Kipos is a place familiar like home, comforting, flavorful, honest and welcoming to all. It's a taverna, where friends and strangers gather every day to share thoughts, a glass of wine or two, raki, beer, and often Ouzo. Mezedes (small plates) keep coming to your table, and the conversation and laughter get better with time. This is something that we all share.
Kipos is a reflection of my childhood: fresh and robust village foods cooked in wood-burning ovens, honoring old and modern recipes alike. It's a remembrance of my mother's masterful way with phyllo. It's a celebration of cheese, breads, mousaka and lamb youvetsi. It's a story about pigeon in clay pots, octopus grilled over a fire and perfect dolmas. It's about my love for her youvarelakia, her rabbit stefado and the aroma of lamb roasting over an open fire. It's about her chicken and potatoes, especially when I was the one who had to catch the bird. Kipos is a tale of baked eggplant, the perfect village salad, kakavia and my favorite, zucchini blossoms and fresh cheese. And of course we can't forget the baklava, honey walnut cakes and spoon sweets.
But above all, Kipos is a story about the love and joy that my parents shared, working the fields heroically, enduring, so that one day my brothers, my sister and I could realize the American dream. My brothers, sister and I became one with the garden, with the olives, with the grapes. We became one with the fields and the mountains that were covered with wild oregano
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