Greece

Greek cooking begins with olive oil and ends with company. A drizzle over tomatoes still warm from the garden, a splash into a pan of horta, a pool at the bottom of a bowl of fasolada. Nothing is measured — everything is felt.

At the table, plates come out together, not in courses. Tzatziki, taramasalata, gigantes beans, grilled octopus, souvlaki off the skewer, a plate of feta with oregano and a jug of chilled retsina. The point is to linger.

Lunch in Greece begins late and ends later. A shaded taverna above a harbour, a jug of house wine, small plates that keep arriving — grilled sardines, dolmades, fried courgettes with skordalia, a bowl of village salad glossy with oil.

Beyond Athens, the country opens into its islands: Cretan dakos and slow-cooked lamb, Santorini's tomato keftedes and fava, the seafood tavernas of the Aegean where the catch is chalked on a board each morning. Every table smells of oregano, lemon and charcoal.