Travel Blog

I was surprised to see a small line outside Greek Islands last night – at 6 pm on a Tuesday in summer? – and nothing but empty tables in the back room.

“It’s closed for a private reception,” the hostess told us, as she directed us to the line.

“The Panthers?” I said jokingly.

“Yes,” she said. “Don’t say anything.”

But everyone knew, or sensed, that something was up, especially as black SUVs pulled in and deposited tall, well-built men in beards. Our friend Joe arrived – in a FLORIDA HOCKEY T-shirt, appropriately – and we took an outside table, one of the last, under covering and next to the window. On the other side of the glass a tub of bottles – Stella, Mythos, Panna – sat atop a table.

Word came that the team would arrive in full around 7:30. I told everyone to eat slowly – not a problem for me since my surgery. More rock-solid young men appeared, often accompanied by attractive young women. We had difficulty identifying the former.

“Maybe if they pinned somebody against the boards,” Joe said. “Oh yea, that’s Reinhart.”

Through the glass we could see what looked like a cocktail party for the genetically blessed. Eventually, the tub of bottles was removed, and the table set up for dinner. A couple sat down; the man wore a checked shirt, his long brown hair pulled back to produce what looked like seams on his temples. He had a sharp nose and a somewhat soulful expression.

“I think that’s Bobrovsky,” Joe said. And indeed it was. Hania – who had already told me that bóbr in Polish means “beaver” – googled and announced that the woman was Olga, his wife of 13 years. They were inches away from us, separated only by a plate of glass.

I resolved not to look at him. I tried to appear like an ordinary citizen enjoying his gyro, which I was until this feast of champions materialized out of nowhere. I did watch, out of the corner of my eye, when teammates, or wives of teammates, came up to greet him; often he’d half rise – he’s a tall man – for a warm embrace. Then he’d return to his wife and his dinner. It was strange to think that this man sitting quietly on the other side of the glass had, 20 hours earlier, been sprawled on the ice a few miles away in desperate attempts to keep a puck from entering a net. In Game 7 of the Stanley Cup finals. He sat with the sage contentment of a man who had experienced not only triumph, but a brush with its opposite.

Around 8 o’clock another black SUV pulled into the parking lot, and quickly became the focus of attention for the tables of al fresco diners and the small band in Panthers jerseys that had assembled. The trunk was opened and another giant, in T-shirt and shorts, delicately extricated the desired hardware from the back. Then Aleksander Barkov carried the Stanley Cup into the dining room. “It doesn’t get any lighter,” he said to no one in particular.

The restaurant erupted in cheers. He lingered a while in the front room, as people took pictures, then he carried the Cup to the players who had won it. At first, it was filled – probably with beer – and drunk from by teammates and their wives. Then it was cleaned, and filled again – this time with juice perhaps – and given to children. It was the NHL’s version of Holy Communion, the high (tall) priests dipping the 34-pound cup so the young could partake of its nectar.

Finally, it was placed on a bar chair for endless photos avec: Greek Islands staff – our favorite waitress Monika giving the V sign – police officers, friends. Now it was the people’s time to celebrate. I had always heard about the powerful pull that the Stanley Cup has, and here it was visible, and also explainable. Because it's so generously shared with the public, the public gets not only to rejoice in the victory (over and over) but to feel a small part of it – to have a moment with the glittering prize that will not be forgotten. And the team’s choice of locales for the Cup – the Elbo Room, Ann’s Florist & Coffee Bar, Greek Islands Taverna – is making that feeling of connection even more real.

And the Panthers even more loved.