The Financial District is full of places to eat but not full of great places to eat. Generally, there are plenty of restaurants with nice atmosphere where you can have an overpriced glass of wine, a cone of fries that cost more than a 10-pound bag of potatoes, high-end burgers, and ho-hum appetizers to help soak up the after work booze. There are a few exceptions that offer a classy environment (for those business lunches or drinks), and food that isn’t the same as the place next door and across the street.
Estiatorio Volos underwent a facelift in the summer of 2011 when Andreas Antoniou took over Mediterra from his father, Bob. His plan: create a space that celebrated the culinary heritage of the city of Volos in Greece where Bob was born.
But wait. Why is no one screaming, “opa!” and where are the plates full of souvlaki and pita bread? Where are my greasy, fried calamari rings? Where are the flags and Greeky decorations? You call this a Greek restaurant? Actually, yes. The lunch crowd consists mostly of suits and well-pressed trousers skimming polished shoes. I am wearing rubber boots and jeans with a hole in them, but no one cares.
Free of clichés and breaded and fried elastic bands, Volos has a menu heavy on well-cooked seafood and plenty of vegetarian options. The grilled Moroccan octopus ($17) is perfectly cooked and tender. Served with a bit of arugula and melitzanosalata (roasted eggplant puree), it is one of the most popular dishes at Volos. Another favourite lunchtime dish is the warm seafood salad ($23) with pieces of wild Pacific salmon, two tiger prawns, a large grilled scallop and served over baby arugula with the tiniest bit of quinoa.
You’ll still find plenty of your favourite Greek dishes like the hot, melty cheesy delights of saganaki, dolmades, and moussaka.
Dessert includes a classic house-made baklava ($9), the layers of crisp phyllo, stuffed with walnuts and pistachios, dripping with honey. I politely tell my server I am stuffed and will taste the baklava but am not up to eating it all. I polished off the very generous slice.
Then I smashed my plate on the floor to hide the evidence, screamed “opa!” and ran out the door with my rubber boots thumping the pavement. OK, maybe not that part.
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