Να Κεράσω; (Na Keraso;)

You go to the bank.

Not because you particularly want to go to the bank. Nobody wakes up, stretches, looks outside at the beautiful Greek sunshine, and thinks:

“What a wonderful morning. I should spend it discussing banking regulations.”

But something needs to be signed, activated, transferred, verified, stamped, unstamped, or approved by someone in Athens.

You walk in and look for your “friendly banker.”

In Greece, you do not always have a banker in the official sense.

You have your person.

The person who helped you last time. The person who remembers which document was missing. The person who knows the mysterious department in Athens that must approve the perfectly reasonable thing you are trying to do.

Your banker sees you from across the room.

“Nick!”

There is a wave. A smile. Perhaps an apology because another customer is still sitting beside the desk.

“You’ll have to wait a few minutes.”

Then, before you have even found a chair, comes the first question:

Να κεράσω κάτι; (Na kerásō káti? — Can I offer you something?)

Coffee?

Water?

Something cold?

This is not yet the official banking appointment.

This is the beverage offered while you wait for the official banking appointment.

You politely decline.

“No, no. I’m fine.”

In America, that might end the conversation.

In Greece, your first refusal is sometimes treated as preliminary information.

“Are you sure? A coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“Water?”

“I’m fine.”

“Something cold?”

Apparently, dehydration remains a serious concern.

Eventually, the customer before you leaves, hopefully with their banking problem solved—or at least transferred to the correct mysterious person in Athens.

Your banker calls you over.

You are fitted into the available chair beside the desk. Greek offices have a remarkable ability to accommodate one more person, one more chair, one more relative, and occasionally one small dog.

You sit down.

You take out your passport, tax number, residence permit, phone, and the folder containing every document issued to you since birth.

Your banker opens the computer.

But before any actual banking can begin, comes the second question:

Να κεράσω; (Na kerásō? — Shall I treat you?)

Another coffee?

This is a completely separate offer from the coffee you were offered twenty-three minutes earlier.

The first was the waiting coffee.

This is the banking coffee.

Different stage of the visit.

Different jurisdiction.

You may have successfully avoided the first one, but now you are sitting beside the banker. The negotiations have become more serious.

Perhaps you accept.

“Okay. A Greek coffee. Μέτριο (métrio — medium sweet).”

The banking process begins.

There are passwords.

There are photocopies.

There is a verification text that never arrives.

There is a phone call to Athens.

There is a second phone call to Athens because the first person in Athens was apparently not the correct person in Athens.

Meanwhile, your coffee arrives immediately.

The banking matter may require forty-five minutes, three departments, and divine intervention.

The hospitality system operates with impressive efficiency.

Eventually, the form is signed, the account is activated, or your request is sent somewhere for further examination by people you will never meet.

You leave the bank feeling victorious.

You also leave carrying enough caffeine to power a small fishing boat.

Now you continue your errands.

A few minutes later, you walk through the neighborhood and pass My Mini Market.

Dimitris sees you.

“Nick!”

You stop to say hello.

This is your first mistake.

Not because you do not want to see Dimitris. Dimitris is always friendly.

But in Greece, stopping to say hello can unexpectedly become a social engagement.

You exchange the usual information.

How are you?

How is Karen?

Where have you been?

Where are you going?

Is it hot enough for you?

Then comes the question:

Να κεράσω;

Coffee?

A beer?

A tsipouro?

Something small?

The time of day is not always as relevant as you might expect.

It could be ten thirty in the morning.

Coffee is perfectly normal.

Beer is possible.

Tsipouro is not entirely out of the question.

You explain that you have already had a coffee at the bank.

Dimitris looks at you as though this is interesting information but not particularly relevant.

“So? Have another one.”

This is Greece.

The existence of one coffee does not automatically disqualify the next coffee.

You decline.

Or perhaps you negotiate your way down to a bottle of water, believing you have found a safe compromise.

Then you walk another hundred meters.

A neighbor is sitting outside.

“Nick! Come and sit for a minute.”

A minute is a flexible unit of time in Greece.

You sit.

Να κεράσω κάτι;

There it is again.

You have now been outside for ninety minutes.

You have completed one errand.

You have been offered four drinks.

And you are not even halfway through the neighborhood.

The verb is κερνάω (kernáō — to treat or offer someone something).

The treat itself is a κέρασμα (kérasma).

It might be a coffee, a drink, a sweet, an ice cream, a slice of cake, or something else placed in front of you before you have fully understood what is happening.

And Να κεράσω; (Na kerásō?) means:

“Shall I treat you?”

“Can I offer you something?”

“Let me get you a drink.”

But the English translation does not completely capture it.

A κέρασμα is not merely a commercial transaction in which one person pays for another person’s beverage.

It is a gesture.

It says:

You are welcome here.

Sit down.

Stay for a little while.

Let me do something for you.

You are not simply passing through unnoticed.

Sometimes it is offered by a close friend.

Sometimes by a shopkeeper.

Sometimes by a neighbor.

Sometimes by a banker.

Sometimes by a person you have met only twice but who has already decided that your relationship has reached the coffee stage.

In Greece, hospitality does not always wait for an invitation into someone’s home.

It spills onto pavements, into offices, across shop counters, through courtyards, and onto plastic chairs outside the mini market.

But there are rules.

A κέρασμα comes with its own unwritten etiquette.

Someone offers.

You refuse.

They offer again.

You refuse more politely.

They begin listing alternatives.

“Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“Water?”

“I’m fine.”

“A beer?”

“No, really.”

“Tsipouro?”

It is eleven in the morning, but apparently we are now reviewing the complete beverage inventory.

Your first refusal shows that you are polite.

Your second demonstrates that you are not taking advantage of anyone’s generosity.

But eventually, you must accept something.

Not necessarily the coffee.

Not necessarily the beer.

Certainly not always the tsipouro.

You can negotiate your way down to water, juice, or something small.

But you cannot refuse every offer forever.

At some point, repeatedly rejecting the κέρασμα can begin to feel like you are rejecting the person offering it.

They are not merely asking whether you are thirsty.

They are asking you to accept their hospitality.

The polite thing is eventually to let them give it.

This can be difficult for those of us who grew accustomed to believing that the most considerate answer is always:

“No, thank you. I don’t want to trouble you.”

In Greece, refusing too firmly can become the trouble.

There is another very important rule.

Never respond to someone’s κέρασμα by immediately trying to offer one of your own.

Someone says:

Να κεράσω;

You cannot instantly answer:

“No, no. Let me treat you.”

Not yet.

First, you must accept theirs.

You allow that person to be the host, even when the “hosting” is happening beside a bank desk, outside a neighborhood shop, or on two plastic chairs near the pavement.

Your turn will come.

The next coffee can be yours.

The next beer can be yours.

The next time you meet, you may say:

Να κεράσω εγώ; (Na kerásō egō? — Shall I treat this time?)

But first, you receive.

Then, later, you reciprocate.

That is the natural order of the κέρασμα.

Trying to reverse it immediately is not generosity.

It is an attempted escape.

And there is no escape.

At some point, you accept.

Partly because you do not want to offend anyone.

Partly because this is Greece.

And partly because, deep down, you do not really want to escape.

For all the joking, I love hearing those two words.

Να κεράσω;