I lived for a time in an apartment in Florence, Italy, where I was not allowed to use the stove. This is a long story that doesn't bear retelling here, but for those few months I ate a lot of salad and tabbouleh, bread and Nutella, and soup made on the sly. My roommate and I, suffering from protein deficiency, bought a box (yes, a box) of Italian yogurt that had the consistency of water. We poured it down the drain; later, we discovered Greek yogurt.

Greek yogurt is full-fat and incredibly thick, and is creamy like double cream from England. It's one of the reasons that the tzatziki you get in Greek restaurants has body and texture and deep flavor (other reasons may include a whole lot of olive oil and, in some cases, ground walnuts). You can make a decent approximation of it by draining whole-fat yogurt for a few hours or overnight (line a colander with cheesecloth and set it over a bowl in the refrigerator); this is the unfortunately named "laban," which sounds to me both obscene and New Agey, but tastes pretty good.

I went on a search for real Greek yogurt in Seattle, and while I was at it, tried to investigate the little-known Pita Conspiracy, which is the unanswered question of why supermarket pita is dry and cardboardlike and pita in Greek and Middle Eastern restaurants is pillowy, chewy, and delicious. Unfortunately, this question is still unanswered, but I did find excellent restaurant-quality pita in the frozen-food section of Big John's PFI (formerly Pacific Food Importers, 1001 Sixth Avenue South, 682-2022). When defrosted and fried up in my old, well-seasoned cast-iron pan, it puffed up nicely, the pita of my dreams. Unfortunately, there was no grilled lamb lying around, but I made the best of it with some onion dip.

My search for Greek yogurt ended unsuccessfully, but not altogether unhappily. I tried Mediterranean specialty stores, health-food co-ops, and ritzy supermarkets such as Larry's and Whole Foods. Finally, at my all-time favorite Greek restaurant, the Continental Restaurant and Pastry Shop (4549 University Way N.E., 632-4700), the owner confided that he uses yogurt drained with cheesecloth in the manner described above, and recommended, "You add some honey, you add some nuts, and-- paradise." I went home and did exactly that. It was paradise, but it wasn't the same.

The next day I e-mailed a Greek import company called Fage (www.fage.gr), and asked where in or around Seattle I could find their products (Total brand Greek yogurt, a cult favorite in Manhattan gourmet markets). I received a prompt reply from a Mr. Antonios Maridakis, who told me Fage's products would be here inside of a month, and please to check back.

Bless you, Mr. Maridakis.

"You add some honey, you add some nuts, and--paradise."