Sitting in a lovely little restaurant, in the old town of Rethymnon with my son, Sam, under the hanging strands of flowering bougainvillea, its blooms in variegated and hot pinks.
Our waiter arrives and with our meal I order a glass of white wine—the local krasí—the waiter bobs a pony-tailed head and disappears into the restaurant. When the Cressi arrives, instead of a glass of white wine, it’s an enormous glass of red.
‘I didn’t order red,’ I say politely, ‘I want white.’
From behind a bohemian moustache, he regards me with mild suspicion, as though I must be mistaken and then says bruesquely:
‘I will change it.’
He returns a couple of minutes later with the desired glass of white Cressi, in an equally enormous glass, generously filled. Depositing it with a flourish in front of me and without missing a step in his pace, towards the next table, he says quite seriously:
‘There—I painted it!’