An Ode To Mediterranean Hospitality

TRAVEL GUIDE | CABANA TRAVEL | WORLD OF CABANA

Hospitality is a hugely important part of eating in the Mediterranean, so much so that it’s written into the region's history as far back as the ancients, writes Anastasia Miari. The Greek-British author and cook shares an ode to Mediterranean hospitality, gathered from years spent travelling the region and cooking with its elderly matriarchs.  

BY ANASTASIA MIARI | CABANA TRAVEL | 26 SEPTEMBER 2025

© Mediterranea: Life-perfected Recipes from Grandmothers of the Mediterranean. 

One uniting factor across the countries I’ve visited to collect recipes from elderly matriarchs for my book, Mediterranea: Life-perfected Recipes from Grandmothers of the Mediterranean, has been their ability to make me feel at home and at ease.

I am certain it’s more than great weather that has northern Europeans returning in their droves to the Mediterranean basin. Hospitality is an important part of eating in the region, so much so that it’s written into our history as far back as the ancients. 

In Greek mythology, Zeus famously would punish anyone that would not show kindness and generosity to strangers. The Ancient Greek concept of ‘Filoxenia’ (quite literally translated to ‘love of foreigners’) is still an essential touchstone of our lives here in Greece. Across the islands and mainland, a ‘kerasma’ in a taverna is the ‘treat’ offered to customers gratis, usually in the form of a digestif or dessert at the end of a meal.

This also has its roots in our ancient world, in which the ‘keras’ was a horn that contained wine. The host at a banquet was the ‘kerastis’ - the person obliged to serve his wine into the guests’ cups. My Yiayia (Greek grandmother) always has extra food in the fridge and a stash of koulourakia (orange biscuits) and ouzo in the cupboard ‘just in case’ someone happens to drop by. It is practically blasphemous to refuse a ‘kerasma’ from a Greek yiayia and there is absolutely no point in trying. The same can generally be said for southern Italian Nonnas, Balkan and Turkish grandmothers especially. 

While researching the book in Turkey’s Ismir, I was force fed manti (yogurt laced lamb dumplings) and chocolates by my friend Sanem’s surprisingly strong grandma, Perihan. I was fighting a losing battle when I said, ‘No, I’m really too full.’ She has the grip of a Titan.

In the Turkish coastal town of Kuşadası, Duriye invited what felt like the entire neighbourhood to join us as we cooked a hearty ‘wishing stew’ of beef and chickpeas together. While the food slowly simmered away, Duriye brewed silty coffee and read our future in the grounds. She made even the process of cooking the meal a form of communion. 

In the Mediterranean, we have an entrenched need to share with others. Here, feeding goes far beyond nutrition. It is affection, it’s passion for good produce and a love of what we make with it. On a sun-drenched terrace in Mallorca, I was treated to endless small plates, enormous Spanish olives, salty anchovies delicately draped on burrata burdened bruschetta, home baked potato crisps and tomatoes from the garden.

It was not a lavish or complicated affair but the “You HAVE to try this” that accompanied each individual piece of produce made me sure of the deep desire to share and the collective understanding that sharing is one of the true joys of eating.

I have been welcomed in the most extraordinary ways by the grandmothers featured in the pages of my book and their friends and families by extension. In Naples, Nonna Luisa’s daughter-in-law hosted us in her hotel at the heart of the city. In the south of France, Yvette’s grandson Eddie introduced us to an entire gang of grannies in his remote Provençal mountain village, hosted us in his cosy cottage and arranged a dinner in which we all dined together with other grandmothers from the village. 

On that same trip, Eddie took us on a drive to the neighbouring villages and we chanced upon a beautiful little house, punctuated with bright geraniums nestled into pots painted in beautiful arabic calligraphy. From behind beaded curtains emerged Zahra, a Moroccan lady who invited us in for ‘tea’, despite not knowing any of us from Adam.

Cue the most elaborate tea ceremony, in which Zarha proceeded to serve us orange juice, Moroccan halva, dates, homemade anise and fennel flatbread, honey, sweet couscous and cups upon cups of sweet saffron tea.

I’ll never forget Zahra - a mere stranger moments ago - standing in a shaft of golden afternoon light as she poured the golden elixir high above our heads into elegant glasses, sharing fragments of her life with us. In nomadic berber culture, she told us, it’s completely commonplace to invite strangers to join you for tea. A temporary moment of calm in which paths collide, seconds are shared and flavours are savoured in the presence of others. 

In Turkey, Doga and her husband (my ‘granny dealers’ as I like to call them) hooked me up with almost all the grandmothers I cooked with and put me up in their home having never met me or Marco, the photographer. Not only this, we woke up to lavish Turkish breakfast spreads, had cocktail night caps every evening of our stay and the pleasure of their company (and Turkish language skills!) at every granny cooking stop.

The way Karem went out of his way to have Marco and I try every snack at the bustling farmer’s market in Selcuk reminded me of how excited I am every time friends visit me in Greece. This is a marker of great hospitality, when those hosting receive equal pleasure from treating their guests as their guests do being treated.

I cannot begin to explain how buoyant I have felt after experiencing the moments I’ve chosen to share in this latest book. I leave these women’s houses warmed and nourished, with a refreshed sense that all will and can be right in the world. If only we could all show as much kindness to others as these Mediterranean matriarchs have shown me.

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Mediterranea: Life-perfected Recipes from Grandmothers of the Mediterranean by Anastasia Miari is out now, published by Penguin Books.