or £13? nobody really knows) of the gyros, a quite dry skewer of souvlaki, fries, and a drink would easily feed two. The falafel is nutty and fresh, though I still fail to believe that quenelle of confit garlic is hummus in any world. It’s at this point that we ask for the missing tirokafteri. Tirosalata arrives, which is a decent rendition, and then tirokafteri after that, which again is decent. I happen to think the best renditions are when the salty cheese is relentlessly bullied by chilli and pepper. This felt a bit timid.
The rain hits and we move briefly inside to box up the last of the food to take back. Yiamas is the kind of place I want to succeed, purely because it is set-up for honest cooking, not some twerp proclaiming it to be the latest in a line of hidden gems. As an aside, this site was originally earmarked to be a kebab shop from a Michelin-starred chef, with a speakeasy cocktail bar downstairs. As nice as that would have been, there is something more soothing to having a basic Greek restaurant knocking out the most basic of kebabs to the everyday people of Birmingham instead.
7/10
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