Zorba’s Lounge

Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name.

As a general rule, I avoid establishments without windows. I like a certain amount of transparency in my public spaces and if someone is trying to hide what they are doing, my instinct is to leave them be. In all my years in Greenville, this has been my rationale for entering Zorba’s Lounge at the corner of Laurens Road and E. Washington St. in Greenville.

At some point, however, a certain buzz became hard for me to ignore as I kept hearing the same things from a vast array of sources. No matter who was sharing their opinions, the same phrases kept catching my attention. “Their steak sandwich is a classic” was usually followed with “you have to try their wings, though” and almost always an “I can’t believe you have never been to Zorba’s” was added, in the most judgmental of tones.

Normally I tend to live my life doing exactly the opposite of everyone else, but I make an exception for food and drink. If enough people say a place is worth trying, then I am quite inclined to go see for myself. Finally, after all these years, I visited Zorba’s for lunch one Friday.

I realized that I was not alone in my initial hesitation, as I approached the door to Zorba’s to find an older gentleman standing outside. “Is this a member’s only place?” he asked, confirming my belief that the entrance looks less-than-inviting. I assured him that it was a public establishment and pretended I knew what I was walking into as I confidently stepped inside, only to pause in confusion as I was greeted by another door, thus momentarily leaving the old man and I sharing the world’s smallest vestibule.

When I made it inside the actual establishment I was greeted by things I both expected and did not. I was not surprised, for example, by the amount of naugahyde and mirrors in the room, clearly announcing that Zorba’s has not been updated since I was in short pants. I did not expect, however, a room crowded with every Upstate demographic sharing a seat at a table. Professionals in suits sat alongside construction workers on their lunch breaks. I took a seat at the bar next to a black motorcycle ministry. These men put down their beers to say grace when their food arrived and later discussed the possibility of tequila shots for dessert. Clearly, I was in good company.